The Peacemakers (40 page)

Jill quickly gathered everyone she could find and ordered them to barricade the guesthouse as best they could. She keyed her communicator and called the operations center. Dick Lane answered. “Where’s Bossman?” he asked.

“He’s headed your way,” Jill replied. In the sudden quiet, she heard the beat of galloping horses passing by. “Janajweed,” she warned.

Allston knew movement was life. He had to start moving even though his hiding place seemed secure. He fought the urge to call in on his communicator. Silence is golden, he told himself. Finally, he came to his feet and darted into the night. Now he could hear the sound of pounding hooves. He ran faster. A security cop and an Irregular manning a defensive firing position saw him. “Over here!” the cop shouted. The sound of running horses grew louder. “Run!” Allston put on a burst of speed and ran toward the voice. The horses were bearing down on him. “Drop!” the cop yelled. Allston fell to the ground as the two men unlimbered their M-16s, emptying their magazines. The lead horseman veered off, disappearing into the night.

The second rider and his horse went down in the hail of gunfire and skidded into Allston. The horse kicked in pain and a flailing hoof struck Allston in his left shin. A searing pain shot up his leg. He heard a loud scream and for a moment was confused. Was he screaming? This time the scream was louder. It was the horseman. Allston came to a crouch and fired a single shot into the horse’s head, putting it out of its misery. He grabbed the rider and dragged him out from under the horse. “I got a live one!” he yelled. The rider kicked at Allston, knocking the semi-automatic out of his hand. Allston scrambled for his weapon as the rider kicked him in the side. Allston grabbed the rider’s ankle and rolled, taking the man down. He grunted in pain when he rolled over his .45. He pushed the rider away as he picked up the weapon. Now the man was scrambling away on all fours. Allston squeezed off a single round, hitting him in a leg, just as he came to his feet. The .45 ACP cartridge fires a big, low velocity bullet with tremendous stopping power, and this particular round passed cleanly through the man’s right calf. But it knocked him to the ground and sent him into shock.

The two cops ran up. One rolled the man over and patted him down. “Just a teenager,” the airman said.

“I need to get to the Ops Center,” Allston said.

“We’ll get you there,” the cop replied. He made a radio call, reporting they had found Bossman and were bringing him in. “Let’s go,” he told Allston.

Allston pointed to the Janjaweed lying on the ground. “What about him?”

The security cop thought for a moment. He fumbled with the first aid kit on his web belt and pulled out a tourniquet. He quickly looped it around the teenager’s leg, just above the wound and cinched it down. “He’s not going anywhere. He’ll be here when we get back.” The two men moved out and Allston followed. They ran through the night, always using a building or wall for cover. Finally, they reached the darkened Mission House where they were challenged. The cop responded with “Dog poop,” the code of the day.

“Thanks,” Allston told the two men. He went inside.

Dick Lane was pacing when he saw Allston. He collapsed into a chair in relief. “Thank God … I … we were worried about you.” He gulped, anxious to say more. “You’re a mess. Are you okay?” More gunfire echoed from the far side of the mission compound.

Allston took stock of himself. Other than the pulsating ache in his leg where the horse had kicked him, he was okay. “Sorry about the delay, I had a pressing engagement with a horse. So what’s going on?” He had assumed command.

“The Janjaweed hit us,” Lane replied. “Horsemen are inside the compound. Lots of confusion. I’m in contact with both Malone and the Legion. Vermullen is in the field on a training exercise with most of his men. They are inbound and should be here around daybreak. We have to hold until then.”

Allston thought for a few moments. The sound of pounding hooves punctuated his worry. “Dick, get me a status on casualties.” While Lane worked the radios, Allston called Backstop, the security police command post, on a landline. “Backstop, Bossman. Say situation.”

“Unknown number of hostiles in the compound,” Malone replied. “I’ve ordered everyone to hunker down and stay put.”

“Is this a hit and run?” Allston asked.

“Unknown,” Malone answered. “I’m treating it like a softening up action for the main attack.”

“Boss,” Lane said in the background, “we got at least a dozen wounded, some bad. We need to transport ‘em to the hospital.”

Allston relayed the information to Malone. “We need to move ‘em soonest,” Allston added.

“Negative,” Malone replied. “The Janjaweed are hitting targets of opportunity, anyone they catch in the open. The bastards have got NVGs and are moving fast.”

The hard calculus of combat pounded at Allston. By moving his wounded, more of his people would be injured or killed. And he couldn’t afford that. Until they drove the roving Janjaweed out of the compound, the wounded would have to wait. He made a decision. “Everyone holds for now.” The sound of gunfire echoed through Mission House and over the radios. That attack was still in full force. Are the C-130s covered?” he asked.

“Per the plan,” Malone replied. “I’ve got two fire teams at the airfield and will reinforce them when I can. So far, no activity reported.”

“Keep me advised.” Allston broke the connection. He pulled into himself, trying to make sense of the raid. Why hadn’t they hit the C-130s? Outside, the two DFPs guarding Mission House opened up, driving riders off with well-aimed bursts of overlapping gunfire. Where are the French? Allston raged to himself. Rather than ask Malone, who was up to his ears in alligators, he called the French command post on the landline they had installed the day before between Mission House and the refugee camp. Mercier’s gravelly voice answered. The French major quickly explained how the twenty-four legionnaires still at the mission were deployed around the refugee camp. But he was working with Malone to expand that defensive ring to include the southern side of the mission compound. They were improvising and had to move slowly and coordinate the move to avoid a friendly fire incident. Good man, Allston thought as he rang off.

The sharp bark of a machine gun reached inside the com center. “That sounds like a SAW,” Allston said. Was it Williams? Now the gunfire tapered off, punctuated with the occasional sharp staccato of the SAW. They waited. More pleas for help from the wounded flooded the radios.

“Is it over?” Lane asked. That one question burned white hot and demanded an answer. Allston remembered what Jill has said about Toby’s sources. He made a mental note to set up a liaison between the mission staff and his Ops Center. Lacking any other ideas, he called the hospital and a woman answered. She spoke English with the distinctive accent and lilt of a Dinka. He asked if Toby was there and if they needed help.

“We can take care of ourselves, Mr. Bossman. We have five wounded here, and Doctor Person is stitching one closed now. You must not worry so much about us. This attack is over.”

The sharp, distinctive rattle of an AK-47 carried over the telephone, putting a question mark to the woman’s confidence. The sudden quiet was deafening. “That’s good to know,” Allston allowed. Silence hung in the air. Was the attack over? “By the way, have we met?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Bossman. I’m D’Na. Sometimes, I am called Mrs. Person.” She broke the connection.

Allston shook his head. You learn the strangest things at the damnedest times, he thought. The radio came alive as reports started to come in from around the mission. The horsemen had vanished and the casualty count was steadily increasing. A security cop burst into the com center. “We’re bringing a prisoner in,” he said. “He’s wounded but conscious.”

Allston ran outside as a pickup drove up. Loni Williams got out and and dragged a man out of the back. “Look what I found.” He hauled his prisoner to the steps, and held him up by his collar. It was the Janjaweed Allston had shot. Allston hurried down the steps to finally take a good look at the teenager. It was BermaNur.

“I’ve seen him before,” Allston said, turning to the boy. “You were at Abyei. Then you tried to hose us down with an AK-47 at that refugee camp.” BermaNur heard the one word he understood – Abyei. He spat at Allston.

Williams slapped the side of BermaNur’s head and spoke a few words in Nuer. The boy snarled an answer. “He says you and that whore you were with should have died at Abyei.”

“Ask if they are going to attack again,” Allston said.

Williams barraged the teenager with questions but got nowhere. “He’s being stubborn, Boss.”

“Damn. We’ve got wounded out there we need to bring in.”

Williams dropped the Baggara to the ground and stood with his back to Allston. He stepped on the teenager’s wounded leg, and slowly applied pressure as he repeated the same question over and over. BermaNur screamed with pain, cursing the Americans.

“What the hell are you doing?” Allston shouted. Williams didn’t answer and pressed down even harder. Allston finally realized what Williams was doing and grabbed him by the back of his collar. He jerked hard, pulling him off the Janjaweed.Williams bent over and pulled a knife out of the bloody bandage around the Janjaweed’s leg. He handed it to Allston. “He’s talking, Boss. He says that Jahel will feed us to the ants.”

“I’ve heard that name before,” Allston said.

Again, Williams spoke to the teenager, and, again, BermaNur snarled an answer. Williams stepped forward. The teenager held up a hand and started talking. Williams listened and asked a few questions. Finally, the teenager was finished. Williams spoke quietly. “According to our friend here, Jahel is the leader of the Rizeigat, the finest horseman of the Baggara, and the avenging sword of Allah. He says there were many martyrs today and we will be dead meat when Allah wills. I’m thinking we hurt them pretty bad, so I don’t think it’s gonna be today.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Allston said. But the relief he felt was evident on his face. He keyed his communicator. “Dick, start bringing the wounded in.” The iron band of command that held him tight eased. It would never totally go away, but for a few moments, he could breathe easier, gaining a second breath and the strength to continue. It was a hellish burden few men or women could bear, but it was one he willingly accepted. He closed his communicator and turned to the sergeant. “Sergeant Williams, don’t ever do that again.”

“Yes, sir. But I got you some answers.”

NINETEEN

Mission Awana

“O
uch!” Toby ignored Allston’s protest and continued to probe his leg. “What school of medicine did you graduate from?” Allston asked. Toby continued the quick exam, pushing and poking at Allston. It was old-fashioned, hands-on medicine because of the Mission’s limited X-ray facilities and laboratory. Those were saved for the serious cases and Toby was satisfied that it was only a bad bruise. He told the lieutenant colonel to get dressed. “I didn’t know you were married,” Allston ventured.

“Sure am. Got one kid, a boy. D’Na keeps everything on track here. It’s a cultural thing.” Allston wasn’t sure he really understood for he thought that women were subservient in Dinka society. Toby laughed, sensing Allston’s confusion. “She’s my warrior queen and office manager.” He washed his hands. “Use ice packs to get the swelling down. Come see me if it starts to feel warm, or if you run a temperature.”