[SSI 02] Prometheus's Child

by Harold

  Three kilometers up the road, Chris Nissen saw the missile’s telltale wake. He pressed his mike button, hardly knowing what to say.

  Had Nissen or Stevin or anyone else had a heartbeat to ponder the situation, they might have been struck by the irony. A French missile— named for a cold north wind that blows along the Riviera—dashed with demonic obsession toward a French helicopter, fired by a Belgian employed by a French firm. But most missiles are like bullets, conceived without a conscience, pursuing their embedded purposes depending upon the preference of their human masters.

  Since Stevin’s Mistral lacked a logic board, and Marsh’s Alouette lacked IFF or even chaff or flares, the result of the firing was nearly certain. Stevin did not recall the precise figure, but he had read that Mistrals could be ninety percent effective when launched within parameters.

  Before Nissen could shout a warning, the missile exploded. Its laser proximity fuse sensed the overtake on the heat source and detonated the three-kilogram warhead.

  Scores of tungsten balls erupted outward from the blast pattern, ruining the helo’s airframe. The boom was nearly severed from the cabin, sending the Alouette spiraling crazily to earth.

  * * * *

  47

  BORKOU-ENNEDI-TIBESTI PREFECTURE

  “Look at that!”

  Racing to catch Deladier’s semi truck and trailer, Hurtubise shot a glance to his right. Following his companion’s extended trigger finger, Marcel glimpsed a missile plume and a receding midair explosion in the gray Saharan sky. “Damn it to hell! I said no unnecessary shooting!” Things were turning to hash. He put his foot on the floor.

  * * * *

  Everybody was talking at once. The air and ground radios were jammed with shouts, questions, and exclamations.

  Lee sought to make sense of the babble. He knew he would have to wait a few moments for the talkers to get a grip on themselves. Bad show, he told himself. No radio discipline.

  Terry Keegan was the first to break through the noise. He dispensed with call signs. “Steve, Terry. Eddie’s down! Repeat, Eddie’s down. A missile got him.”

  “Where’d it come from? Over.”

  “Inside the perimeter. I think more to the south side.”

  Looking outside his truck, Lee saw the remaining Alouette lower its nose and accelerate to the north. “Terry, Steve. Do not proceed north. Repeat, do not go north.”

  “Ah . . . Steve, I can reach him faster than Nissen.”

  “I know, Terry, I know. But we can’t risk you and the reaction force. Please stay back here ‘til we get sorted out. Over.”

  The helo continued almost to the perimeter before slowing. Then Keegan executed a pedal turn and pivoted right, heading easterly. “Acknowledged, out.”

  Steve Lee’s mind raced, sorting priorities and options. Likely Marsh and his Chadian troops were dead. In any case, they could not be helped just now. He keyed his mike. “Grunt Four from Grunt One, over.”

  Several heartbeats later Nissen’s voice was on the air. “Grunt Four. Steve, I see it. I’m going to check for survivors.”

  “Ah, negative, Chris. Not yet. We need to keep the back door closed. There’s a truck and trailer headed your way.”

  More seconds ticked away before Nissen responded. “Steve, I’m already on the way to the crash, about two klicks away. It’s starting to burn and we might save some guys . . .” His voice trailed off before the carrier wave went dead. Lee could read Nissen’s mind. He’s a good NCO, looking out for his fellow soldiers but the mission should come first.

  “Okay, Chris. Keep me informed.

  “Break-break. Beanie One, copy?”

  “One is up.” Keegan’s voice rasped over the air-ground freq; eager, alert. Maybe a little tense.

  “Terry, I need you to back up Grunt Four. He’s headed for the crash but we have to intercept the truck. Do an end-around to cut him off. Put your team on the road far enough ahead so you’re out of the SAM envelope. I’ll send our reserve force ASAP. Copy?”

  “Will do, Steve.” Lee heard the Alouette’s Artouste 3 engine spool up as Keegan flexed his left wrist on the collective. The helo descended to about twenty feet above the ground and skirted the mine perimeter, low and fast.

  Lee was back working the radio. “Grunt One to Grunt Five.”

  Foyte’s gravelly voice was a welcome sound. “Five here, Boss.”

  “Gunny, bring your guys up here right now. I’m sending one of my guys to block the northern exit while Chris is checking the shootdown.”

  “On the way, Major. Ah, who’s down? Over.”

  Lee shook his head in disgust. All that screaming on the radio. Foyte doesn’t know what’s happened. “Ah, Marsh took a missile, Gunny. That’s all we know right now.”

  “Roger.” Foyte, the old pro, would adjust as necessary.

  “Grunt One to Two, over.”

  “Two here, go.” Wallender came back promptly, crisply.

  “Josh, take your truck around to the west and block the road a klick or so north of the far exit. Stop anybody coming out, any way you can.”

  “Affirm.” The word was barely out before Wallender’s truck moved off the scraped road onto the hard-packed earth, headed for the left side of the perimeter.

  Lee turned back to his immediate problem: two trucks facing a prepared defense. Parked in the open, no more than fifty meters from the fence, they offered tempting targets to the automatic weapons just inside the wire. He turned to Bosco and Breezy in the bed behind him. “The fact they haven’t fired at us tells me the missile shot might be unauthorized. Whatever happens inside the mine is secondary right now so I’m not going to force the issue. But we’re not going head to head against two belt-fed weapons. We’ll move to the southwest corner where the eastern MG can’t engage us.”

  Breezy shifted his HK. “Gotcha, Boss.”

  Langevin was back in the cab, a querulous look on his face. “Steve, do you want me to see if I can talk to them? Like you said, they haven’t shot at us. Maybe they’ll stand down and let us in.”

  “Negative, Bernie. Not now. I need to know their intentions before we stick our necks in there.”

  * * * *

  Chris Nissen’s truck lurched to a stop thirty meters from the wrecked Alouette. He deployed three of his Chadians between the crash site and the northern road, then led the others toward the helo. With a professional eye, he noted that the French designed a damn good machine. The fuel cell had survived the impact, though hydraulic fluid and seeping kerosene were spreading liquid flames across the area.

  A Chadian brought a fire extinguisher from the truck. “Get in there,” Nissen directed the man to the largest fire. “Hose that down. We gotta get them out!”

  Peering into the smoke and flames, Nissen sought any sign of movement. He could not see through the smoke-stained glass.

  It was taking too long.

  Nissen dashed back to the truck, seized an ax from the toolbox, and raced to the helo again.Shoulda thought of this before. He ignored the noxious fumes from the smoke and stepped uncomfortably close to the fire. With a gloved hand he grasped the hatch and pulled the handle. The door opened less than two inches. Nissen realized that the airframe had buckled, holding the door closed.

  Behind him and on either side, men were shoveling dirt onto the flames or scooping rocky earth with bare hands. Nissen was a large, well-built man, and his powerful, overhand blows took effect. He knocked out the Plexiglas window, then began hacking away aluminum around the door latch. He was making progress when the wind shifted, blowing even more smoke at him. He turned his head, retching in the thick, cloying fumes, and stepped back.

  Someone seized the ax from him and resumed cutting. It was Corporal Nassour Yodoyman: smaller and lighter than the American, but equally committed. He has friends in there, Nissen realized. Like me.

  Nissen heard shouting behind him. He turned to see the three guards waving and gesturing. Moments later a Mercedes truck hauling a semi trailer raced
past, headed north.

  * * * *

  Etienne Stevin earnestly wished for a radio. Things had happened so quickly that he had no time to consult with Hurtubise. Actually, “consult” was an exaggeration. Stevin was a capable soldier but he was no leader. Given a task, he inevitably carried it out. But now, thrown onto his own resources, he dipped into his command psyche and came up empty.

  A former Legionnaire ran up to Stevin, clearly upset at the unexpected events. “My God, what happened, Etienne? Who fired that rocket?”

  Stevin glared at the inquisitor, who had asked a rational series of questions. “There’s no time for that, you hybride.” He shoved the man with both hands. “Get back to your position!”

  Emile Giroud was younger than the Belgian, less experienced but lacking awe for most of his elders. He ignored the order and pointed to the southeast. “The Americans, Etienne! They’re still out there. The men want to know . . .”

  “I said get back! Right now!”

  The two mercenaries locked eyes, both men’s faces flushed with anger and tension. Stevin broke the deadlock by invoking Hurtubise’s name. “Marcel said we hold until the trucks are gone. And that’s what we do!”

  “Are you blind? Look around you, Etienne! Look around! Deladier left in the first truck and Marcel followed him in the jeep. There’s nobody to drive the second truck, and it isn’t even fully loaded!”

  The younger man awaited a response, then realized there would be none. He smelled the liquor on Stevin’s breath, saw the wild determination in his eyes. Legio pro patria. Stevin turned and shouted to anyone within earshot. “Est maintenant l’heure de faire le camerone.” With that, he paced toward the south gate.

  A South African member of Groupe FGN approached Giroud. “What in the hell is Stevin ranting about?”

  Giroud made a circular motion with one hand beside his head. “He’s drunk or crazy. Or both. He says, ‘Now is the time to make Camerone!’“

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s the Legion’s big holiday. Mexico in 1863. They celebrate it every April thirtieth.”

  “What happened?” asked the Boer.

  “Sixty-five Legionnaires fought two thousand Mexicans. They killed three hundred before they were overpowered.”

  “Well, I don’t believe in last stands. I believe in living to fight another day.”

  Giroud motioned over his shoulder. “Go tell him that, mon vieux.”

  * * * *

  The fire was contained. Nissen and Corporal Yodoyman pulled the remains of the cabin door off its mangled hinges and tossed it aside. They heard a low, soft moan from inside the ruined cabin—the first welcome sign since the crash some fifteen minutes before.

  Yodoyman leaned into the cabin, reaching to grasp the nearest soldier. “Be careful!” Nissen warned. “We can’t move them right away.”

  He forced himself past the Chadian NCO and leaned as far inside as possible. “Marsh! Mr. Marsh! Can you hear me?” He realized that he did not know Marsh’s given name.

  No reply came from the front of the helo. The Alouette had pitched violently downward, crashing nose first.

  Someone moved in the rear of the compartment. Another pain-wracked sound came from the interior.

  Nissen weighed the options: survival of some troops versus accomplishment of the mission. He was glad it was not his responsibility. He decided to make the call.

  * * * *

  Stevin cast a glance at the north gate, which had been closed following Hurtubise’s departure. He counted it good. Marcel is on his way. Now we cover his withdrawal.

  He stalked to the southwesterly perimeter wire and rested his rifle atop the sandbag parapet. He was feeling buoyant, almost giddy. This is the day!

  Stevin turned to the hired guns around him. “Listen, you wretches. Catteau, Constantin, and Leonhart. They were the last of thirteen Belgians at Camerone. Their blood runs in my veins!” He pounded the top sandbag, exclaiming, “From this place I retreat not one step.”

  He propped both elbows on the sandbags and aimed his rifle toward the nearest truck. Taking up the slack, he fired one round fifteen meters in front of the vehicle.

  Giroud caught up with Stevin and grabbed for his FA-MAS. “You idiot! You want to get us all killed?”

  Stevin shoved the interloper back with a powerful forearm blow. “I command here! Can’t you see what I’m doing? I’m keeping them out while Marcel escapes with the convoy.”

  “Convoy? What convoy? What are you talking about?”

  Etienne Stevin had no time to explain the situation. This fool had no idea of Groupe FGN’s similarity to Captain Danjou’s company, protecting an arms shipment in Mexico nearly 150 years before. It was all part of the Legion’s tradition: the same then as now.

  The Belgian turned back toward the truck and fired another warning round, closer this time.

  Giroud grasped the rifle with both hands. The struggle lasted four seconds before Stevin connected with a crushing right to the Frenchman’s cheek. Giroud reeled, dazed and hurt.

  Stevin shot him twice in the chest. Then he returned to his harassing fire.

  * * * *

  Resting his HK-21 atop the cab of Lee’s truck, Breezy bit down the urge to open fire. He was not a machine gunner by profession, but he knew the tools of his trade and was confident that he could solve the problem from where he sat. Eyeballing the distance to the perimeter fence, he made it seventy to eighty meters.

  Bernard Langevin was crouched behind the front tire, wielding a handheld loudspeaker. He was a bit more exposed than Breezy would have liked, but with a bumper, engine block, and thick tire providing cover, it seemed a decent place to be, considering the circumstances. He raised the bullhorn and called again. “Nous sommes des amis. Tenez votre feu!”

  A few more rounds snapped through the still morning air, impacting the hard ground around the truck. “That’s still harassing fire,” Lee shouted. He wanted to ensure that nobody got excited—especially the Chadians, who were exhibiting marked restlessness.

  Lee turned to Bosco, who had taken over the radio in the cab. “This can go on indefinitely. All the time, the yellow cake is getting farther away.”

  “We could go after ‘em, Major. It doesn’t matter what these guys do here, does it? I mean, like, the mine’s not goin’ anywhere.”

  “I know, I know. It’s really Mr. Langevin’s call. If he . . .”

  “Grunt Four to Grunt One. Over!”

  Bosco picked up the microphone. “Grunt One Bravo here.”

  Nissen’s voice came sharp and clear. “Give me the actual, over.”

  Bosco leaned toward Lee, extending the mike at the end of its cord. The timing could hardly have been worse. Another rifle shot from the perimeter ricocheted off the hard earth and struck Bosco’s forearm. He yelped in surprise and pain, dropped the mike, and shouted, “Geez! I’m hit!” He followed that exclamation with some fervent Ranger blasphemy.

  Lee scooped up the mike, pressed the button, and said, “Chris, stand by one. We’re taking fire.” He dropped the mike and turned toward Bosco, who was lying on his side, below the dash, grasping his injured arm with the opposite hand. Lee saw blood seeping between the operator’s fingers.

  “Breezy! Bosco’s hit! Take out that guy!”

  Breezy leaned into the German gun, focused his gray eyes on the front sight, held low left, and pressed the trigger for one second. In that tick of time, the HK spat out twelve rounds.

  Mark Brezyinski was not much on literature. But having read For Whom the Bell Tolls in high school, he appreciated Hemingway’s phrase: the slick, slippery recoil of a bipoded weapon. Atop his rocky tor, with Franco’s soldiers closing in, Robert Jordan would have given his Republican soul for an HK-21 in place of the Lewis Gun that Gary Cooper wielded in the movie.

  That Bergman gal was a real babe, but even more so in Casablanca.

  Brezyinski rode the recoil impulse to its height, then forced the sights back down through the
target as he released the trigger.

  The first round hit the sandbags supporting Etienne Stevin’s firing position. The next four climbed the improvised parapet, and the next three took him off the top row. The others spattered the wooden platform behind him. Stevin fell to the ground, rolled 270 degrees, and twitched to a stop on his left side. He gasped for air and spat up hot blood, staring at the Saharan sand.

  Somewhere far off, beyond a ghostly horizon, he saw a figure in an antique uniform—white kepi, blue jacket, and red trousers—striding toward him to the strains of La Marseillaise. He was every bit a soldier: head erect, shoulders back, arms swinging purposefully.