The Peacemakers (35 page)

The sound of distant gunfire echoed over the parked C-130s. Allston stood under a wing and strained to locate the source, but he was getting an echo effect from the big aircraft. He moved away, towards Mercier who was standing in the open. Now the sound was crisper. “It is coming from that direction,” Mercier said, pointing to the south and the bridge. “Maybe two kilometers.” The heavy rattle of a machine gun added to the growing din. “Large caliber,” the Frenchman added.

“Is it ours?” Allston asked. Mercier shook his head. Allston made a decision. “Recall. It’s time to get the hell out of Dodge. Call everyone in.” Mercier spoke into his radio and repeated the code word three times. Bouchard at the weapons storage area acknowledged as the legionnaires holding the airfield pulled in. Within minutes, they had re-established perimeter security around the parked aircraft. Allston turned to climb back on board when he heard a heavy explosion. He turned in time to see a red glow die down. “What do you think?” he asked Mercier.

“It’s the bridge. The Colonel is at work.”

“But we can’t be sure,” Allston added.

“No. We cannot.”

Now they heard the laboring sound of the first truck returning from the storage area. “Get it loaded,” Allston ordered. The second truck was right behind it, also fully loaded. “What in the hell did they find?” Allston wondered. He checked the time. “Sunrise in ten minutes.”

A heavy dust cloud from the explosion rolled over Vermullen. He buried his head in his arms until it settled. He raised his head and squinted into the settling dust. A soldier on the far bank was clearing away rubble in front of the roadblock and he could see the muzzle of the machine gun. Vermullen pulled the RPG-7 out of the equipment bag and laid it across the top of the dike. He had never fired one before but it was simplicity itself. He carefully sighted and squeezed the trigger. It was a hard pull. The first stage of the rocket ignited and it streaked for the roadblock. The rocket homed with deadly accuracy and the roadblock disappeared in a fiery explosion. He was surprised to see four men crawl out of the debris, dragging the machine gun. But its barrel had a decided bend and it was out of action.

Williams rolled over and came to his knees, surprised that he was still alive. He shook the dust off and looked at the bridge. It was still standing. “You mutha fucker!” he shouted, surprised that he couldn’t hear his own words. Again, he shook his head, trying to clear his ears. Nothing. A big hand clamped down on his shoulder. His head came up and he was looking at Vermullen. The colonel’s mouth was forming words but nothing was coming out. “I can’t hear,” Williams said. Vermullen picked him up and set him on his feet.

Two army trucks on their side of the river drove up to the bridge and stopped. An officer got out and studied the bridge in front of him. He issued a command and the first truck moved slowly forward, onto the bridge. Vermullen pushed Williams towards the main channel. He made a swimming motion and waded in, still carrying his FAMAS and a bandolier with hand grenades. “Don’t you believe in crocodiles?” Williams yelled. He added a respectful “Colonel.” Vermullen was now swimming. “Momma, you warned me,” Williams muttered, plunging into the water. Adrenaline pumped through Williams and he swam like a madman, quickly reaching the shore where Vermullen was waiting. “What now?” His words were drowned out as the center span of the bridge collapsed under the weight of the truck.

Vermullen slapped a fresh magazine into his FAMAS, charged a round, and handed Williams the bandolier with the grenades. “Run!”

The legionnaires tore into the trucks, manhandling the heavy crates and running them onto the C-130s. Most of the crates required two men to carry, and the loadmasters estimated their weight as they came up the ramp, keeping the weight evenly distributed. The last two trucks pulled into the parking area, closely followed by Captain Bouchard’s raiding party. The men were exhausted from the long run but they pitched in, offloading the trucks. The props started to turn, adding dust and even more noise to the seeming confusion. When the last crate was onboard, the French officers did a head count, ensuring all were accounted for. Mercier climbed onto the flight deck and told Allston everyone except the perimeter guards were onboard.

Allston keyed the radio. “Bard, go.” He watched as the C-130 taxied onto the runway and took off in the rapidly growing light. Allston turned to Mercier. “Call the perimeter guards in.”

Vermullen scrambled over the top of the riverbank, less than twenty yards from the destroyed roadblock. But the men in it were far from dead and started shooting. Vermullen swung his FAMAS around, emptying a clip into the pile of debris and sandbags. Williams was right behind him and lobbed a hand grenade over their heads in the general direction. It fell short and rolled back towards them. They both fell to the ground as the grenade rolled into a slight depression. The concussion was deafening, but the wrinkle in the dirt was enough to direct the explosion over their heads. Vermullen pulled Williams to his feet. “Go!” the colonel yelled as a Sudanese soldier stood, dazed and confused.

“You muthas!” Williams yelled as he lobbed a second grenade. This time, it reached the roadblock. Again, the two men fell to the ground as the grenade exploded with deadly effect, killing or wounding the four men hiding in the rubble. Now gunfire from the opposite side of the river split the air. The two men scrambled forward, getting a little cover from the roadblock. Vermullen came to his feet and ran. Williams was right behind him. “Shit!” Williams roared. In the rapidly increasing light, a C-130 was climbing out to the north, its tail to them.