“And you,” Toby added.
“There,” Allston said, pointing to the south. A dark shadow punched through the clouds.
“You got good eyeballs,” Toby said.
They watched as the darkened C-130 flew a lights-out approach, the pilots relying on their NVGs. It touched down and taxied in. The rear ramp came down and eight South Sudanese soldiers double-timed off. All were carrying weapons and full backpacks. Private Hans Beck was there to meet them and they quickly climbed on board a waiting truck and sped away. Just as quickly, Loni Williams and one of the loadmasters who had volunteered to stay behind, marshaled over a hundred refugees up the ramp. The Hercules taxied out as the ramp came up.
A lone figure walked towards him. It was Jill. Allston stared at her. “Doesn’t anybody understand an order anymore?”
“A point of discussion, sir,” Jill answered. Then, “We have a problem at Juba.”
~~~
It was a tense meeting as Jill described the situation at Juba. “The South Sudanese closed the airfield and won’t let us takeoff. I have no idea why. Major Lane is furious and collected all the money we had to bribe the guards. Then he asked for volunteers to fly a special mission. Marci put a crew together; the copilot was Bard Green, Riley the flight engineer, and MacRay the loadmaster. I asked the soldiers hanging around if any wanted to kill some SA. You saw the eight who took me up on the offer. Colonel Malaby got the Herk refueled, MacRay loaded the soldiers, and Marci just took off, no flight plan, no clearance, nothing. No one stopped them.”
“And you decided to come along,” Allston said.
“You ordered me to be on the first shuttle to Juba,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “And I was. You never said I had to stay there.”
Vermullen laughed. “You have another lawyer on your hands.” He turned serious. “The Legion trained those eight soldiers and they say more want to come.”
“Did they say why Juba had closed the runway?” Allston asked. Vermullen shook his head.
“The South Sudanese are split by tribal factions,” Toby said. “It’s a matter of bribing the right tribe. If we can get D’Na to Juba, she’ll find the right people.”
“Do we have enough money?” Allston asked.
“The mission has about 50,000 Euros worth of Krugerrands in Juba,” Toby replied. “A little gold goes a long way in this part of Africa.”
“Reverend, you shock me,” Allston said, trying to break the tension. Toby gave him a helpless look, his arms outstretched. Allston’s head came up. In the distance he heard a familiar drone. “That’s a 130.” The sound of the turboprop grew louder. “Let’s go howdy the folks. Toby, can you get D’Na to the airstrip ASAP? The Herk won’t be on the ground long.” Outside, the first light of the new day cracked the far horizon. They ran for their vehicles as the first shrieks of incoming artillery split the air.
TWENTY-FOUR
Mission Awana
Allston floor-boarded the accelerator as he raced for the airfield. Off to his left, dust and dirt mushroomed into the air as another artillery shell exploded. The concussion rocked the pickup as shrapnel cut into the back and shredded a tire. Allston slowed as he regained control. A second round exploded harmlessly further away. “It’s not aimed,” he shouted.
“Close enough for me!” Jill shouted back. The coppery taste of bile flooded her mouth and she held on, fighting the panic that was tearing at her. Two more explosions pounded at them as they reached the airstrip. Ahead of them, a C-130 came down short final, its nose high in the air. It banged down and reversed its props, roaring to a stop. It turned into the parking area, spun around, and stopped. In the growing light, they could see Marci sitting in the left seat. She gave them thumbs up as the ramp came down. A mass of humanity ran for the aircraft, desperate to escape the hell around them.
Another artillery round exploded. “They’re getting closer!” Allston yelled. Two more rounds walked towards the Hercules. “Go! Go! Go!” he yelled, urging the people to hurry. “Damn it,” he moaned. “If we had a howitzer with a counter-battery radar we could blow those bastards halfway to Khartoum.”
“A howitzer?” Jill shouted, partially deafened by the explosions.
“Yeah. Those sons of bitches are out of range of Idi’s mortars. We need something that can reach out and touch them.” Jill ran for the C-130. “Where the hell are you going?” he yelled after her. She was the last to board as it started to taxi. Jenkins ran the engines up as she turned onto the runway and accelerated. The nose came up and the big bird lifted into the air. Marci immediately turned out to the right and for a split second, Allston was sure the right wing tip would strike the ground and they would cartwheel in flames. The Herk rolled out, barely a hundred feet above the ground as a shell hit the runway, exploding harmlessly but leaving a nasty crater.
“Cheated death again!” Allston shouted. The C-130 hugged the ground as it disappeared to the south. Another round hit the airfield and Allston ran for one of the freshly dug slit trenches that ringed the airfield. He piled in and covered his head with his arms. A body landed on top of him. It was Williams. A loud explosion washed over them. Then it was silent. Slowly, Williams lifted his head.
“Sorry, Boss,” he said, climbing out and standing. Allston stood. His truck was a burning pile of steel and rubber. “Looks like you need another set of wheels,” Williams said.
“Well, it did have a flat tire,” Allston replied.
Vermullen drove up in his Panhard utility. “Ah, I see you are okay. Your Major, she comes, she goes. Are all your officers like that?”
“She specializes in pissing me off,” Allston groused.
“Perhaps you noticed something unusual?” Vermullen asked.
“Other than getting pounded by artillery, not a thing.”
“The last few rounds were very accurate,” Vermullen said. “If your pilot had climbed out straight ahead, well, do not think about it.”
“So what are you saying?”
“They have an artillery spotter on the field.”
“Wonderful news,” Allston muttered.
“There is some good new, Boss,” Williams offered. “We got about a hundred-fifty refugees out.”
“Thanks to Marci Jenkins,” Allston said.
~~~
“Did D’Na get out on the C-130?” Allston asked Toby. The two men were huddled with Vermullen in the sandbagged bunker the Legion was using as its command post.
“She was with the refugees along with two bodyguards.”
“No word, I assume,” Allston replied.
Toby shook his head. “The phone line is cut and our radios are all jammed.”
“It is the same with us,” Vermullen added. “Even our satellite communication frequencies are jammed. It is very sophisticated. Probably Chinese.”
“Lovely,” Allston groused. A thought niggled at the back of his mind. Then it came to him. “You know, I think we’ve got one of their satcoms. The last I remember, Sergeant Williams had it.” Vermullen nodded at Beck who disappeared out the entrance. “So,” Allston continued, “how are we doing on our defenses?”
Vermullen used the wall chart to recap their posture. “We’ve bunkered about half the DFPs on Charlie Ring, and have eight phone lines strung out to Delta Ring.” He touched the eight listening posts on the outer defensive ring that were tied to his command post with landlines. “We placed four where we think the Sudanese will ford the river. The other four are spread out around the perimeter. I have teamed a legionnaire with one of the Juban soldiers to man each one. We have thirty-two more listening posts on Delta Ring and need volunteers to man them. Their job is to warn the LPs with a landline, or the command post here, if they hear or see any activity. They must be very fast runners and know the terrain.” Toby said that he would ask for volunteers from the boys and young men at the mission. “It will be very dangerous,” Vermullen cautioned. “And if there is an attack, they will be on their own.”
“They want to he
lp,” Toby assured him.
“They are very brave,” Vermullen replied. “That leaves 190 legionnaires to man Charlie Ring. Half of them are pre-positioned, again concentrated where we expect the attack. I’m holding the other half in reserve inside Bravo Ring.” Bravo Ring was the minefield that surrounded the mission but not the refugee camp that was closer to the airstrip, over a mile away. “I will deploy them as the attack develops.”
“What about the security cops?” Allston asked.
“Their job is to defend the mission,” Vermullen said.
“Who activates the mines in the corridors through the minefield?” Toby asked.
“They can be activated either here or by Sergeant Malone in his bunker.” The men fell silent and listened as a loud protest echoed from outside. “I believe that is Hans,” Vermullen said.
Loni Williams tumbled into the command post followed by Beck. “He didn’t understand,” Beck explained in French.
“Fuckin’ Kraut,” Williams muttered.
“Knock it off,” Allston said. “Do you remember that satcom you took off the Janjaweed?”
“The guy I morted? I still got it.”
“We need it,” Allston told him. Williams bobbed his head and hurried out of the bunker. “We’re gonna have to work on communications,” Allston said. Vermullen filled in more details of his defense plan as they waited. Allston was uncomfortable with the way he relied on his legionnaires to operate so independently in small units, but given their degraded communications, there were no alternatives. Williams was back in minutes and handed over the satcom. Allston turned it over in his hands, examining it. He removed the battery cover and tried to read the markings. “It’s Chinese. Why am I not surprised?” He snapped the cover back in place and turned it on. It was not a telephone but a transceiver. He cycled through the channels and found one that was clear of jamming and in use.
“That’s Arabic,” Toby said. Allston handed him the satcom. Toby listened as his face paled. “The Janjaweed are going to attack the refugee camp after midnight.”
~~~
“I wish we had enough mines to protect the refugee camp,” Toby said.
Allston cocked an eyebrow at the admission. “When you’re on the short end of the stick, mines are the great equalizer.” He checked the time. It was midnight. “I hope we’ve read it right. Otherwise, we’ve given them a target rich environment.” The two men were standing outside the legion’s bunkered command post as the last of the refugees from the camp streamed into the mission compound. The shrill scream of an incoming artillery shell arched overhead. They held their breath, waiting to see where it impacted. A dull explosion from the refugee camp echoed over the compound. “How about that?” Allston said. “As advertised.”
“I’ll be at the hospital,” Toby said. There was an infinite sadness in his voice. He knew what was coming. Allston watched the small man make his way through the crowded refugees who were huddled in big groups clutching their meager possessions. Vermullen emerged from the bunker with Beck right behind. Both were in full battle dress. “I’ll be at the refugee camp,” Vermullen told him.
“I’ll be here,” Allston replied. Vermullen climbed into his Panhard and Beck drove him slowly through the mission compound.
“You should stay in the bunker with Colonel Allston,” Beck told Vermullen.
Vermullen gave a shrug. “As long as they are jamming our radios, it is best I go forward. Besides, Major Mercier can handle it.” Vermullen was a master at small unit operations and had turned the refugee camp into an ambush. His natural inclination was to command from the front and that was where they were headed. “Either we are right or we are dead.” They drove through the now deserted refugee camp with its empty tents hanging like ghostly shadows in the night. It was deathly silent except for the low rumble of the Panhard’s engine. Vermullen keyed his tactical radio and hit the mute button. “The jamming is more intense. Let’s talk to the lads.”
Beck parked the Panhard near a hardened defensive firing position at the center of the camp that was linked by a field telephone line to the Legion’s command post. The DFP was at the apex of a big V formed by two lines of DFPs that opened to the south, the expected direction of the attack. The four firing positions that made up each arm of the V created a huge funnel with overlapping fields of fire. The plan was to channel the Janjaweed when they entered the V into a narrow lane as they passed through the apex and charged into a kill box flanked by Claymore anti-personnel mines. An artillery round drove Vermullen and Beck into the sandbagged foxhole where three legionnaires were hunkered down. Three more artillery rounds walked harmlessly across the camp. “The softening up begins,” Vermullen told the men. “Hans, check the men on the left. Encourage them to shoot straight ahead and remember where their comrades are.” It was Vermullen’s way of telling his legionnaires that he was with them. The old private waited for a pause in the shelling. He bolted out of the DFP and ran into the night.
Vermullen scanned the area with his NVGs. “Waiting is always the hardest part,” he told the three men. More artillery shells walked through the camp. Beck was back. The men on the left were ready and relieved that Vermullen was there. “Now tell the ones on the right. Beck grunted an obscenity in German and again disappeared into the night. “Stalwart fellow, Private Beck,” Vermullen said. The three legionnaires laughed. The artillery shelling stopped. “Now the attack begins,” Vermullen predicted. Beck exploited the lull and piled into the foxhole. The right side was ready.
Sergeant Thomas, one of Vermullen’s veterans, heard it first. “Bloody trucks.”
“And I promised you Janjaweed,” Vermullen replied. “So much the better, is it not? Much more sporting.”
“It’s not bloody Eton,” Thomas replied, his Cockney accent even more pronounced than usual.
Nine trucks charged out of the brush and accelerated straight for the camp. A machine gun was mounted over the cab of each truck and the gunners swept the field in front of them with heavy fire. Sporadic gunfire from the DFPs cut into the trucks, forcing them straight-ahead and deeper into the funnel. A truck was hit and rolled to a stop. The drivers bailed out as the legionnaires unlimbered their assault rifles and shredded the soldiers. The other trucks veered to the right only to encounter concentrated gunfire from the DFPs on that side. A truck exploded as the others cut back. Behind them, a large group of Janjaweed broke from cover at a full gallop and charged after the trucks, heading into the V.
The legionnaires came to their feet and fired, laying down concentrated fire at the oncoming trucks. Another truck fireballed and rolled. The six remaining trucks sped by Vermullen’s DFP and into the deserted camp. Vermullen didn’t hesitate. He reached for a small green plastic detonator and flipped open the guard on top. He mashed the trigger. The line of Claymore mines behind the DFP erupted, each sending a cloud of over 700 steel balls into the trucks, ripping and shredding the men and trucks. The carnage was absolute.
“Those were meant for the bloody Janjaweed!” Thomas shouted.
Vermullen cranked the phone and called his command post. He ordered Mercier to send Bravo Company, half of his reserve, to the refugee camp to block access to the mission compound. “I estimate over 500 Janjaweed are in the camp,” he told Mercier.
“Please save some for us,” Mercier replied.
~~~
Allston stayed out of the way as Mercier ordered forty legionnaires to the refugee camp. No sooner had they left than all four lines to the listening posts along the river lit up. Mercier listened, his face grim. “Armored vehicles and APCs are fording the river,” he told the men in the bunker. “This is more than a reconnaissance in force.” He called Captain Bouchard over and quickly identified which DFPs on Charlie Ring to man. “Take every man you can find and hold until we can disengage from the refugee camp and reinforce you,” he told the young captain.
Bouchard actually smiled. “That won’t be necessary.”
“That is very fortunate,” M
ercier shot back. Bouchard snapped an open-handed salute and ran from the bunker.
“Was the attack on the refugee camp a diversion?” Allston asked.
“Oh, yes. It was a classic maneuver, very well executed. But as you Americans say, we honored the threat.” He thought for a moment. “Sacrificing the Janjaweed could have been a mistake.”
A teen-age boy burst into the bunker. He was winded from a long run and his eyes were wide with fear. He babbled in Dinka, which neither man understood. Allston grabbed the phone to Outback, the security police bunker. “We need a translator,” he told Malone. “Send Williams here ASAP.” Now they had to wait.
~~~
Vermullen emptied his FAMAS at the Janjaweed thundering past his DFP. He jammed a fresh clip into the over-heated weapon and fired another burst. Beside him, Beck lobbed round after round of grenades at the horsemen as they swept by. The ground was littered with bodies and horses but still the Janjaweed kept coming. The green light on the telephone line blinked. In the chaos, Vermullen answered, still firing short bursts as he listened. “Excellent,” he shouted, breaking the connection. “Bravo Company is through the minefield and blocking them,” he told the four legionnaires. “We have them in the bag. Do we have any more Claymores?”
“Ten,” Thomas, the Cockney sergeant, answered.
“Good. You take four and give one to each DFP on the left. Tell them to position them to face south, away from our DFPs, and to only fire at the Janjaweed after they have passed by. Hans, take four and do the same on the right. Go!” Thomas handed Beck four small canvas bags. The English Legionnaire slung four over his shoulder and followed Beck. A storm of small-arms fire echoed from the side of the camp nearest the mission. “I believe the Janjaweed have met Bravo Company,” Vermullen said to the two legionnaires still in the bunker. “Place the last two Claymores there and there, facing each other.” He pointed to where he wanted the Claymores, one on each side of the kill box. “Go.” He didn’t have time to explain and the legionnaires reacted instinctively, leaving him alone in the DFP. He cranked the phone to the command post but it was dead, the line cut.
The Peacemakers Page 30
