The Peacemakers (10 page)

The knock on Allston’s trailer door came after midnight. “Colonel,” G.G. called. “You’re needed in Ops.” Allston came awake with a rush and sat on the edge of his bed. He turned on the light and checked the time - 0135 hours. He pulled on a flightsuit and staggered to the door. G.G. was waiting anxiously outside. “The French peacekeepers have got their ass in a crack,” G.G. explained, “and a Colonel Vermullen is here talking to Major Lane. They need to talk to you.” The two men hurried for the big hangar. “Vermullen is one big mean-looking dude and his driver is some old Kraut who looks like he was left over from World War II.”

“They’re French Foreign Legion. Sort of like a cross between our Rangers and Special Forces.”

“I wouldn’t want to mess with them.”

The Vermullen waiting for Allston was far different from the uniformed dandy he had met in Addis Ababa. He was dressed for combat and carried a stubby FAMAS G2 assault rifle that had been modified with a day/night optical sight and a laser range finder. A Browning 9mm automatic hung from his webbed equipment belt and two cords led from his helmet, one to a radio/GPS on his belt and the other to the optical sight on his assault rifle. The way he stood and his quiet manner left no doubt that he was a warrior. His driver and constant shadow, Private Hans Beck, stood at his back. “I understand you’ve got a problem, Colonel,” Allston said.

Vermullen pulled a map out of a thigh pocket and spread it out. He pointed to a village. “This is Wer Ping, 305 kilometers to the west of here. I sent a patrol, twelve men and three trucks, to investigate a report the Janjaweed had tortured and murdered the villagers. The patrol was ambushed and are trapped on a road outside the village.” Vermullen drew a small square on the east side of the village. “According to their GPS, they are here.”

Allston automatically converted the 305 kilometers to 190 miles, less than an hour’s flying time from Malakal. The threat was getting closer. “Is Wer Ping a Dinka village?” Vermullen confirmed it was. Allston studied the map for a few moments. “Not much to go on.”

G.G. typed a command into his computer and a high-resolution satellite photograph flashed on the screen. He turned it towards the two men. “Based on those coordinates, it looks like they’re caught on this north/south section of road next to the river.” An expectant look crossed his round face. “Airdrop? If the legionnaires secure the area, we can land on the road to extract them.”

It was obvious Vermullen was thinking the same thing. “All my men are parachutistes and are preparing now.”

Allston made a decision. “Let’s do it. How many troops are we talking about and where are they?”

“I’ll have 120 ready in an hour. They are at our base in Beica.”

Allston was shocked. “In Ethiopia? A hell of a lot of good you’re doin’ there.” He was angry. By positioning Vermullen’s peacekeeping force 200 miles away to the east, the UN had left his small contingent of Americans totally exposed to the threat coming from the west.

“That’s where the UN placed us,” Vermullen replied. “I am aware that you are uncovered here. But then, our UN masters are not concerned with the tactical situation on the ground.”

Allston made a decision. He turned to his Ops Officer, Major Lane. “Dick, lay on two Herks to bring the paratroopers here ASAP. While that’s happening, I want two crews to start briefing for the airdrop.” He ran a mental list of his pilots. “I’ll lead in number one with Bard Green in the right seat. G.G. gets to earn his money and does the airdrop. The aircraft commander for number two is Marci Jenkins. You pick the rest of the crews and hold things together here. If we hustle, we can drop at first light.”

Lane looked doubtful. “We’re winging this. Too many unknowns. It’s gonna get tricky.”

“Demerdez-vous!”
Allston said. Vermullen roared with laughter.

Lane was totally perplexed. “Whaa?”

“
Demerdez-vous!
is the Legion’s unofficial slogan,” Vermullen said. “It means ‘Make Do.’”

“I might add,” G.G. said, “roughly translated,
demerder
means to get out of the shit.”

“It sounds more like we’re jumping into it,” Susan Malaby said from the doorway. No one had seen her arrive. She jammed on her blue beret and stormed out.

FIVE

Wer Ping, South Sudan

T
he chatter on the flight deck died away as the C-130 descended to 800 feet above the ground. G.G. sat at the navigator’s station aft of the copilot and typed a correction into the navigation computer. The symbology on the navigation display in front of the pilots moved a fraction of an inch as the computer integrated the latest GPS inputs. “Release point on the nose,” he told the pilots. He jumped up and stood beside the French captain who was standing behind the copilot and picked up the visual references he was looking for. His eyes narrowed. He wasn’t happy with what the GPS and computer were telling him. Trusting his own instincts, he sat down and typed in another correction. “Ten minutes out.”

The aircraft shifted as the sixty-one Legionnaire paratroopers in the rear stood and snapped their static lines to the overhead cable. Allston slowed to 120 knots, their drop airspeed, and automatically trimmed the big aircraft. The French captain pressed his earphones to his head to hear better. “Colonel Vermullen says they are ready,” the captain said.

“Is he always the first man out?” Allston asked.

“Always,” the captain replied. He keyed his FM radio and contacted the trapped patrol on the ground. He spoke in rapid-fire French.
“Merde!
They are taking incoming fire. The drop is unsafe.”

“SAM! SAM! SAM!” the loadmaster in the rear of the aircraft yelled over the intercom.

Bard Green’s right hand flashed out and hit the flare button, popping a trail of flares into their wake in a desperate effort to decoy the surface-to-air missile. Allston jinked the big transport to the left and then to the right as he cut a spiral in the sky. A Grail, a Russian-built shoulder-held missile, flashed by on the right and missed the Hercules. The men standing in the rear of the aircraft were tossed about like bowling balls in their heavy equipment, crashing into each other. “Everyone okay back there?” Allston asked over the intercom. The loadmaster reported that the legionnaires were picking themselves up off the deck and sorting out their equipment, but other than a few bruises, no one was injured.

Again, the French captain contacted the legionnaires on the ground. The news was not good. “The incoming fire is growing more heavy, now from all sides,” he told Allston. “It is small caliber only, no heavy weapons.” He relayed the information to Vermullen and the jumpmaster. G.G. announced they were ten miles out with five minutes to go, which the captain relayed to the waiting legionnaires in the rear. A deep frown crossed the captain’s face as he listened. “My colonel says they are ready.”

Allston didn’t hesitate. “Abort the drop. Repeat, abort the drop.” It was an easy decision, honed by years of experience and countless combat missions. “The jump is on hold until we neutralize the threat. We don’t need the bastards using you for target practice when you’re in your chutes. Everyone strap in. Loadmaster, that includes you and the jumpmaster.” The aircraft shifted as the legionnaires sat back down in the canvas jump seats along the sides of the aircraft. Allston firewalled the throttles and dropped to 200 feet above the ground. “Listen up, it’s fire suppression time. It’s gonna be one pass, haul ass. Captain, tell your troops on the ground to keep their heads down. Stay in contact with them and I want a constant update on what the Janjaweed are doing.” Another thought came to him. “Colonel Vermullen, I’m going to buzz the livin’ hell out of the bad guys and get their attention. They’re gonna shoot at us. You okay with that?”

“Demerdez-vous,”
Vermullen answered.

“Stalwart soul,” Allston replied. He hit the com switch under his left thumb to transmit on the UHF radio and called the second Hercules behind him. “Marci, break it off and hold west of the river. I’ll call you in when needed.”

“Will do. I can’t keep up with you, anyway.” Allston glanced at his airspeed indicator. The needle was bouncing off 165 knots and the turbulence was increasing. He throttled back to 140 knots and the turbulence eased.

“Sir,” Bard Green said from the right seat, “I’m not sure if the Herk can take this.”

“Yeah, she can,” Allston replied. “Can we?” He gave the copilot his lopsided grin. “When things go wrong, get aggressive.” G.G. announced they were inside two miles just as Allston saw the legionnaires’ three trucks stopped on the road. “Tallyho,” he called. “Target on the nose. Riley, hit the fuel dump switch when I tell you.” He dropped the C-130 down to 150 feet above the ground and inched the throttles back as he jinked the big bird with short heading and altitude changes. Allston was careful to watch the acceleration meter and not pull over two gs as he dropped another 50 feet. “Riley, dump.” The flight engineer reached for the overhead panel and hit the two fuel dump switches with both hands as they flew straight and level over the legionnaires. “Dump off,” Allston called. He pulled up to 200 feet and again jinked the aircraft, but this time more gentle.

“Colonel!” The French captain called, “The patrol wants to know if we are using chemical weapons.”

“No way,” Allston replied, “but that’s what I want everyone to think. Let’s do it again and see if we can convince the bastards that they are about to die.” He turned to the left and circled back to run it at ninety degrees to the first run. He dropped to 150 feet and inched down to 100 as he rolled out and flew over the target. “Riley, dump.” The flight engineer hit the fuel dump switch. “Dump off.”

“Colonel Allston!” the French captain called over the intercom. “All gunfire has stopped and they are running away.”

“How about that,” Allston said. He climbed to 400 feet and circled back, this time to the right.

“I can see horsemen,” Green called from the copilot’s seat. “Three o’clock, on the road, keep the turn coming and you’ll bring ‘em to the nose.” He laughed. “That got their attention. They’re going at the speed of smell!”

Allston rolled the big transport out with the horsemen on the nose. “Tallyho. Loadmaster, lower the ramp to the trail position. Colonel Vermullen, can you get a couple of shooters on the ramp to act like tail gunners?” He heard Vermullen rattle off commands in French over the intercom and felt the movement in the rear as the legionnaires shifted. He automatically trimmed the aircraft and Vermullen said that four shooters were in position. “That was quick,” Allston said. “Horsemen coming under the nose now. Fire!” Short bursts of gunfire echoed to the flight deck as the legionnaires opened fire. Then as quickly as it started, it was quiet. This time, Allston circled to the left as he climbed. He saw three horses on the ground and two bodies. “Let’s do it again,” he said. He found the retreating horsemen and rolled in. “Ready in the rear.”

Again, the galloping horsemen came under the nose as the tall rider in the lead turned in the saddle and raised his AK-47. Allston caught a glimpse of the bearded man and a flash of teeth as he fired his submachine gun in defiance. “That’s one gutsy bastard,” Allston admitted. The rider never flinched and kept firing as the Hercules flew overhead. “Time to return the favor,” Allston muttered. “Ready, ready, fire.”

The gunfire from the rear was more sustained as the legionnaires got the hang of it. Then it was quiet. “That pissed off some folks down there. Check for battle damage.” He climbed to 500 feet and circled the area. He counted five bodies and nine horses on the ground and played the numbers game. Had they killed enough of the enemy to force a withdrawal, but were they still strong enough with the will to regroup? It was one of the intangibles of combat the brass would second-guess from the safety of their headquarters every Monday morning for the next year. Allston looked for telltale clues and saw three dismounted horsemen scrambling through the brush and away from the legionnaires. A sixth sense urged him to press the attack.

Riley ran his checklist and reported the systems on the aircraft were fully functional and appeared undamaged. “If the gear comes down, we’re golden.”

“A-okay in the rear,” the loadmaster said.

“Sounds like we got lucky,” Allston said. He instinctively sensed the odds had shifted in their favor and they had a window of opportunity. It was his job to keep it open and the best way to do that was to get more firepower on the ground. “Captain, ask the patrol if the area is secure enough for the airdrop.” He still expected the legionnaires to take some casualties when they parachuted in.

The French captain spoke into his radio and grunted in satisfaction.
“Oui
, Colonel, the area is secure.” There was a deep respect in his voice.

Allston continued to circle as he called Marci’s C-130 to join on him for the drop. “I have you in sight and will join on you in three,” she radioed. “What were you guys doing over there?”

“Just having some fun,” Allston replied.

“Colonel Vermullen,” G.G. said over the intercom, “I’m using a new program I developed for airdrops and need to validate its accuracy under actual conditions. The computed air release point where I give the green light is based on where I want the first man to land – on the road and less than fifty meters from the trucks. If possible, can the lead jumper not maneuver and land wherever the wind blows to verify the accuracy of the system?” Vermullen replied that he was the lead jumper and would not maneuver if it looked close.

Six minutes later, the two C-130s over-flew the legionnaires. Allston’s aircraft led and Marci’s was offset 500 feet behind and 200 feet above his. Jumpers streamed out both sides of Allston’s aircraft, shortly followed by sixty more from Marci’s Hercules. Allston immediately circled back to track the accuracy of the drop. “Vermullen in sight,” he told G.G.

“Got him,” the navigator said.

“Oh no!” the French captain shouted. “He will land in a tree.” The men watched transfixed as Vermullen disappeared into the top of a tall tree next to the road.