The Peacemakers (32 page)

“It’s time,” Vermullen said. He scrambled over the edge of the riverbank and sauntered over to the tanker. The engine was still running but the tank was empty. He reached in and shut off the engine. He tapped the tank and slapped a small magnetic limpet explosive device against the outer hull. He set the timer and continued walking towards the buildings. When he reached the open sewer, he stood and casually lit a cigarette. He didn’t smoke and it was all show, just in case someone was watching. He dropped the burning match into the sewer, and walked casually away. For a moment, nothing happened. Suddenly, a wall of flame erupted out of the sewer. It moved with a will of its own and raced into town, feeding off the petrol-filled sewage ditch. He fell to the ground and rolled into a shallow depression. The tank truck exploded, sending a shower of flaming debris over the buildings and setting roofs on fire. Running figures emerged from the buildings, scrambling for their lives. Cars and trucks raced for safety, adding to the confusion.

Satisfied that he had a diversion in play, Vermullen unclipped the UHF radio on his belt and hit the transmit button. But the radio was dead. Because of the long fall and extreme cold, a drop of moisture had formed when it thawed at lower altitudes and shorted out the transmit circuit. He motioned for Williams to join him as he ran for the small pickup truck.

“Two minutes,” Allston’s copilot said, warning the crew and jumpers of the time to go. Allston peered into the night, willing the cloud deck below them to break apart. His left thumb hovered over the radio transmit button. He gave it thirty more seconds before he aborted the mission. “One minute,” the copilot said, giving the last warning.

“Jesus, mother of God,” Riley, the flight engineer said. “Look at that.” The cloud deck below them parted, and they could see Bentiu. It was lit up like a Christmas tree as fire spread through the town. A fireball lit the sky and shot skyward like a roman candle.

“Looks like an oil tank,” Allston said. He made the decision. It wasn’t the product of a logical, carefully reasoned process. It was just there, the end result of years of experience and training. Something had gone wrong and Vermullen was not able to establish radio contact. Instead, the fire was the signal and the diversion. Allston mashed the radio transmit button. “Picnic time, repeat Picnic time.” The raid was on.

The copilot counted the seconds down as the triangle, which marked their position in the navigation display, moved over the box in the center of the screen. “Green light,” Allston said over the intercom. The copilot hit the toggle switch on the right console, and, almost immediately, they felt the C-130 change attitude as the forty legionnaires bailed out.

“All clear,” the loadmaster called.

“Close her up,” Allston ordered as he trimmed the Hercules and turned to the left to enter a racetrack pattern high above the airport. Halfway through the turn, he saw Bard Green’s C-130 as another forty jumpers bailed out. He followed the plummeting bodies as they fell. It would be another high altitude jump with a low opening. While hazardous, it minimized the exposure of the legionnaires and insured they landed on their objective. Allston reached the end of the outbound leg and turned to the south, heading back for the airport. Ahead, he could see the town. The fire was generating so much heat that it had created a whirlwind and sparks and burning embers were showering the northern part of the town and setting it on fire. At the end of the leg, he turned again back to the north, hoping to see Bard’s C-130. On cue, the young pilot flashed his anti-collision light and promptly turned it off. As planned, he was still stacked in the same pattern, a thousand feet above Allston. “Lights out,” Allston ordered. He snapped his NVGs into place, and turned them on.

Again, they had to wait.

Vermullen dropped the equipment bag into the bed of the pickup. He unzipped it and pulled out two bandoliers of ammunition, a bag of hand grenades, and an old Russian RPG-7. The fourteen-pound warhead on the rocket grenade could take out any vehicle that might get in their way, but he wished they had their Shipons, the Israeli-designed and built, shoulder-held anti-tank weapon that could destroy main battle tanks, fortified targets, and bridges. The lack of Shipons was a deficiency he hoped to correct in the next few hours. “You drive,” he told Williams.

The short American climbed into the driver’s seat. “Where to?”

“The bridge of course.” He pointed to the town, directly into the spreading inferno.

“Now I know why my momma told me never to volunteer,” Williams muttered. He banged the truck into gear and headed into town, laying on the horn to clear a path as they raced past burning compounds and fleeing people.

The legionnaires led by Major Mercier from Allston’s C-130 landed in an open field 200 yards from the southern end of the runway. In less than four minutes they were out of their parachutes, formed up in squads and running for their objectives. They rapidly cleared the shacks that served as the airport’s terminal and operations building, secured the runway, and set up defensive fire positions on the road leading to town. Only then did Mercier radio the code word that the airfield was secure. “Bastille, repeat, Bastille.”

The second wave of legionnaires, led by Captain Bouchard, from Bard Green’s C-130 landed 180 yards north of their objective, the weapons storage area. They had to dodge low scrub as they touched down and a few were scratched and cut up but nothing serious. Within minutes they formed up, moved on the compound and deployed around its northern perimeter. Bouchard scanned the heavy concertina-wire fence around the compound with his NVGs looking for gaps. There weren’t any. He motioned a squad forward and followed them as they moved along the perimeter until they flanked the two guard shacks on the road leading to the airport. Again, Bouchard scanned the area. Only one man at the gate guarded the army compound, and he was standing in the road, looking at the flames and smoke belching from the town. Bouchard keyed his radio but movement in the compound caught his attention and he broke the transmission.