The Peacemakers (50 page)

“Close enough for me!” Jill shouted back. The coppery taste of bile flooded her mouth and she held on, fighting the panic that was tearing at her. Two more explosions pounded at them as they reached the airstrip. Ahead of them, a C-130 came down short final, its nose high in the air. It banged down and reversed its props, roaring to a stop. It turned into the parking area, spun around, and stopped. In the growing light, they could see Marci sitting in the left seat. She gave them thumbs up as the ramp came down. A mass of humanity ran for the aircraft, desperate to escape the hell around them.

Another artillery round exploded. “They’re getting closer!” Allston yelled. Two more rounds walked towards the Hercules. “Go! Go! Go!” he yelled, urging the people to hurry. “Damn it,” he moaned. “If we had a howitzer with a counter-battery radar we could blow those bastards halfway to Khartoum.”

“A howitzer?” Jill shouted, partially deafened by the explosions.

“Yeah. Those sons of bitches are out of range of Idi’s mortars. We need something that can reach out and touch them.” Jill ran for the C-130. “Where the hell are you going?” he yelled after her. She was the last to board as it started to taxi. Jenkins ran the engines up as she turned onto the runway and accelerated. The nose came up and the big bird lifted into the air. Marci immediately turned out to the right and for a split second, Allston was sure the right wing tip would strike the ground and they would cartwheel in flames. The Herk rolled out, barely a hundred feet above the ground as a shell hit the runway, exploding harmlessly but leaving a nasty crater.

“Cheated death again!” Allston shouted. The C-130 hugged the ground as it disappeared to the south. Another round hit the airfield and Allston ran for one of the freshly dug slit trenches that ringed the airfield. He piled in and covered his head with his arms. A body landed on top of him. It was Williams. A loud explosion washed over them. Then it was silent. Slowly, Williams lifted his head.

“Sorry, Boss,” he said, climbing out and standing. Allston stood. His truck was a burning pile of steel and rubber. “Looks like you need another set of wheels,” Williams said.

“Well, it did have a flat tire,” Allston replied.

Vermullen drove up in his Panhard utility. “Ah, I see you are okay. Your Major, she comes, she goes. Are all your officers like that?”

“She specializes in pissing me off,” Allston groused.

“Perhaps you noticed something unusual?” Vermullen asked.

“Other than getting pounded by artillery, not a thing.”

“The last few rounds were very accurate,” Vermullen said. “If your pilot had climbed out straight ahead, well, do not think about it.”

“So what are you saying?”

“They have an artillery spotter on the field.”

“Wonderful news,” Allston muttered.

“There is some good new, Boss,” Williams offered. “We got about a hundred-fifty refugees out.”

“Thanks to Marci Jenkins,” Allston said.

“Did D’Na get out on the C-130?” Allston asked Toby. The two men were huddled with Vermullen in the sandbagged bunker the Legion was using as its command post.

“She was with the refugees along with two bodyguards.”

“No word, I assume,” Allston replied.

Toby shook his head. “The phone line is cut and our radios are all jammed.”

“It is the same with us,” Vermullen added. “Even our satellite communication frequencies are jammed. It is very sophisticated. Probably Chinese.”

“Lovely,” Allston groused. A thought niggled at the back of his mind. Then it came to him. “You know, I think we’ve got one of their satcoms. The last I remember, Sergeant Williams had it.” Vermullen nodded at Beck who disappeared out the entrance. “So,” Allston continued, “how are we doing on our defenses?”

Vermullen used the wall chart to recap their posture. “We’ve bunkered about half the DFPs on Charlie Ring, and have eight phone lines strung out to Delta Ring.” He touched the eight listening posts on the outer defensive ring that were tied to his command post with landlines. “We placed four where we think the Sudanese will ford the river. The other four are spread out around the perimeter. I have teamed a legionnaire with one of the Juban soldiers to man each one. We have thirty-two more listening posts on Delta Ring and need volunteers to man them. Their job is to warn the LPs with a landline, or the command post here, if they hear or see any activity. They must be very fast runners and know the terrain.” Toby said that he would ask for volunteers from the boys and young men at the mission. “It will be very dangerous,” Vermullen cautioned. “And if there is an attack, they will be on their own.”

“They want to help,” Toby assured him.

“They are very brave,” Vermullen replied. “That leaves 190 legionnaires to man Charlie Ring. Half of them are pre-positioned, again concentrated where we expect the attack. I’m holding the other half in reserve inside Bravo Ring.” Bravo Ring was the minefield that surrounded the mission but not the refugee camp that was closer to the airstrip, over a mile away. “I will deploy them as the attack develops.”

“What about the security cops?” Allston asked.

“Their job is to defend the mission,” Vermullen said.

“Who activates the mines in the corridors through the minefield?” Toby asked.

“They can be activated either here or by Sergeant Malone in his bunker.” The men fell silent and listened as a loud protest echoed from outside. “I believe that is Hans,” Vermullen said.

Loni Williams tumbled into the command post followed by Beck. “He didn’t understand,” Beck explained in French.

“Fuckin’ Kraut,” Williams muttered.

“Knock it off,” Allston said. “Do you remember that satcom you took off the Janjaweed?”

“The guy I morted? I still got it.”

“We need it,” Allston told him. Williams bobbed his head and hurried out of the bunker. “We’re gonna have to work on communications,” Allston said. Vermullen filled in more details of his defense plan as they waited. Allston was uncomfortable with the way he relied on his legionnaires to operate so independently in small units, but given their degraded communications, there were no alternatives. Williams was back in minutes and handed over the satcom. Allston turned it over in his hands, examining it. He removed the battery cover and tried to read the markings. “It’s Chinese. Why am I not surprised?” He snapped the cover back in place and turned it on. It was not a telephone but a transceiver. He cycled through the channels and found one that was clear of jamming and in use.

“That’s Arabic,” Toby said. Allston handed him the satcom. Toby listened as his face paled. “The Janjaweed are going to attack the refugee camp after midnight.”

“I wish we had enough mines to protect the refugee camp,” Toby said.

Allston cocked an eyebrow at the admission. “When you’re on the short end of the stick, mines are the great equalizer.” He checked the time. It was midnight. “I hope we’ve read it right. Otherwise, we’ve given them a target rich environment.” The two men were standing outside the legion’s bunkered command post as the last of the refugees from the camp streamed into the mission compound. The shrill scream of an incoming artillery shell arched overhead. They held their breath, waiting to see where it impacted. A dull explosion from the refugee camp echoed over the compound. “How about that?” Allston said. “As advertised.”

“I’ll be at the hospital,” Toby said. There was an infinite sadness in his voice. He knew what was coming. Allston watched the small man make his way through the crowded refugees who were huddled in big groups clutching their meager possessions. Vermullen emerged from the bunker with Beck right behind. Both were in full battle dress. “I’ll be at the refugee camp,” Vermullen told him.

“I’ll be here,” Allston replied. Vermullen climbed into his Panhard and Beck drove him slowly through the mission compound.

“You should stay in the bunker with Colonel Allston,” Beck told Vermullen.

Vermullen gave a shrug. “As long as they are jamming our radios, it is best I go forward. Besides, Major Mercier can handle it.” Vermullen was a master at small unit operations and had turned the refugee camp into an ambush. His natural inclination was to command from the front and that was where they were headed. “Either we are right or we are dead.” They drove through the now deserted refugee camp with its empty tents hanging like ghostly shadows in the night. It was deathly silent except for the low rumble of the Panhard’s engine. Vermullen keyed his tactical radio and hit the mute button. “The jamming is more intense. Let’s talk to the lads.”