Beck and Thomas were back in time to see their comrades rig the last two Claymores. They snapped open the short legs that held each mine upright and placed the side with the Chinese markings facing outward. Each weighed less than four pounds and were extremely effective killing machines out to fifty yards. The legionnaires attached the detonator wires and ran for the DFP. “Brilliant,” Thomas muttered. “The Janjaweed are shitting their knickers and only know one way out, right through here. Those two Claymores are for traffic control and the others will collect the exit toll.” The pounding of hooves confirmed his guess.
~~~
Williams kept telling the teenager to talk more slowly. “He’s a volunteer manning a listening post,” Williams explained. He spoke to the boy and pointed to the chart at the same time. The teenager jabbed a finger at the chart and spoke rapidly. “He says an armored car and ten soldiers are stopped here.”
Where did they come from? Allston wondered. “Okay, who have we got left?”“Only your police,” Mercier replied. He cranked the telephone and called Malone. He quickly recapped the situation and listened for a moment. Then, “The boy is here and he can show you. We have a Shipon.” He broke the connection. “Malone will be here shortly.”
Malone and Sergeant Lee Ford made it in two minutes. “We’re it,” he told Allston. “I think you remember Sergeant Ford. He speaks Dinka and is wide awake now. I’ve got one guy left manning Outback. Everyone else is posted out with orders to fall back on the hospital. So how do you use a Shipon?”
Mercier opened a case and handed Malone the shoulder-held anti-tank missile. “It is good for 600 meters, but a shame to waste it on an armored car.” He went through the aiming and firing sequence. “Beware of the blowback. It can kill you.”
Malone gestured at the Dinka teenager. “Tell him to show us the way.” Airman Ford spoke a few words in Dinka and the boy nodded. “Let’s go,” Malone said. The Dinka understood and led the way out.
~~~
The horsemen came directly at Vermullen’s DFP, retracing their path through the camp in a desperate attempt to escape. Vermullen waited, trying to determine where they were the most concentrated. Deciding they were massed to his right, he triggered the Claymore on his left. The mine exploded, sending a hail of death into the leading Janjaweed, cutting and tearing into the horses and their riders. Instinctively, the survivors veered away, into their more densely packed comrades on Vermullen’s right. Again, he waited. At the last critical moment, he triggered the Claymore on his right. But now the carnage was more brutal as the Claymore’s fourteen ounces of C-4 explosive sent a cloud of steel fragments into the densely packed Janjaweed. The unhurt men and horses immediately behind piled into their downed comrades, adding to the chaos as the rest split around the DFP, racing for safety. The five legionnaires in the DFP came to their feet, firing into the retreating horsemen. They fired in short bursts, emptying their magazines and quickly reloading. Still the horsemen surged past, swinging wider and wider to avoid the slaughtered horses and riders.
The last surge of Janjaweed raced past the DFP, the riders frantically urging their horses on and not bothering to return fire. The last Claymores started to detonate as the legionnaires timed their detonations to max effect, cutting into the backside of the retreating horses and men. The sound of gunfire and running horses gave way to the bellow of baying horses and screaming men dying in the night.
Vermullen reloaded, careful not to touch the overheated barrel of his rifle. “An ugly business,” he muttered. “Hans, fire a flare.” Beck did as ordered and a single flare arced over the killing ground, illuminating the carnage around them.
“What now?” Thomas asked.
“We wait,” Vermullen answered. “If I am right, Bravo Company will be needed elsewhere shortly, and is probably withdrawing back into the mission.” A few minutes later, another green flare arced over the killing field, this one from Bravo Company. They were withdrawing into the mission. “Now you must mop up,” Vermullen said. He climbed out of the DFP and ran for the Panhard with Beck in hot pursuit.
“Bloody hell, what are we supposed to do with the survivors?” Thomas yelled.
“What survivors?” Beck shouted back.
Vermullen was surprised to find the utility truck undamaged. Beck climbed in behind the steering wheel while Vermullen took one last look around. Gunshots echoed over them as the legionnaires went about their work. Vermullen snorted and climbed in. “The command post,” he said. Beck slipped the truck into gear as more gunfire split the night air.
~~~
Malone ran through the night, hard pressed to follow the nimble Dinka. Ford, the other security cop, was right behind him, breathing hard. The teenager stopped and knelt, motioning them to do the same. Malone almost ran into him and came down beside him. Ford piled into him. “Sorry,” he said, gasping for air. The Dinka pointed into the night. Ford’s night vision was superb and he looked to the side, getting the maximum definition. “Sweet Mother of God,” he whispered. “There’s two of ’em, not one.”
Malone turned on his NVGs and waited for the image to stabilize. Slowly, the greenish image came into focus. Two, eight-wheeled armored personnel carriers were parked beside the road with their side hatches and gun ports open. A machine gun was mounted in a turret aft of the driver’s compartment. “They look like BTR-80s,” Malone said in a low voice. He could feel the Dinka beside him shake from fear. “Tell him to take off,” he said to Ford. The cop whispered a few words and the teenager disappeared into the night, running for safety. “When in doubt, run like hell,” Malone muttered. Far to their right, towards the river, they heard machine gun fire followed by two sharp explosions. An artillery shell screamed as it cut an arc overhead, striking the mission. “Sounds like things are heating up,” Malone allowed. The diesel engine of the lead BTR rumbled to life and most of the soldiers climbed aboard. The second BTR cranked to life.
“There’s nothing between them and the mission,” Ford said.
“Except the mine field,” Malone said, “and us.” More explosions from the river echoed over them. “That’s different,” he said. “How many rounds we got for the Shipon?”
“Just the one in the launcher,” Ford told him.
The first BTR started to move, coming down the road straight at them. Malone fumbled with the missile, trying to recall Mercier’s hurried instructions. “Give it to me,” Ford said, taking the Shipon away from him.
“Okay, take him out. Try to block the road.”
“Got it,” Ford said. He rolled to his knees and lifted the Shipon to his right shoulder. He dropped the monopod under the muzzle to support its weight and stabilize it. His left hand grasped the monopod while his right hand fingered the fire control lever. He laid his right cheek against the tube and sighted through the eyepiece. Now he waited. He almost dropped the Shipon when the Dinka teenager skidded to his knees beside him. Two more teenagers were right behind him. They were each carrying a FAMAS and one had a bag of hand grenades, which he quickly passed out.
“Welcome back,” Malone said, doubting they understood a word he said. The lead BTR was moving faster now, with the second close behind. A few soldiers straggled along behind. Ford laid the crosshairs over the driver’s window and rotated the fire control lever to the first detent. “Mercier said it takes less than a second for the sight to resolve and set the aim point,” Malone offered. Ford counted slowly to three and rotated the lever full down. The whoosh of the missile and plume of flame shooting out the back surprised them all. The missile tracked true and Malone was certain the soldiers had seen the fiery blowback. “Run!” he shouted. He sprang to his feet and ran to his right, angling away from the BTRs. Ford dropped the launcher tube and followed as the missile hit the lead BTR less than an inch from its aim point. The tandem-shaped charge punched through the relatively thin-skinned armored personnel carrier, allowing the second stage to detonate inside. It was a massive case of overkill and the second explosion shredded the men
inside and blew the engine out the back, into the second oncoming BTR.
Malone ran harder with Ford and the three boys still behind. The machine gun on the second BTR raked the night, kicking up dirt around them. One of the boys stumbled as a burst of gunfire cut the air above him. Then he was up and running again. The BTR pushed around the burning hulk as the sharp crack of an M-16 echoed. Ford had fallen into a prone firing position and was trying to draw the gunner’s attention so the others could flank the BTR. The gas tank on the burning personnel carrier exploded, coating the moving BTR with burning diesel fuel. It still came on, its machine gun firing wildly as flames washed over its carapace. One of the Dinka teenagers dropped his FAMAS and ran towards the BTR, pulling the pin of a grenade as he zigzagged.
A gun port on the left side of the BTR flipped open and the muzzle of an AK-47 poked out. The shooter mashed the trigger and emptied the magazine in a vain attempt to cut down the running Dinka. He missed and the Dinka reached the BTR. He tossed the grenade through the open gun port and fell to the ground. Nothing happened and Malone swore loudly. The side hatch of the BTR started to open as the grenade exploded, ripping into the men inside and blowing the hatch down. A secondary explosion rocked the BTR. “Son of a bitch,” Malone breathed. In the heat of battle, his sense of time had slowed down.
The Dinka jumped to his feet in victory and waved his arms in victory. A burst of gunfire cut into him. “Get the bastards,” Ford yelled as he squeezed off round after round. It felt good and he kept firing. Suddenly, a hand clasped his right shoulder.
“It’s okay,” Malone said. “We got ’em all.” They ran for the destroyed BTRs and reached the Dinka teenager. “He’s still alive,” Malone yelled. “Let’s get him to the hospital.”
~~~
“LPs Four and Five report tanks are in the water,” Mercier told Vermullen. The big Frenchman studied the chart on the wall of the command post and pinpointed the two LPs that flanked the river ford on the southern bank. The telephone line to LP Four buzzed and Mercier pressed his headset against his head to hear. “Merde!” he shouted. “Two tanks are across and eight more are in the water.” The two Frenchmen were speaking English so Allston and Williams could understand.
“Where’s Captain Bouchard?” Vermullen asked.
“The lines are dead,” Mercier answered. “He was on Charlie Ring opposite the ford.”
“I’m going forward,” Vermullen said. He would lead from the front. He picked up his FAMAS and waited as an artillery shell whistled overhead. A dull explosion reverberated through the command post. Then it was silent. Vermullen snorted in contempt. “Harassing fire only.” He motioned at Beck and darted out the entrance.
Allston analyzed the frequency and pattern of the shelling. As best he could tell, the SA only had two artillery tubes and, given the sporadic rate of fire, a limited number of rounds to waste on barrage fire. Only the airfield had been subject to aimed fire and only when a C-130 was on the ground. “Their spotter is at the airfield and doesn’t appear to be moving,” he finally said.
“He must be dug in,” Mercier replied. “He’s probably waiting for one of your aircraft to land.”
“We’ve got a security police team posted at the airfield,” Allston said. “Maybe they can find him before the next Herk lands.”
“That will not be easy,” Mercier said. The telephone line to LP Four buzzed and Mercier hit the toggle switch to listen. He looked at Allston. “All ten tanks are across the river. If they break through Charlie Ring, I will have to close the corridors through the minefield. Perhaps it would be best if you went to the hospital.”
“I got a better idea,” Allston said, fed up with being on the sidelines. “How many Shipons you got left?” Mercier replied that he had four launch tubes and sixteen missiles in the command post. “I need one launcher and at least four missiles. Get the rest to the cops.” He turned to Williams. “You know how to use one?” Williams shook his head, not sure what was happening. “Time to learn. We’re going to give Idi some close air support.”
Mercier broke out a launcher, loaded it, and again went through the arming and launch sequence. Satisfied the two Americans had the drill down, he handed them two fiberglass ammo boxes that resembled thick briefcases. “Two missiles are in each carrier,” he said.
“Get the rest to the cops,” Allston ordered, “and get the word out not to shoot at any low flying aircraft.” He picked up the two boxes. “Let’s go kill some tanks,” he told Williams. He disappeared out the entrance.
“What ever happened to volunteering?” Williams muttered, following his commander.
~~~
Beck’s NVGs gave him a diabolic appearance as he hunched over the steering wheel and reminded Vermullen of a gargoyle on a cathedral. They had barely cleared the minefield when a mortar barrage walked towards them. Beck stomped on the brakes and the two men bailed. Vermullen hit the ground and rolled under the Panhard. Beck was already there. Explosions rocked the truck. “They’re good,” Beck allowed. The barrage ended and they quickly crawled out from under the truck as steam poured from the radiator. Shrapnel from a mortar round had cut into the grill but missed them. “Better on foot,” Beck grunted. Without a word, he took the lead and Vermullen followed. The logic was simple: in the confusion of combat, recognition by friendlies was a problem and it was Beck’s job to take any friendly round. The private stopped when he saw what looked like a sandbagged foxhole. “Mistral,” he said in a low voice. It was the recognition code.
“Alouette,” a voice answered. They were cleared to advance. The two men ran forward and jumped into the DFP as another mortar barrage opened up.
“Where’s Captain Bouchard?” Vermullen asked the three legionnaires in the DFP.
One of the legionnaires gestured to his right. “In the next hole. He’s wounded.” The mortars stopped and the distinctive clank of a tank’s track grew louder. One of the legionnaires came to his feet holding a Shipon. He laid it across a sandbag as gunfire raked the night. A slug ripped into his helmet, killing him instantly, and throwing him back into Vermullen.
Beck never hesitated. He grabbed the Shipon and carefully sighted. “Clear,” he said, warning them he was about to fire.
“All clear,” Vermullen replied, confirming that no one was behind the missile. Beck didn’t move as the clanking tracks grew louder. Vermullen and the other legionnaire came to their feet and fired, emptying their magazines into the infantry following the tank bearing down on them. Beck depressed the fire control lever to the first detent, counted to two, and mashed the lever full down.
~~~
Allston gunned the truck onto the airstrip and slammed to a halt behind the shed where the Pilatus Porter was hangared. He motioned to Williams and they pushed the hangar doors back. Allston ran to the aircraft and kicked the wheel chocks free. He slid both cargo doors back along the fuselage and showed Williams where to sit. “When we see a tank, I’ll set up a pylon turn like we did at Malakal, and you take it out with a Shipon. Be sure to keep the launcher’s breech pointed out the other side or the blowback will fry us.” He rigged a tie-down strap to the deck. “Sit on the floor and strap in with this. It’s gonna get rough and we don’t need you falling out. Got it?”
“Boss, I ain’t got a clue.”
Allston gave the sergeant his best grin. “Play it by ear.” He climbed into the pilot’s seat and cranked the turboprop to life as he adjusted his NVGs. He glanced back at Williams to see if he was ready. The sergeant was sitting Buddha-like sideways on the cargo deck, the tie down strap across his lap, and facing out the left side of the aircraft. The Shipon was clutched tightly to his chest. “You ready?” Allston shouted.
“Do I have to do this?” a very worried Williams shouted back.
Allston ignored him and pushed the throttle forward. The Porter roared out of the hangar straight ahead, across the parking ramp. Allston pulled back on the stick and they broke free of the ground before reaching the runway. They climbed into
the night.
~~~
Beck’s aim was good and the Shipon hit the tank on the driver’s side. A secondary explosion washed over the legionnaires huddled in the DFP as an artillery round cooked off inside the tank. A pillar of flame lit the night. Vermullen snapped up his NVGs, lifted his head above the revetment, and quickly scanned the scene in front of him. He pulled back to safety as a burst of machine gun fire ripped harmlessly into the sandbags above his head. “I count nine more Type 62s,” he said. The Russian-designed and Chinese-built Type 62 main battle tank was the mainstay of the Sudanese Army. “Range, 800 meters. The clever devils know they’re out of range and are regrouping.” Another burst of heavy machine gun fire cut into the DFP. Beck gave him a questioning look. “And you think we should do the same,” Vermullen said.
“They know we’re here,” Beck said calmly as he reloaded the Shipon.
Vermullen made a decision. He keyed his tactical radio but the jamming was still intense. He addressed the two legionnaires by their first names. “Henri, alert the DFPs on our left that we are going to pull back through the minefield when I fire a green starburst flare. Phillip, do the same on the right. Go.” The two legionnaires rolled out the back of the DFP and disappeared into the night.
“What about Captain Bouchard?” Beck asked.
“You were trained as a medic. Go take care of him and move him to the hospital as soon as you can. Go.” Beck didn’t hesitate and followed the other two legionnaires, leaving Vermullen alone. He laid his last missile next to the loaded Shipon. Diesel engines roared, shortly followed by the clanking of tank tracks. His lips cracked in a little smile as he sighted the Shipon and fired.
The Peacemakers Page 31
