The Peacemakers

by Richard Herman

  Again, they had to wait.

  ~~~

  Vermullen dropped the equipment bag into the bed of the pickup. He unzipped it and pulled out two bandoliers of ammunition, a bag of hand grenades, and an old Russian RPG-7. The fourteen-pound warhead on the rocket grenade could take out any vehicle that might get in their way, but he wished they had their Shipons, the Israeli-designed and built, shoulder-held anti-tank weapon that could destroy main battle tanks, fortified targets, and bridges. The lack of Shipons was a deficiency he hoped to correct in the next few hours. “You drive,” he told Williams.

  The short American climbed into the driver’s seat. “Where to?”

  “The bridge of course.” He pointed to the town, directly into the spreading inferno.

  “Now I know why my momma told me never to volunteer,” Williams muttered. He banged the truck into gear and headed into town, laying on the horn to clear a path as they raced past burning compounds and fleeing people.

  ~~~

  The legionnaires led by Major Mercier from Allston’s C-130 landed in an open field 200 yards from the southern end of the runway. In less than four minutes they were out of their parachutes, formed up in squads and running for their objectives. They rapidly cleared the shacks that served as the airport’s terminal and operations building, secured the runway, and set up defensive fire positions on the road leading to town. Only then did Mercier radio the code word that the airfield was secure. “Bastille, repeat, Bastille.”

  The second wave of legionnaires, led by Captain Bouchard, from Bard Green’s C-130 landed 180 yards north of their objective, the weapons storage area. They had to dodge low scrub as they touched down and a few were scratched and cut up but nothing serious. Within minutes they formed up, moved on the compound and deployed around its northern perimeter. Bouchard scanned the heavy concertina-wire fence around the compound with his NVGs looking for gaps. There weren’t any. He motioned a squad forward and followed them as they moved along the perimeter until they flanked the two guard shacks on the road leading to the airport. Again, Bouchard scanned the area. Only one man at the gate guarded the army compound, and he was standing in the road, looking at the flames and smoke belching from the town. Bouchard keyed his radio but movement in the compound caught his attention and he broke the transmission.

  Soldiers ran from the two barracks inside the compound and quickly formed up. Shouted commands carried into the night as the soldiers mounted their trucks. Within minutes, the convoy rumbled out the gate and towards the airfield and town. The French captain broke radio silence and warned his compatriots that company was coming their way. Again, he studied the compound. It looked deserted and he conferred with his sergeant. “Apparently, they left one guard at the gate. We need to get in without him raising the alarm.” The sergeant had an idea. He motioned for his men to form up on the road and quick marched them straight for the compound, hoping the guard would think they were returning soldiers. He hoped right. They were ten feet away when the gate guard realized they were not Sudanese and promptly surrendered. Bouchard ordered four of his men to guard the gate while he led the rest on a sweep through the compound. Within minutes, it was secured and they had reached the storage bunkers. But heavy steel doors barred their entrance. He radioed the code word indicating the compound was secure. “Verdun, repeat, Verdun.”

  ~~~

  On the darkened flight deck, Allston tensed, waiting to hear what was happening at the airfield. It seemed like an eternity before he heard Major Mercier’s voice on the radio. “The trucks did not stop and are headed for town. Guests are welcome.”

  Allston didn’t hesitate. They had momentum, and he radioed the code words that set the next phase in action. “Remember the Alamo, repeat, remember the Alamo.” The C-130s were going to land. For a moment, he wondered if Vermullen and Williams were still alive and how critical blowing the bridge was to their success. But it was too late to engage in second-guessing. The Monday morning quarterbacks at AFRICOM and the Pentagon would do that from the safety and security of their offices. He banked the C-130, reduced power, and circled down, certain that Bard Green was following him. He called for the before landing checklist, configuring the aircraft. He studied the terrain and finally found the darkened runway. It was clear for its entire length of 7000 feet. He wanted to minimize their approach time and opted for a steep approach typical of a short field landing. But this time he would not reverse the props and would roll out long to keep the noise to a minimum. He turned and came down final.

  Thanks to his NVGs, he had a visual on the runway but his depth perception left a lot to be desired. His copilot called out their absolute altitude, the actual feet above the ground. They banged down. “Shut down one and four,” he told Riley as they rolled out to the far end. He turned off the runway and onto the large earthen parking area. Riley cut the inboard engines as Bard Green touched down. “Cock this puppy,” Allston told his crew as the ramp came down. The copilot called the checklist from memory and they readied the C-130 for a quick engine start and takeoff. In the rear, the two battered trucks rumbled off. Bard Green’s C-130 taxied to a halt next to Allston’s and within minutes, offloaded its two trucks. The four trucks raced for the weapons storage area, three quarters of a mile away.

  Allston lifted his NVGs and checked his watch — 03:32. Two hours and thirteen minutes to sunrise. They were running out of time. Major Mercier climbed onto the flight deck, and Allston offered him a bottle of cold water that was gratefully accepted. “Any word from Colonel Vermullen?” Allston asked.

  “Nothing,” the major replied.

  “He should have let someone else do it,” Allston said. “He’s needed here.”

  Mercier shrugged. “The Colonel trains us to act independently. Compared to what he does to us in training, this is what you American’s call a piece of cake.”

  “Actually, that’s British.”

  Mercier gazed into the night. “Colonel Vermullen is where he belongs, doing what he does best.”

  ~~~

  The legionnaires at the guard shack pointed to the bunkers as they waved the four trucks into the storage area. Bouchard snapped an order and the lead truck backed up against the nearest steel door. A soldier connected a chain to the door and shouted at the driver to gun the engine. He did and let out the clutch. For a moment, it was a stalled tug-of-war. Then the truck inched ahead, its wheels spinning. Suddenly, the entire wall popped out. “That’s one way to do it,” Bouchard said. “Open up the others.” He ran down the aisle trying to make sense out of the markings on the crates. As best he could tell, each crate was labeled in Arabic and Chinese. He could read the Arabic but it didn’t make sense. “Does anyone read Chinese?”

  The youngest of his men, a nineteen-year-old private, came forward and translated the markings on the crates. “These are all Claymores,” he announced. The Claymore’s were an anti-personnel mine about the size of a laptop computer. A pair of short legs extended from the bottom edge so it could be set up in the vertical and pointed at the enemy. A light infantryman could not ask for a better defensive weapon.

  “Load them all,” Bouchard ordered. The men worked like demons and within minutes, the first truck was loaded. They went to work on the second truck.

  The teenager was back, carrying a Stinger surface-to air missile. He pointed to the second bunker. “They’re all there! In the back.”

  “Show me,” Bouchard ordered. The two men hurried down the darkened aisles. The teenager stopped and handed him a Shipon. They had found what they came for. The captain didn’t hesitate and ordered his men to load the Stingers and Shipons. Within minutes, the four trucks were loaded and headed for the airport. Bouchard searched the last bunker and struck gold. There were over 400 wooden crates of landmines. He ran outside and keyed his radio. “Send the trucks back.”

  SIXTEEN

  Bentiu

  Williams sawed at the steering wheel cutting between frantic people fleeing the fire as they sped down the mai
n road leading to the first bridge they had to cross. Twice, they had to pull over to let trucks carrying soldiers careen past, heading towards the fire. Then they were moving again. “They could use a fire department,” Williams said.

  Vermullen shook his head. “In this part of Africa, the firemen would steal the trucks.” They sped across the first bridge and were less than a hundred yards from the second one, their original objective, when Williams stomped on the brakes. A makeshift roadblock barred their way. The truck skidded to a stop, and Williams shifted into reverse. Vermullen’s huge left hand clamped down on Williams right hand and shifted the transmission to neutral. “No. We’re too close. They’re SA.”

  “Where the fuck did they come from?” Williams blurted.

  Vermullen ignored the outburst. “I count one on your side, two on mine.”

  “I count the same,” Williams answered.

  “Drive forward and stop a few feet short. Take your man out when I tell you.”

  “Got it,” Williams said as he let out the clutch and moved forward. He drew his Colt .45 and thumbed off the safety. He switched it to his left hand and lowered the weapon to hide it between his seat and the door. He stopped the pickup short of the roadblock and waited for the soldiers’ reaction. They held their AK-47s at the ready and walked to the truck. The soldier on Williams’ side shone a light into Williams face and laughed at the short American. “A dwarf is driving,” he called in Arabic. He dropped his AK-47 and let it swing from its strap. He pointed at Williams. “Get out,”

  “I don’t speak Arabic,” Williams said in Nuer.

  “He wants us to get out,” Vermullen replied in the same language. He got out and faced the two soldiers on his side, blocking the first soldier’s view. In the dark, the two men didn’t see the knife in Vermullen’s right hand held low next to his thigh. One of the soldiers lowered his AK-47 and stepped forward to search Vermullen. The Frenchman held up his left hand and let him see his Rolex watch on his wrist. The soldier reached for it. “Now,” Vermullen ordered. Williams swung his door open, raised his Colt, and fired without aiming. It was a wild shot but so close in that it hit the soldier in his right side. The striking power of a .45 at close range is deadly and the man spun around and fell backward.

  At the same time, Vermullen grabbed the soldier stealing his watch by the wrist and twisted, forcing the man around and in front of him. The Frenchman’s right hand flashed, rattlesnake quick, as he cut the soldier’s throat. In the same fluid motion, Vermullen pushed the dying soldier into his comrade, spoiling his aim. Williams scrambled around the front of the truck and fired three rapid rounds at the third soldier. The first round grazed the soldier’s right shoulder, throwing him back. The last two rounds missed. “Aim,” Vermullen ordered. Williams did and squeezed off another round. It hit the wounded man in the jaw, blowing it away.

  A hail of gunfire split the air and kicked up the dirt around them. Four slugs slammed into the front of the pickup truck, puncturing the radiator. Williams fell to the ground and rolled under the pickup. Vermullen ran to one of the dead soldiers and jerked his AK-47 free. He thumbed the selector to semi-automatic, leaned across the pickup’s hood, and fired three rounds. The gunfire stopped.

  “Where’s it coming from?” Williams asked.

  “From the bridge,” Vermullen answered. “Get the equipment bag.” Vermullen moved forward in short bursts, taking advantage of what cover there was, with Williams right behind. They drew up short of the darkened bridge and hid behind a low earthen dike. Vermullen chanced a look and raised his head. He quickly pulled back. “Four soldiers are retreating across the bridge. There’s a roadblock on the other side. Give me your FAMAS.” Williams handed him his assault rifle. The colonel knelt in a shooting position and laid the FAMAS across the top of the dike to steady his aim. “The ‘Bulge’ is much more accurate than the AK.” He squeezed off three carefully aimed rounds and waited.

  “They’re still moving,” Williams said.

  “The angle is bad and I can’t see them,” Vermullen said. “I’m aiming at the roadblock.” He fired another three rounds. This time the men at the roadblock reacted to the incoming rounds and sprayed the dark running images on the bridge with gunfire, killing them. “Much better,” Vermullen allowed.

  “What now?” Williams asked.

  The Colonel shook his head in frustration. He had to explain everything to the American. “Most of the SA are on this side of the bridge, which is where we want to keep them. Unfortunately, the SA also control the bridge from the other side, so we do what we came for. We blow the bridge.”

  ~~~

  The four heavily loaded trucks rattled to a stop behind the two waiting C-130s. The original plan had called for them to simply drive on board with their loads. But Captain Bouchard had radioed for them to return. Allston’s eyes narrowed as he ran the numbers. How much time did they have left? He checked his watch and made the decision. “Off load,” he ordered. “The trucks go back.” The legionnaires tore into the packed trucks, pushing and dropping the crates out the tailgate as the trucks inched forward. The trucks were offloaded and headed back in less than three minutes. “MacRay,” Allston called. “Load Bard’s Herk first.” The loadmaster directed the legionnaires to carry the crates littering the ground onto Green’s C-130. They ran up the ramp as the two loadmasters spread the load down the center of the cargo deck, keeping the aircraft’s center of gravity within fore and aft limits.

  Allston climbed back onto the flight deck of his C-130. “Any word from Vermullen?” he asked. His copilot shook his head then pointed to the east. The darkness on the far horizon was yielding to the new day.

  ~~~

  Williams lifted the flap of the canvas bag and shook his head. “I’ve never seen one of these before.” It was an explosive charge with a remote control detonator.

  Vermullen pointed to the detonator fuse box. “It is very simple. Turn this dial to the arm position, lift this guard and throw the switch. Then press this button. Once you have pressed the button, do not touch it. It has an anti-tamper device and too much movement will detonate it.”

  “What’s too much movement?” Williams asked. Vermullen answered with a shrug. “Okay,” Williams said, picking up the two explosive packs by their shoulder straps. “So where do I place them?”

  Vermullen scanned the bridge with his NVGs. “We need to drop the center span. Fix a charge to the pier on each end.”

  “Colonel, those piers are in the water. You ever hear of crocodiles?”

  “It’s the dry season. I doubt if the water is knee deep.”

  Williams was even less convinced. “It’s pretty open out there. What happens if they see me and start shooting?”

  “I’ll convince them it’s a bad idea. Go.”

  “Should’ve listened to my momma,” Williams grumbled. He took a deep breath and rolled over the dike where they were hiding and scampered for the bridge. He reached the concrete embankment and caught his breath, not believing his luck. Then he was moving again, into the riverbed.

  Vermullen shifted his position thirty yards up stream to a better vantage point. Thanks to his NVGs, he could make out Williams as he made his way under the bridge. He swept the area in front of Williams. “Bastards,” he muttered. Two soldiers on the opposite side of the river were making their way towards Williams. For a moment, he lost them. They are good, he thought. He fitted a silencer to the muzzle of his FAMAS and adjusted its night scope before lifting his NVGs. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the scope. “Merde,” he whispered. Williams had waded out to the first pier and was strapping a charge to it. He methodically set the detonator, totally unaware of the two men stalking him from the far bank. Vermullen aimed and squeezed off a single round. Thanks to the silencer, the muzzle blast sounded like a loud sneeze. The man closest to Williams keeled over and screamed as Vermullen fired again. Williams looked up at the sound in time to see the second soldier go down. He turned towards Vermullen and gave hi
m a thumbs up.

  Williams swam to the next pier and quickly attached the second charge just above the water line. He activated the detonator and swam back. Just as he waded ashore, gunfire from the far bank drove him to the ground. Vermullen returned fire. Now the gunfire concentrated on him as he hunkered down. The clatter of a 12.7mm heavy machine gun opened up, zeroing in on his position, and blowing huge gaps in the dike. Vermullen crawled for safety, dragging the equipment bag. The gunner kept hammering at the dike, methodically forcing Vermullen away. Out of ideas, and lacking any place to go, Vermullen pulled the remote detonator off his belt, lifted the guard cover, and pressed the detonate button.

  ~~~

  The sound of distant gunfire echoed over the parked C-130s. Allston stood under a wing and strained to locate the source, but he was getting an echo effect from the big aircraft. He moved away, towards Mercier who was standing in the open. Now the sound was crisper. “It is coming from that direction,” Mercier said, pointing to the south and the bridge. “Maybe two kilometers.” The heavy rattle of a machine gun added to the growing din. “Large caliber,” the Frenchman added.

  “Is it ours?” Allston asked. Mercier shook his head. Allston made a decision. “Recall. It’s time to get the hell out of Dodge. Call everyone in.” Mercier spoke into his radio and repeated the code word three times. Bouchard at the weapons storage area acknowledged as the legionnaires holding the airfield pulled in. Within minutes, they had re-established perimeter security around the parked aircraft. Allston turned to climb back on board when he heard a heavy explosion. He turned in time to see a red glow die down. “What do you think?” he asked Mercier.

  “It’s the bridge. The Colonel is at work.”

  “But we can’t be sure,” Allston added.

  “No. We cannot.”

  Now they heard the laboring sound of the first truck returning from the storage area. “Get it loaded,” Allston ordered. The second truck was right behind it, also fully loaded. “What in the hell did they find?” Allston wondered. He checked the time. “Sunrise in ten minutes.”