Beck removed his NVGs and peered into the early-morning dark as the distinctive mix of diesel engines and clanking tracks grew louder. “Tanks,” he said. “Coming at us.” A missile from their right streaked through the night and a tank exploded. Another tank pushed around it, its turret-mounted machine gun firing. The tank commander’s head was barely visible above the open hatch as he directed the driver. Vermullen raised his FAMAS and carefully aimed. He estimated the range at 125 meters and squeezed off a single shot. The top of the tank commander’s head disappeared in a red haze. “Nice shot, Colonel,” Beck said.
A red flare arced over them from their left. The Sudanese had broken through that side of Charlie Ring. Beck centered the Shipon’s crosshairs on the driver’s side of the tank charging at them and fired.
~~~
The Porter hugged the ground and popped over a low stand of trees. “It’s getting pretty rough back here,” Williams shouted as he held on for dear life in the open cargo compartment. Bright flashes off to their left confirmed they were flying over Charlie Ring and approaching the river. “The Legion is taking a beating down there,” Williams yelled.
Allston didn’t answer and concentrated on clearing the ground rushing by fifty feet below. He jerked the Porter to the right, barely missing a tree. Now he could make out the dense green vegetation that marked the marshland bordering the White Nile. Again, he darted around a tree, using it for cover. Below him, he made out the river’s main channel. Less than a mile ahead, a long line of trucks was stopped on the road paralleling the northern side of the river. He caught a glimpse of a tall mast with the distinctive antenna arrays that marked his target. A line of tracers reached up from the road. Instinctively, he loaded the Porter with a three-g turn and dropped to ten feet off the deck as a line of tracers cut the air above them. “Fuckin’ ZSUs!” he shouted, venting his anger. The 23mm, four-barreled ZSU-23-4 was an old, but very deadly anti-aircraft artillery that he wanted nothing to do with. But he was out of options and had to challenge the ZSU in order to get at the jammer. He circled to the north, trying to get behind the weapon. “Lock and load!”
“Ready.” Williams was still firmly strapped to the cargo deck and aiming the Shipon out the left side.
“We’re going after a APC with a radar antenna on top and four barrels sticking out the front. You gotta be quick on this one.” Allston firewalled the throttle and turned towards the road. He had lost sight of it but knew where it was. He displaced his heading thirty degrees to the right of the ZSU. A line of tracers cut back and forth in front of him as the gunner fired wildly, hearing the Porter’s turboprop but not able to find it in the dark. Allston’s eyes followed the tracers back to the ZSU. “Ready, ready,” he shouted at Williams. “Pull!” They were less than 200 yards from the ZSU when he pulled on the stick and popped to eighty feet above the ground, enough to set up a pylon turn. He turned to the left as ZSU’s radar found them and the line of tracers swung around. Williams fired.
Allston rolled out, wings level, as he bunted the stick forward. The agile Porter hit the ground and bounced, the big tires and landing gear struts absorbing the shock. The tracers cut above them. One round grazed the top of the Porter’s vertical stabilizer, taking off the top nine inches but not exploding. The ZSU fireballed as the Shipon found its target. Allston fought for control, finally leveling off at thirty feet. He turned towards the road. Ahead, he could barely make out the tall mast sticking out above the low scrub. “Ready?” he shouted.
“Reloading,” Williams yelled. It seemed an eternity as the mast loomed larger with each passing second. “Ready!” Williams shouted just as Allston put the stick over to turn away. He jerked the stick back, snapping three gs in the opposite direction. Williams let out a loud “Oomph!”
“We’re engaged,” Allston shouted. This time, he half turned and half skidded the Porter around, giving Williams the angle he needed. Williams fired and the missile tracked true. Allston turned away as the jammer disintegrated in flames and smoke. The concussion rocked the Porter, sending it out of control.
~~~
Vermullen fired a green starburst flare to signal his left flank to fall back. Beck reloaded the Shipon and lifted the launcher over the edge of the DFP in time to see two tanks coming right at them. “Which one?” he asked. Vermullen pointed to the one on the right. The private sighted and fired. The missile hugged the terrain as it homed on the doomed tank. Unfortunately, the rocket motor’s plume left a very visible path back to them for the other tank to follow. Both men rolled out the backside of the DFP as the tank disappeared in a fiery cloud of death and destruction. They scampered for the next DFP as the second tank’s cannon traversed towards them. Before it could fire, another missile reached out from their far right and found the seam between the tank’s turret and hull. The explosion blew the turret off. Overlapping fields of fire had saved the two men.
Vermullen rolled into the foxhole and came to his feet and scanned the battleground. At the same instant, his radio came alive. The jamming had stopped and his teams were reporting in. Their luck was holding and the Sudanese were not pressing the attack as the legionnaires on his left flank fell back onto Bravo Ring in good order. They weren’t dead yet.
~~~
The Porter’s left wing tip grazed the ground as Allston regained control. “You okay?” he shouted at Williams.
“Do they serve cocktails on this flight?” Williams asked. He was fine.
Allston circled back, looking for another tank. He saw the road and turned, crossing it on a southerly heading. He popped up and could see for over a mile. The river was dead ahead and burning tanks littered the ground on the far side. The legionnaires had given a good account of themselves. “Boss!” Williams roared. “Helicopters coming at us!” Again, situational awareness made the difference. Allston knew that Williams was looking out the left and he turned to the left, bringing the threat to the nose. Three Russian-built MI-24 attack helicopters were bearing down on them in a loose V formation.
“Oh shit!” Allston yelled. “Hinds!” The nimble 25,000-pound helicopter had a top speed of 205 MPH and an awesome array of weapons under its stubby wings. He wanted nothing to do with one, much less three. But they were headed straight for Mission Awana. “Hold on!” Years of training and experience paid dividends as he firewalled the throttle and pulled into the vertical. He never took his eyes off the helicopters as he rolled over the top inverted. Automatically, he checked their armaments and only saw rocket pods for ground attack under the short wings. The Hinds were not carrying air-to-air missiles, which only left the 12.7mm, four-barreled Gatling gun under the nose chin. It was an awesome weapon with a 4000 rounds per minute rate of fire. Fortunately, it only held 1470 rounds and was limited to a forward-looking cone of aimed fire. It was a ground attack weapon and the Hinds would have to turn into him to fire. He watched to see how they maneuvered. “Shit hot!” he roared. The pilots were turning after him in level turns to the left and not using the vertical. He marked that up to fear of the ground and poor training. In Allston’s very specialized world, it was their death warrant. The difference between a normal pilot and a fighter pilot kicked in and his fangs came out. “Lock and load a Stinger,” he shouted at Williams.
The trick was to stay above the helicopters and keep their noses off him, which was no small feat. He shot out in front of the low-flying helicopters, which were 500 feet below him. The gunners tried to follow the Porter but their weapons hit the up stop at fifteen degrees of elevation. The lead Hind’s nose came up, finally bringing its machine gun to bear. Allston ballooned the Porter and immediately ruddered the Porter to his right, skidding away from the Hind. A line of tracers cut through the night well behind him. He circled back to the left, calculating the Hinds would keep turning. “Ready?” he called, his voice calm and controlled.
“Ready,” Williams answered.
Allston did a wingover and sliced into the Hinds. His timing and positioning were perfect. The helicopters we
re at their nine o’clock position at 500 yards with their tails to them. Williams fired. The Stinger is an incredibly fast missile and tracked true, homing on the exhaust of the tail-end Charlie. The helicopter fireballed and pitched forward. Allston pulled into the vertical, again using the cloud deck for cover. “Reload,” he ordered.
“This is the last one,” Williams told him. Then, “Ready.”
But where were the two Hinds? They were scattering the last time he had seen them, and were probably panicked by the fate of their comrade. But he knew where to look.
~~~
Vermullen had lost track of the battle. As best he could tell, his left flank was withdrawing to the minefield in good order, making the SA pay dearly for every foot of ground it gained. Far to his left, a pillar of flame shot skyward, again proving how lethal a Shipon was in the right hands. But what about his right flank? He hunkered down in the DFP and pressed the earpiece deeper into his ear, trying to make sense out of the radio calls. Slowly, a picture emerged. The tanks were concentrating their attack on his left and his right flank was falling apart as APCs and infantry opened up a corridor. “Colonel,” Beck said, gaining his attention. “A tank with infantry.” He laid the Shipon’s crosshairs on the tank. “This is the last one.” Vermullen chanced a glance as Beck fired their last missile. The missile barely had time to arm before it struck the tank’s carapace, easily penetrating the T-62’s seven inches of armor. The secondary charge detonated inside, shredding the four-man crew. An oxygen bottle cooked off, adding to the carnage.
~~~
Jill instinctively covered her ears as the Paladin raised its cannon to the near vertical and fired. The high angle indicated the target was very close and the projectile was arcing high into the air, trading range for altitude. She sank back against the sandbagged revetment and read the manual for the laser rangefinder/designator Corporal Rickert had given her. She picked up the small device and peered through the rangefinder. It was easy to use but surprisingly heavy at six pounds. She gingerly laid it in her lap as the Paladin fired again. Malone’s voice came over her radio. “Janjaweed horsemen are in the refugee camp. Repeat, Janjaweed in the refugee camp.” She switched frequencies to the channel the legionnaires were using. Mercier was trying to raise the four legionnaires still guarding the refugee camp. There was no answer.
“Close the corridor through the minefield,” she mentally urged. Her head came up when she heard the unmistakable drone of a C-130. She switched frequencies to the operations channel in time to hear Marci Jenkins voice announce she was on short final for landing. “Do not land, do not land,” Jill radioed. “The field is closed, repeat, the field is closed due to mortar fire.”
“Going around,” Marci said, her voice cool and calm.
Jill stood and watched as the Hercules leveled off twenty feet above the ground and started to climb. But before Marci could turn out, a mortar shrieked overhead and hit the runway in front of her. The Hercules flew through the explosion and cartwheeled into the ground. The cargo plane’s fuel tanks exploded and a pillar of fire reached skyward. Jill forced her eyes away, remembering what Allston had said about a spotter directing fire on the field. But what did a spotter look like? She climbed into the Land Rover and drove slowly around the airfield, determined to find the spotter. At the far eastern end, a flash of light from a low tree caught her attention. Flames from the burning C-130 had reflected off the lens of a spotting scope. She breathed deeply as her heart raced. In her excitement, she stomped on the brakes and stalled the Rover. She quickly raised the laser range finder and zoomed in on the tree. A woman was hidden in the branches, holding a radio to her lips, her body jerking with excitement, and her other arm pointing at the flaming wreck.
“You are history,” Jill whispered as she laid the crosshairs on the woman’s head. A killing rage swept over her and she forced herself to calm down. She keyed her radio and called the Paladin. “I’ve found the spotter,” she said. “It’s a woman in a low tree maybe a quarter of a mile to the east of the airfield.” Rickert was over a mile away at the western end of the airfield and did not have a visual on the tree. He asked her for the coordinates. “I haven’t got a clue,” she replied. “We got to get her before she moves.”
“Can you designate with the rangefinder?” Rickert asked.
“Can do,” she answered.
“Say your location.”
“I’m on the eastern end of the runway,” she told him. She pressed a button. “Designating now.”
“On the way,” Rickert said. The Paladin roared and a Copperhead arced high into the sky and homed on the reflected laser energy. The tree came apart as the shell exploded, shredding it into matchwood.
She radioed Malone. “The airfield will be open as soon as we fill in a crater.”
“Copy all,” Malone replied. “Be advised horsemen broke out of the refugee camp. Whereabouts unknown. Also, all corridors through the minefield are closed and are hot.” Mercier had activated the mines in the corridors, sealing the mission and cutting off the legionnaires — and the airfield.
~~~
Allston found the two Hinds hovering over the river, a few feet off the water, poised like stalking tigers and ready to pounce. He almost flew over them before he could turn away and circle behind them. There was nothing chivalrous or heroic in what he intended to do. He was going to sneak up behind them and kill at least one with their remaining Stinger. “Ready?”
“Go for it,” Williams replied. They had welded into a team, and Williams was reacting instinctively.
Allston turned back towards the river where the Hinds were still hovering over the river. He displaced thirty-five degrees to the right and simply flew behind them. “Coming under the left wing now,” he told Williams.
“Got ’em,” Williams said. He fired the Stinger and Allston turned hard to the right, escaping to the north. They never saw the missile fly up the helicopter’s right exhaust nozzle but the bright flash lit up the night. “Scratch that fucker,” Williams shouted. Allston turned hard to the left as a burst of tracers cut behind them. Again, he pulled into the vertical and did a wingover, desperate to gain a visual on the last helicopter. Nothing.
“He’s underneath us!” Williams shouted. He had done his work well and found the Hind, keeping them alive. The nose of the Hind sliced towards them and came up, bringing its machine gun to bear. Allston pulled into the vertical and pirouetted, spinning the agile Porter on its tail as he pulled the nose back to the ground.
The Hind was still below him and turning, keeping them in sight. “M-16!” Allston shouted, communicating in shorthand.
“Got it,” Williams said as he dropped the Stinger tube and picked up his M-16. The Hind’s nose was almost on them and the helicopter’s gunner slewed the machine gun towards them as he fired.
“Fire!” Allston yelled, certain they were dead. Williams mashed the trigger and emptied the magazine, still firing out the left side of the Porter. Both Williams and the Hind’s gunner were firing wildly, making no attempt to aim their weapons. The Hind’s pilot saw the bright muzzle flashes coming from the Porter and accelerated, trying to avoid the gunfire. The nose of the Hind came down as the helicopter moved, throwing the machine gun’s muzzle down, harmlessly raking the ground.
Fighter pilots call it the “Golden BB,” the magical bullet that hits the target because of blind luck. The last round out of Williams M-16 was the Golden BB and it hit one blade in the Hind’s rotor, shattering it and throwing the helicopter out of control. The helicopter spun violently to the right and hit the ground in a flat spin. The big blades flexed down and came apart, cutting into the fuselage. But the fuel tanks did not explode. Allston circled the wreckage. He felt no jubilation or pride, no sense of accomplishment. They had just killed two more men. He watched as the flicker of a flame grew and engulfed the right engine. It quickly spread and the fuel tanks finally erupted, cremating what was left of the men inside.
“Boss,” Williams said. “Can we g
o home? I’m hurtin’.” Allston twisted around in his seat. Williams was hunched over holding the bandage on his left side. “I think I ripped a stitch.”
“Home plate it is,” Allston said. He had asked all he could from the sergeant. “You did good.”
“How come I’m not feeling good about it?”
Good question, Allston thought. He radioed Malone. “Backstop, Bossman inbound with one wounded. Can I land in the mission?”
“Negative, Bossman. Be advised the airfield is open but the mission is sealed off. The minefield is fully activated.”
“Say situation,” Allston replied.
“The Legion is holding on Bravo Ring but can’t withdraw through the minefield. Janjaweed are reported operating near the airfield and refugee camp.”
“Rog. I’ll check out the area.” He hugged the ground and flew a big arc over what had been Charlie Ring. Burning tanks cast eerie shadows as flashes of small arms fire punctured the dark. He climbed to a hundred feet and clearly saw the mission. Below him, a soldier raised his AK-47 and fired. It missed. He banked hard and dove, heading for the airfield.
~~~
Vermullen’s tactical radio was alive with shouts and pleas for a medic as the battle seesawed back and forth. “The left is holding,” Vermullen told Beck. His left flank had successfully collapsed to the minefield and was holding, thanks to the Shipons. Beck bobbed his head up and peered into the dark. “Our right flank has been wiped out.” Vermullen knew it was his fault. He had held the eighty men on his right in place as his left side pulled back in the hope the advancing SA would present a flank for the legionnaires to attack. But he had miscalculated and his men had been isolated and encircled, including him and Beck. But they had extracted a terrible price and stopped the Sudanese.
The Peacemakers Page 34
