Lane looked doubtful. “We’re winging this. Too many unknowns. It’s gonna get tricky.”
“Demerdez-vous!” Allston said. Vermullen roared with laughter.
Lane was totally perplexed. “Whaa?”
“Demerdez-vous! is the Legion’s unofficial slogan,” Vermullen said. “It means ‘Make Do.’”
“I might add,” G.G. said, “roughly translated, demerder means to get out of the shit.”
“It sounds more like we’re jumping into it,” Susan Malaby said from the doorway. No one had seen her arrive. She jammed on her blue beret and stormed out.
FIVE
Wer Ping, South Sudan
The chatter on the flight deck died away as the C-130 descended to 800 feet above the ground. G.G. sat at the navigator’s station aft of the copilot and typed a correction into the navigation computer. The symbology on the navigation display in front of the pilots moved a fraction of an inch as the computer integrated the latest GPS inputs. “Release point on the nose,” he told the pilots. He jumped up and stood beside the French captain who was standing behind the copilot and picked up the visual references he was looking for. His eyes narrowed. He wasn’t happy with what the GPS and computer were telling him. Trusting his own instincts, he sat down and typed in another correction. “Ten minutes out.”
The aircraft shifted as the sixty-one Legionnaire paratroopers in the rear stood and snapped their static lines to the overhead cable. Allston slowed to 120 knots, their drop airspeed, and automatically trimmed the big aircraft. The French captain pressed his earphones to his head to hear better. “Colonel Vermullen says they are ready,” the captain said.
“Is he always the first man out?” Allston asked.
“Always,” the captain replied. He keyed his FM radio and contacted the trapped patrol on the ground. He spoke in rapid-fire French. “Merde! They are taking incoming fire. The drop is unsafe.”
“SAM! SAM! SAM!” the loadmaster in the rear of the aircraft yelled over the intercom.
Bard Green’s right hand flashed out and hit the flare button, popping a trail of flares into their wake in a desperate effort to decoy the surface-to-air missile. Allston jinked the big transport to the left and then to the right as he cut a spiral in the sky. A Grail, a Russian-built shoulder-held missile, flashed by on the right and missed the Hercules. The men standing in the rear of the aircraft were tossed about like bowling balls in their heavy equipment, crashing into each other. “Everyone okay back there?” Allston asked over the intercom. The loadmaster reported that the legionnaires were picking themselves up off the deck and sorting out their equipment, but other than a few bruises, no one was injured.
Again, the French captain contacted the legionnaires on the ground. The news was not good. “The incoming fire is growing more heavy, now from all sides,” he told Allston. “It is small caliber only, no heavy weapons.” He relayed the information to Vermullen and the jumpmaster. G.G. announced they were ten miles out with five minutes to go, which the captain relayed to the waiting legionnaires in the rear. A deep frown crossed the captain’s face as he listened. “My colonel says they are ready.”
Allston didn’t hesitate. “Abort the drop. Repeat, abort the drop.” It was an easy decision, honed by years of experience and countless combat missions. “The jump is on hold until we neutralize the threat. We don’t need the bastards using you for target practice when you’re in your chutes. Everyone strap in. Loadmaster, that includes you and the jumpmaster.” The aircraft shifted as the legionnaires sat back down in the canvas jump seats along the sides of the aircraft. Allston firewalled the throttles and dropped to 200 feet above the ground. “Listen up, it’s fire suppression time. It’s gonna be one pass, haul ass. Captain, tell your troops on the ground to keep their heads down. Stay in contact with them and I want a constant update on what the Janjaweed are doing.” Another thought came to him. “Colonel Vermullen, I’m going to buzz the livin’ hell out of the bad guys and get their attention. They’re gonna shoot at us. You okay with that?”
“Demerdez-vous,” Vermullen answered.
“Stalwart soul,” Allston replied. He hit the com switch under his left thumb to transmit on the UHF radio and called the second Hercules behind him. “Marci, break it off and hold west of the river. I’ll call you in when needed.”
“Will do. I can’t keep up with you, anyway.” Allston glanced at his airspeed indicator. The needle was bouncing off 165 knots and the turbulence was increasing. He throttled back to 140 knots and the turbulence eased.
“Sir,” Bard Green said from the right seat, “I’m not sure if the Herk can take this.”
“Yeah, she can,” Allston replied. “Can we?” He gave the copilot his lopsided grin. “When things go wrong, get aggressive.” G.G. announced they were inside two miles just as Allston saw the legionnaires’ three trucks stopped on the road. “Tallyho,” he called. “Target on the nose. Riley, hit the fuel dump switch when I tell you.” He dropped the C-130 down to 150 feet above the ground and inched the throttles back as he jinked the big bird with short heading and altitude changes. Allston was careful to watch the acceleration meter and not pull over two gs as he dropped another 50 feet. “Riley, dump.” The flight engineer reached for the overhead panel and hit the two fuel dump switches with both hands as they flew straight and level over the legionnaires. “Dump off,” Allston called. He pulled up to 200 feet and again jinked the aircraft, but this time more gentle.
“Colonel!” The French captain called, “The patrol wants to know if we are using chemical weapons.”
“No way,” Allston replied, “but that’s what I want everyone to think. Let’s do it again and see if we can convince the bastards that they are about to die.” He turned to the left and circled back to run it at ninety degrees to the first run. He dropped to 150 feet and inched down to 100 as he rolled out and flew over the target. “Riley, dump.” The flight engineer hit the fuel dump switch. “Dump off.”
“Colonel Allston!” the French captain called over the intercom. “All gunfire has stopped and they are running away.”
“How about that,” Allston said. He climbed to 400 feet and circled back, this time to the right.
“I can see horsemen,” Green called from the copilot’s seat. “Three o’clock, on the road, keep the turn coming and you’ll bring ’em to the nose.” He laughed. “That got their attention. They’re going at the speed of smell!”
Allston rolled the big transport out with the horsemen on the nose. “Tallyho. Loadmaster, lower the ramp to the trail position. Colonel Vermullen, can you get a couple of shooters on the ramp to act like tail gunners?” He heard Vermullen rattle off commands in French over the intercom and felt the movement in the rear as the legionnaires shifted. He automatically trimmed the aircraft and Vermullen said that four shooters were in position. “That was quick,” Allston said. “Horsemen coming under the nose now. Fire!” Short bursts of gunfire echoed to the flight deck as the legionnaires opened fire. Then as quickly as it started, it was quiet. This time, Allston circled to the left as he climbed. He saw three horses on the ground and two bodies. “Let’s do it again,” he said. He found the retreating horsemen and rolled in. “Ready in the rear.”
Again, the galloping horsemen came under the nose as the tall rider in the lead turned in the saddle and raised his AK-47. Allston caught a glimpse of the bearded man and a flash of teeth as he fired his submachine gun in defiance. “That’s one gutsy bastard,” Allston admitted. The rider never flinched and kept firing as the Hercules flew overhead. “Time to return the favor,” Allston muttered. “Ready, ready, fire.”
The gunfire from the rear was more sustained as the legionnaires got the hang of it. Then it was quiet. “That pissed off some folks down there. Check for battle damage.” He climbed to 500 feet and circled the area. He counted five bodies and nine horses on the ground and played the numbers game. Had they killed enough of the enemy to force a withdrawal, but were they still strong enough with the
will to regroup? It was one of the intangibles of combat the brass would second-guess from the safety of their headquarters every Monday morning for the next year. Allston looked for telltale clues and saw three dismounted horsemen scrambling through the brush and away from the legionnaires. A sixth sense urged him to press the attack.
Riley ran his checklist and reported the systems on the aircraft were fully functional and appeared undamaged. “If the gear comes down, we’re golden.”
“A-okay in the rear,” the loadmaster said.
“Sounds like we got lucky,” Allston said. He instinctively sensed the odds had shifted in their favor and they had a window of opportunity. It was his job to keep it open and the best way to do that was to get more firepower on the ground. “Captain, ask the patrol if the area is secure enough for the airdrop.” He still expected the legionnaires to take some casualties when they parachuted in.
The French captain spoke into his radio and grunted in satisfaction. “Oui, Colonel, the area is secure.” There was a deep respect in his voice.
Allston continued to circle as he called Marci’s C-130 to join on him for the drop. “I have you in sight and will join on you in three,” she radioed. “What were you guys doing over there?”
“Just having some fun,” Allston replied.
“Colonel Vermullen,” G.G. said over the intercom, “I’m using a new program I developed for airdrops and need to validate its accuracy under actual conditions. The computed air release point where I give the green light is based on where I want the first man to land — on the road and less than fifty meters from the trucks. If possible, can the lead jumper not maneuver and land wherever the wind blows to verify the accuracy of the system?” Vermullen replied that he was the lead jumper and would not maneuver if it looked close.
Six minutes later, the two C-130s over-flew the legionnaires. Allston’s aircraft led and Marci’s was offset 500 feet behind and 200 feet above his. Jumpers streamed out both sides of Allston’s aircraft, shortly followed by sixty more from Marci’s Hercules. Allston immediately circled back to track the accuracy of the drop. “Vermullen in sight,” he told G.G.
“Got him,” the navigator said.
“Oh no!” the French captain shouted. “He will land in a tree.” The men watched transfixed as Vermullen disappeared into the top of a tall tree next to the road.
“I’ll be damned,” Green said. “It looks like he’s fifty meters from the trucks and ten meters off the road.” He groaned. “Bird colonels don’t like landing in trees.”
“He will not be happy,” the French captain predicted.
“Well, you know what they say about a bird in the bush,” G.G. quipped, making the best of it.
The two C-130s continued to circle the area as Vermullen’s legionnaires went through a well-rehearsed routine and secured the area. They were out of their parachutes within seconds after hitting the ground and formed up into firing teams. There was no attempt to join up with their assigned squads and as soon as a sergeant had five or six men, they moved out, securing the perimeter. From his perch in the tree, Vermullen had an excellent view of the action and made no attempt to lower himself to the ground. One fire team ran down the road in the direction the fleeing horsemen had taken. Whenever they came across a horse or Janjaweed lying on the ground, they fired a short burst of gunfire, making sure the unfortunate animal was out of its misery and the man was no longer a threat. It was quick, efficient, and brutal. Exactly sixteen minutes after Vermullen had landed, the area was secure and two sergeants from the patrol were waiting for Vermullen to lower himself out of the tree. They quickly briefed him on the situation.
Allston landed first in case they had taken battle damage to the landing gear and might block the road. He eased the big aircraft onto the road and reversed the props. A cloud of dust roared out in front of them, blocking his view. He stopped and waited for the dust to settle. A bruised and battered Vermullen walked out of the dust with two sergeants and the ever-present Hans. A ragged and gaunt boy from the village followed them. The colonel’s uniform was torn and his left cheek was bandaged. He fixed the C-130 with a hard look. “There is one angry dude,” Allston said. He keyed the radio. “Marci, we’re okay. You’re cleared to land behind me. You’ve got about 4000 feet.” A flying safety officer could cite chapter and verse about what could go wrong with one aircraft landing behind the other without a clear rollout, but Allston knew she could handle it. He set the brakes and quickly shut down the engines. “Come on, G.G. I think the Colonel wants to talk to us. And please, no jokes about a bird in the bush. He won’t think it’s funny.” The two men clambered down the boarding steps and marched towards the waiting Frenchmen. Much to their surprise, Vermullen smiled at them.
“Captain G.G., I must apologize. I maneuvered to land in the tree. Otherwise, I would have landed on the road.”
“Why?” Allston asked.
“The tree was a good place to observe if my men can operate independently of command. Forming up and grouping for action after landing is the most difficult and critical phase.” He motioned at the two sergeants and the boy. “These men were on the patrol. The boy is the only survivor from the village. He hid in the bush and saw what happened. He speaks some English. There is something you need to see.” He spoke in French and the sergeant in charge of the patrol led them into the nearby village of Wer Ping. The boy followed, shaking with fear.
The smell of burning flesh assaulted them well before they reached the village. “The Janjaweed camped here,” the sergeant said. He walked over and kicked a body lying in the dirt. Hard. “This one didn’t get away.” He fired a short burst of submachine gun fire into the dead body. Allston shot a warning glance at Vermullen. The legionnaire had crossed the line and had committed a war crime. Vermullen only stared back. The sergeant led the way to a shallow pit a few feet from the campsite. The bodies of two young girls were staked out over a bed of charcoal. “They were roasted alive. Do you have a camera to document this?” G.G. pulled a small digital camera out of a pocket and started to take pictures.
“Janjaweed laugh,” the boy said in halting English.
“They laughed when they did this?” Allston asked. The boy nodded in answer.
“It took a long time for the girls to die,” the sergeant added.
“How do you know that?” Allston asked.
“Janjaweed watch,” the boy said. “Janjaweed talk, talk, talk, laugh when die.”
Vermullen spoke softly. “Il y a plus.” There is more. He led the way into the smoldering ruins of the village. A line of nineteen bodies were stretched out on the ground. All were male with bloody crotches. “They were castrated before they were shot.” The sergeant checked the mouth of the nearest corpse. The man’s genitals were shoved down his throat. “The women and girls were made to watch this before they were raped and killed.”
“Where are the women?” G.G. asked.
“In the huts,” the sergeant said.
“But they’re all burned down,” G.G. said, not understanding. Vermullen gestured for him to examine one and take a photograph. The navigator walked slowly to the charred ruins of the nearest hut. The stench of burning flesh was overpowering but he snapped four photographs before retreating.
“Il y a plus,” Vermullen said. His small tactical radio buzzed with a message. “They found the body of the village chief.” The boy looked at them, his emaciated body shaking. Not able to take anymore, he turned and ran.
“The chief was his grandfather,” the sergeant said. The five men walked deeper into the destroyed village and found two legionnaires standing guard over the body. The village elder had been dismembered and his legs and arms thrown to waiting dogs. His stomach had been ripped open and his head shoved inside. G.G. bent over and vomited. Then he took more photos, his face deathly white.
“Il y a plus,” Vermullen repeated.
“There is always more,” the sergeant added. “Have you ever seen a baby impaled?” He pointed to the
body of an infant dangling from a stake fence.
Allston stared at the baby, his whole being shaken to the core. There was no rationalization for what he was seeing, no justification, no explanation, no understanding. For the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to have an epiphany. This was reality and it was evil. Like most Americans, Allston had convinced himself that evil was a primitive belief that only existed in the ignorant. But the ignorance was his. The evil that the Allies had experienced when they stumbled across the death camps in World War II was still very much alive. It had taken a new form in Bosnia and now Africa, and it was the curse of the modern world, challenging civilization.
“Il y a plus,” Vermullen said.
Allston breathed deeply, not able to speak and vent the emotions shredding his humanity. By any standard, he was a well-educated and superbly trained professional warrior, yet nothing had prepared him for this, not even what he had seen at Abyei on his first day in the Sudan. That had only been a prelude, a small sample of what he was witnessing. Perhaps a more urbane and sophisticated man could play the intellectual and find refuge in the abstract, but when faced with the horror of genocide, Allston could not mute it or turn away. This was the here and now and he had to physically engage. Anything less would be a denial of what he was and everything he believed in. A burning hate swept over him, threatening to consume him, and from that moment, he was willing to risk his life to kill the evil before him.
“Are you okay?” G.G. asked.
Slowly, Allston regained control. “No, G.G., I’m not okay. And I doubt that I ever will be.” He swept the village with his hand. “If this doesn’t put some hate in your heart, nothing will.”
“It’s there, Colonel,” G.G. assured him.
“Good. Don’t ever forget it.”
“So now you understand why my sergeant reacted as he did,” Vermullen said. He fell silent as he led them out of the village. The boy was sitting in the shade of a bush, waiting for them, his arms wrapped around his knees.
The Peacemakers Page 7