The Peacemakers (60 page)

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 go 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.

“Colonel, I hear a diesel.” Beck strained to hear. “It’s an APC.” Again, he chanced a look. “Maybe ten-twelve infantry following.” The diesel engine raced and Beck looked again. “It’s stuck. The men are digging it out. They have mine detectors.”