African Dragon

by David M. Salkin

  By the time government forces were within fighting distance of the PAC, the city was burning in a half mile wide swath of billowing black smoke. The government troops were the first to take casualties, their lead vehicles being hit with RPGs on Highway One. The first explosion happened only a few hundred yards away from the exhausted American team that was still pushing towards the presidential palace.

  As soon as the lead vehicle exploded, the long column scattered to both sides of the road and fanned out. The shooting started sporadically, but like a symphony, quickly began to crescendo as PAC rebels engaged and reinforced their lines. The team watched from cover on the other side of the highway, carefully moving northeast. They stopped and assembled the sat-phone, and called Dex Murphy.

  “It’s on, Dex,” said Mack. “PAC troops are engaged with government forces about a mile southwest of the residence. Where are the Marines?”

  “Marines are inbound. Should hit the LZ in maybe fifteen minutes or so.”

  “They need to hit the PAC on their way in. It’s a large force, Dex. We’re low on ammo and have three KIA. The Marines could save this fight.”

  “They aren’t supposed to engage unless fired upon…”

  “Bullshit, Dex! We can call in fire support right now! If the PAC moves through this government force, Kinshasa is gone! Let us direct fire and take out these rebels.”

  “I’ll need to get approval. You’re confident that you can direct fire without hitting friendlies?”

  “Dex, if I was any closer to the targets I could put them on the phone with you! Hurry up! Out!”

  Mack turned to Cascaes. “You heard the conversation. As soon as he gets the green light, I’ll direct fire. I want you to take the team back to the palace.”

  “Mack, I appreciate the gesture, but this is my job. I’m also faster than you when it’s time to run like hell. You go. I got this.”

  Mackey started to protest but Cascaes put his hand on his shoulder. “Hey man, this isn’t macho bullshit. I’m good at this, and I’m faster on my feet. You go.”

  “Okay, but keep a couple of shooters with you.” He yelled over to Hodges and Jones. “You two stay with the Skipper and provide security. He’s going to call in air support. The rest of you, on me. We’re moving to the palace.”

  A series of explosions made them all duck and cover. “Jesus, they’re getting close,” said Moose.

  “I’m low on ammo and out of Lapua rounds. Can someone spare a few mags?” asked Hodges.

  Jon, Ray, Julia, and Pete began pulling out magazines and handing them to Hodges and Jones. “Give me your rifle and I’ll hump it back for you,” said Jon. “You’ll be faster without it.”

  Hodges reluctantly gave up his rifle, kissing it first before he handed it to Jon. “Thanks, Jon. Take good care of my girlfriend.”

  “You know it, brother.” Jon pulled his .45 and handed it to Jones. “Just in case,” he said.

  Jones gave him a quick fist bump and shoved the extra pistol into his web gear.

  The sound of an artillery round being fired, followed by an explosion, got everyone’s attention. Ripper pulled binoculars and peered around a house towards highway One.

  “Hey! Someone’s got a tank! That should help even things up,” he said.

  Moose moved alongside and took a turn with the binoculars. “Holy crud, Rip. That thing’s older than the boss.”

  “Fuck you, my hearing’s just fine,” said Mackey.

  Mortar rounds and RPGs impacted within fifty yards of the team as PAC forces began focusing on the single tank. The tank fired blindly in the general direction of the enemy, and opened fire with its machine gun, but without modern gun sights and a highly skilled crew, the tank was more bark than bite.

  Cascaes smacked Mackey’s leg. “Okay, that’s it, bro! You go! See you at the palace.” He looked at Julia, whose face showed her worry. “It’s okay, it’s what we do, right?” He forced a smile.

  As the team began moving, Julia leaned over, not caring who saw. She kissed Chris on the mouth quickly and whispered, “Be careful,” then turned and ran after the team, which was already moving down the alley way.

  Cascaes scanned the battle space with binoculars, praying for air support. Hodges and Jones had the flanks and were watching for any incoming soldiers so Cascaes could focus on enemy troop movements. He was thankful that Julia and the rest of them were running back towards the palace.

  The tank fired another shell, rocking after the shock, and then moved forward with infantry moving along behind it. Several RPG rounds impacted the front left tread almost simultaneously. The government troops watched in horror as the tread rolled off the tank, leaving it immobile in the middle of the road. Like a giant sign that read: Shoot Me, the tank became the focus of every weapon the PAC guerrillas carried. And while the small arms fire did nothing but bounce off, the repeated hits from the RPG rounds began to have an effect. The armor was failing. The top hatch opened, and President Kuwali’s nephew emerged quickly, trying to climb on the back of the tank and avoid incoming fire. He was shredded by machine gun fire and hung off the top of the tank. As the crew tried to follow him out, several more RPG rounds hit the tank, and it exploded, with secondary explosions as the shells inside went off. The infantry following the tank took heavy casualties and retreated into the surrounded structures, some of the troops as close as fifty yards away from Cascaes.

  “Hey Skipper, think we should pull back a little?” asked Hodges. “We’re getting rounds singing over our heads, man.”

  “Not yet, it’s too hard to see,” replied Cascaes. It was true, the burning tank and tremendous amount of gunfire had put up a dark cloud that obscured most of the troops movements ahead. He pulled his satellite phone and called into Dex. “How we doing. Dex? They’re almost in my lap!”

  “Marines are maybe five minutes out. They only have one gunship with them as an escort. Once they drop the marines at the palace, their orders are to evacuate the president and his family to the ship while the marines hold the palace if they can. Real air support won’t be there for another twenty minutes at least. You’ve got F-18 Super Hornets inbound from the Iwo Jima. Listen, Chris, you don’t want to be anywhere near there when they start hitting their targets. I suggest you pull back.”

  “Dex, the army and the PAC are almost on top of each other. If I don’t direct fire, they’ll be hitting the wrong targets. Let me get online with the squadron commander and make this work!”

  “Okay, okay. Let me make this happen. Sit tight and let me get back to you. If I can, I’ll have the Super Hornets on the horn directly to you. Out.”

  Jones was looking through his sights. “Hey Skipper, I don’t want to fire and give up our position, but these guys are moving closer.”

  “How many?” asked Cascaes grabbing his binoculars.

  “Looks like their main force is flanking the tank to this side. We gotta move!”

  Hodges scrambled over the rubble he was hiding behind and moved next to Jones. He could see at least a couple of hundred guerrillas moving and shooting as they worked past the destroyed tank to their side of Highway One.

  “Shit. Skipper, we need to pull back now!” said Hodges.

  Cascaes broke down the phone and shoved it into his back pack.

  “Go! Move back a hundred yards and find a place with a decent line of sight, and we’ll be there right behind you,” said Jones.

  Cascaes sprinted out the back of the alley and kept running in a low crouch, zipping in and out of old primitive houses. The mortar rounds and firing was continuous and getting closer.

  Mackey called in on his radio. “We’re almost to the palace. Marines will be here any second. Where are you guys?”

  Cascaes was running and trying to talk as he moved. “Pulling the FOP back. We’ll set up again and guide the Super Hornets. Out.”

  Cascaes foun
d a low wall that he could use for cover and still see back towards the highway. He radioed Jones and Hodges, and they moved back towards his location.

  61.

  President Kuwali huddled with his family in the rear courtyard of the presidential palace. His guards surrounded the compound, and eyed the sky above them when they heard the rotors of incoming helicopters. First came the AH-1 Super Cobra gunship, which roared overhead and then slowed and began large circular sweeps of the area. Behind it, four large CH-46 Sea Knight helicopters began descending on the open compound. As soon as they touched down, the rear doors descended, and out charged thirteen United States Marines from three of the four helos. The extra Sea Knight was for the president and his family.

  Three thirteen-man squads made a full rifle platoon, and they moved out at the barking of their sergeants and corporals. The lieutenant in charge of the rifle platoon jogged over to the president. There was no mistaking who President Kuwali was, wearing a dark business suit and sunglasses, surrounded by his wife and five young children, as well as six heavily armed guards.

  The lieutenant snapped a salute at the president. “Mr. President, Lieutenant Conor Hamill, United States Marine Corps. On behalf of the President of the United States, I’m here to offer you and your family safe conduct to our carrier until the situation here is under control.”

  The president shook the marine’s hand and smiled. “I thank you so much for rescuing my family. I will stay, but ask that you please allow them to leave with you.”

  “Mr. President, my orders were to escort you as well. Enemy forces are moving in very quickly. They’re within two kilometers of this location.”

  “This is my country, lieutenant. If you would please take my family to safety, I will be forever in your debt—but my place is here. Please. Take them now.”

  Lt. Hamill snapped a salute and jogged back a few yards, screaming at his platoon sergeant. “Gallo! Get these people loaded and out of here!” The president hugged and kissed his crying family, who begged him to join them, but ultimately ran for the helicopter with their marine escort.

  Hamill grabbed his radio operator and called into command aboard the amphibious assault ship USS Iwo Jima, part of the 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit. The colonel aboard ship was not happy about the president’s refusal to leave. His orders were to rescue the president and his family. Of course, he couldn’t force the president to leave his own country, but if anything happened to President Kuwali, it was his ass on the line.

  “Lieutenant, you are to secure the presidential compound. Have the president take cover inside somewhere that’s well protected and you make sure he’s safe. I have a squadron of Super Hornets from the Bush inbound and I’m told I’ve got Special Forces on the ground to direct fire. No one gets inside that compound, you understand?”

  “Ooh-rrra, colonel. Out.”

  The lieutenant screamed for his sergeant, explained their revised orders, and had two marines escort the president inside to a basement office where the two marines would stand post outside the doors with the president’s personal body guards as a very last line of defense.

  The rest of the rifle platoon took up posts along the perimeter and hunkered down, prepared to fend off a larger force. Lt. Hamill watched his sergeant direct their positioning and shook his head. They were United States Marines and would defend this post as ordered, but they were thirty-six men against a couple of thousand. It was not ideal.

  62.

  Wong Fu-jia had managed to find a few of his PAC officers and remind them that the presidential palace was the target, not whatever women they could find to rape and murder. The destruction of the enemy’s lone tank had been a huge morale booster, and had re-energized the PAC soldiers. They now had the National Army on its heels, and were keeping up the pressure.

  Wong Fu-jia checked his hand-held GPS and looked at the map. The palace was a little over a kilometer away, due east. The fact that he had no reinforcements was infuriating. With only the littlest help of heavier weapons, they could be in the palace within minutes. He cursed his luck and tried to rally whatever men he could find.

  The PAC soldiers were slowly reorganizing near the burning tank and began advancing up the highway. Wong Fu-jia shouted orders in Chinese that weren’t understood by the African troops, but he was pointing and screaming, and that was close enough. That way. He raced up the street, hoping the troops would follow him.

  Over five hundred PAC guerrillas were now moving forward. The president’s army was retreating, some of them in an all-out broken run. Cascaes hung up the sat-phone with Dex Murphy and switched his radio to Aqua fifty-four as Dex had instructed.

  Cascaes keyed his radio. “Northstar, this is Voodoo Three actual, stand by for danger close polar.”

  “Roger, standing by,” replied the pilot, his engine hum loud in the background.

  “Grid as follows, R2P 2348 1474.”

  “Roger, grid R2P 2348 1474.”

  “Good copy, stand by for target location.”

  “Standing by. R2P 7783 1499.”

  “I copy R2P 7783 1499.”

  “Good copy. Request immediate support, whatever you can send my way, troops are currently in contact. Several hundred guerrillas advancing on the palace along Highway One. If you can take a low slow run you’ll see a burning tank on the highway. That’s ground zero. Friendlies half a kilometer south and east, advise when fast movers are on station.”

  “On station in a few seconds. Suggest you take cover, over.”

  Cascaes hugged the small wall and scanned the sky to the north with his binoculars. He couldn’t help the smile as he made out the four fighters leaving white contrails in their direction.

  “Northstar, you are making a direct line to my position. Hit that tank and anything west of it. I’m south of that tank less than half a click, so don’t overshoot! Out!”

  Cascaes, Hodges, and Jones kneeled behind the wall and peered out to watch the show. The fighters roared in low and slow and began firing rockets and machine guns. The lead jet dropped a CBU-87 cluster bomb over the tank, and as soon as Cascaes saw it open up in the air releasing the bomblets, he screamed, “Down!” to his men. They covered their ears and opened their mouths, crossed their ankles and squeezed their eyes shut as the earth began to come apart. Two hundred and two small bomblets exploded over the area almost simultaneously, and hundreds of PAC soldiers simply disappeared into the explosions.

  When the shock waves finished rolling over Cascaes, he knelt and peered over the wall. The destruction was beyond comprehension and Highway One looked like a lunar landscape. The jets banked and rolled and began tearing up everything they could find west of the tank. The rear guard of the PAC forces took massive casualties, as the jets pounded an area almost half a square kilometer.

  “That’s it! Palace, double-time!” screamed Cascaes.

  The three of them began running along the narrow alleyways, heading northeast towards the palace. The smoke was thick and blowing towards them, making it difficult to see beyond twenty yards. There was still random gunfire, evidence that PAC forces were still engaged with regular army troops, and the jets were still making runs overhead.

  By the time the three of them reach Boulevard Triomphal, which made a right turn to the palace, the remnants of the PAC forces were literally across the street. The three of them found a small bungalow of a house and Cascaes called in to Mackey.

  “Mack! We’re a half mile out but we’ve got a large force here. The Marines here yet?”

  “Affirmative, but there’s only one rifle platoon, and they’re here to secure the palace. How many PAC at your location?” he asked.

  “Not sure. Visibility is lousy. We’re going to keep pushing east and—”

  Automatic gunfire opened up and rounds began ricocheting all over their location. The three of them hit the deck and crawled for cover.


  “On our six!” yelled Jones. He spun around and began firing his weapon at a few stragglers that had accidentally come up behind them, dropping three PAC soldiers at ten meters in the smoke. More rounds began singing off the bricks.

  “Shit! They’re all over us!” yelled Jones.

  Hodges scurried over a small pile of rubble and moved around a corner in the tight neighborhood. It was hard to see anything, and the lines of sight weren’t more than a few yards with too much smoke and too many buildings. Hodges stood up and peered around the corner of a beat up house. A PAC soldier slammed into him without ever having seen him. The two of them crashed to the street and began fighting hand-to-hand. Jones ran to them and jumped on the pile, grabbing the PAC soldier by the throat and jamming his K-Bar knife into the man’s chest. He pulled him off of Hodges and threw him to the side.

  “You good, bro?” he asked.

  Hodges rolled away and screamed “Look out!” but it was too late. Two more PAC soldiers came up the same alleyway and went wide-eyed when they realized they had stumbled into American forces. One of them opened up on full automatic and emptied half a magazine into Jones at point blank range.

  “No!” screamed Hodges. He grabbed his weapon and began firing at the two men, dropping them with short controlled bursts. Cascaes was a second behind, charging up the alley, firing at them as well. He reached the pile of bodies and grabbed Jones by the front of his blood soaked fatigues.

  “Jonesy!” he screamed. One look was all it took. Earl had multiple gunshot wounds all over his body and was dead. “Earl!” An RPG round blew up less than twenty feet away, sending up more smoke and dust, and shrapnel and bits of rock peppered Cascaes and Hodges. The two of them dove for cover, Cascaes over Jones’s body. They returned fire and quickly realized the enemy was being reinforced.