~~~
A heavy dust cloud from the explosion rolled over Vermullen. He buried his head in his arms until it settled. He raised his head and squinted into the settling dust. A soldier on the far bank was clearing away rubble in front of the roadblock and he could see the muzzle of the machine gun. Vermullen pulled the RPG-7 out of the equipment bag and laid it across the top of the dike. He had never fired one before but it was simplicity itself. He carefully sighted and squeezed the trigger. It was a hard pull. The first stage of the rocket ignited and it streaked for the roadblock. The rocket homed with deadly accuracy and the roadblock disappeared in a fiery explosion. He was surprised to see four men crawl out of the debris, dragging the machine gun. But its barrel had a decided bend and it was out of action.
Williams rolled over and came to his knees, surprised that he was still alive. He shook the dust off and looked at the bridge. It was still standing. “You mutha fucker!” he shouted, surprised that he couldn’t hear his own words. Again, he shook his head, trying to clear his ears. Nothing. A big hand clamped down on his shoulder. His head came up and he was looking at Vermullen. The colonel’s mouth was forming words but nothing was coming out. “I can’t hear,” Williams said. Vermullen picked him up and set him on his feet.
Two army trucks on their side of the river drove up to the bridge and stopped. An officer got out and studied the bridge in front of him. He issued a command and the first truck moved slowly forward, onto the bridge. Vermullen pushed Williams towards the main channel. He made a swimming motion and waded in, still carrying his FAMAS and a bandolier with hand grenades. “Don’t you believe in crocodiles?” Williams yelled. He added a respectful “Colonel.” Vermullen was now swimming. “Momma, you warned me,” Williams muttered, plunging into the water. Adrenaline pumped through Williams and he swam like a madman, quickly reaching the shore where Vermullen was waiting. “What now?” His words were drowned out as the center span of the bridge collapsed under the weight of the truck.
Vermullen slapped a fresh magazine into his FAMAS, charged a round, and handed Williams the bandolier with the grenades. “Run!”
~~~
The legionnaires tore into the trucks, manhandling the heavy crates and running them onto the C-130s. Most of the crates required two men to carry, and the loadmasters estimated their weight as they came up the ramp, keeping the weight evenly distributed. The last two trucks pulled into the parking area, closely followed by Captain Bouchard’s raiding party. The men were exhausted from the long run but they pitched in, offloading the trucks. The props started to turn, adding dust and even more noise to the seeming confusion. When the last crate was onboard, the French officers did a head count, ensuring all were accounted for. Mercier climbed onto the flight deck and told Allston everyone except the perimeter guards were onboard.
Allston keyed the radio. “Bard, go.” He watched as the C-130 taxied onto the runway and took off in the rapidly growing light. Allston turned to Mercier. “Call the perimeter guards in.”
~~~
Vermullen scrambled over the top of the riverbank, less than twenty yards from the destroyed roadblock. But the men in it were far from dead and started shooting. Vermullen swung his FAMAS around, emptying a clip into the pile of debris and sandbags. Williams was right behind him and lobbed a hand grenade over their heads in the general direction. It fell short and rolled back towards them. They both fell to the ground as the grenade rolled into a slight depression. The concussion was deafening, but the wrinkle in the dirt was enough to direct the explosion over their heads. Vermullen pulled Williams to his feet. “Go!” the colonel yelled as a Sudanese soldier stood, dazed and confused.
“You muthas!” Williams yelled as he lobbed a second grenade. This time, it reached the roadblock. Again, the two men fell to the ground as the grenade exploded with deadly effect, killing or wounding the four men hiding in the rubble. Now gunfire from the opposite side of the river split the air. The two men scrambled forward, getting a little cover from the roadblock. Vermullen came to his feet and ran. Williams was right behind him. “Shit!” Williams roared. In the rapidly increasing light, a C-130 was climbing out to the north, its tail to them.
“Faster!” Vermullen yelled, putting on a fresh burst of speed.
~~~
Allston released the brakes and taxied forward, turning onto the runway as the sun broke the eastern horizon. His eyes followed Bard Green’s C-130 as it climbed into the clear sky. He set the brakes and waited. “MacRay, you ready?” he asked over the intercom.
“Gimme two or three minutes to get everything tied down,” the loadmaster answered.
“You got it. Get shooters on the ramp to clear our six.”
“Will do,” MacRay replied. The copilot raised the ramp at the rear but kept the door in the up position. “Two shooters on the ramp,” MacRay said. He went back to work, securing the load. Then, “All secure in the rear. We’re good to go.” Allston ran the engines up and released the brakes. Even with the forty men in the rear and the load of weapons and ammunition, the Hercules accelerated smartly. Allston pulled the yoke back and they came unglued. “Colonel!” MacRay shouted over the intercom. “Mutt and Jeff in sight.”
“It’s gotta be them,” Riley said.
Allston agreed. “Where are they?”
“Running down the runway,” MacRay replied.
“Hold on,” Allston ordered. He climbed to 150 feet and banked sharply to the left, circling back around. “Short field landing,” he said. “MacRay, the moment we land, get shooters in the jump doors and on the ramp.”
“Will do.”
Allston flew a short downwind and located the two men on the runway. They were stopped and looking in his direction. “Keep going,” he urged, wanting them at least a thousand feet further on. But they were exhausted from the long run from the bridge. Allston climbed to 300 feet and circled to land. He touched down on the first fifty feet of the runway, slammed the nose down, and raked the throttles aft and over the detent, throwing the props into reverse. The airspeed indicator needle descended through fifty knots as they passed Vermullen and Williams.
“It’s them!” the copilot shouted.
“We’re taking fire!” MacRay shouted. “Six o’clock,”
“Hose the livin’ shit out of ’em,” Allston said, his voice amazingly calm. He left the props in reverse and backed down the runway, into the gunfire, as the shooters in the rear opened fire. The din was horrific as every legionnaire who could get to the ramp helped lay down suppressive fire. The smell of cordite flooded the flight deck.
“Stop!” the copilot shouted. He saw Vermullen lying on the ground but no Williams. Allston stomped on the brakes and moved the throttles forward, bringing the props out of reverse. The nose of the Hercules lifted high into the air as the rear skid hit the ground. The nose banged down. Vermullen was up and running. Much to their surprise, Williams was right behind. The Frenchman had covered Williams’s body with his, giving him what little protection he could from the hostile gunfire. Allston stomped on the brakes and ran the engines up as the legionnaires kept firing.
Vermullen was the first to reach the rear parachute door of the C-130. He grabbed Williams and pitched him on board. Willing hands grabbed the colonel and pulled him through the open door. “We got ’em!” MacRay shouted. “Go! Go! Go!”
Allston released the brakes and the Hercules surged forward. The gunfire in the rear slowly trickled off and stopped as they rotated, climbing into the bright clear morning. Allston leveled off at fifty feet and cleaned up the aircraft, flying low and leaving the threat behind. “All secure in the rear,” MacRay announced.
“Check for battle damage,” Allston said. The copilot and flight engineer checked their instruments and systems.
“A-okay,” the flight engineer announced.
“A-okay,” the copilot repeated.
“We got holes in the ramp,” MacRay said.
Allston reduced power and climbed to a thousand feet.
“Controllability check,” he ordered as he gently cycled the controls to see how the Hercules responded. They were lucky that a round had not nicked a propeller blade. “It looks good,” he announced.
“We might want to take it easy,” Riley said. “Just in case.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Allston said. “MacRay, have the good colonel come forward whenever it’s convenient.”
“Will do, as soon as his men stop hugging him and kissing him on the cheek.”
“That’s the French,” Allston replied. A smiling Vermullen climbed onto the flight deck. Allston turned around in his seat. “Well, Colonel, that was a piece of cake.”
“Indeed it was, mon ami.”
SEVENTEEN
E-Ring
The click of Richards’ high heels echoed down the quiet and almost deserted corridor announcing her presence. She liked late Saturday afternoons in the Pentagon as it gave her chance to savor the building for itself and all that it meant. The aura of contained power that was part of the walls rejuvenated her, filling her with a sense of purpose and resolve. She was surprised that the doors to Fitzgerald’s offices were open and he was alone. He waved her to a seat. “Have you read the latest OpRep?” he asked, assuming that was why she was in his office.
He assumed right. “Yes, sir, I have. We have a problem.”
“Which is?”
The brigadier pitched her voice to match the seriousness of the situation. “The raid on Bentiu was not authorized — not by the UN, not by the NMCC, nor by AFRICOM. We definitely have a loose cannon on our hands.”
“Any reaction from the other side of the River?” In Pentagon-speak, the ‘other side of the River’ meant Congress and the White House. Supposedly, the Office of Military-Political Affairs was created to facilitate communications between the two sides of the river but Richards had leveraged her office into policy role. While Fitzgerald didn’t like that arrangement, it was one beyond his control. But Richards was not.
“I received a query from the Speaker’s office,” she replied. The ‘Speaker’ was the Speaker of the House and Richards’ sponsor. “I related what I knew and said I would get back to them.” She anticipated Fitzgerald’s next question and hastened to add, “I confined my answer to what is in the OpRep.” It was a blatant lie but there was no way he would ever learn of the private conversation she and the Speaker had the night before.
Fitzgerald nodded in approval. “We should have a better handle on what went down by Monday.”
“General, my sources are telling me that the Speaker will talk about the Bentiu raid on Meet the Press Sunday morning. Apparently, it’s the hot topic of the day and he’s promising that heads will roll in the Pentagon.”
Again, Fitzgerald nodded, masking his reaction. “Get back to them and confirm they know all we know. Make sure they understand there are still many unknowns and that we’ll forward any new information the moment we receive it. Stay on top of this. You may have to burn some midnight oil but I don’t want our political masters claiming we blindsided them.” The meeting was over. “Thanks for coming in.”
Richards stood. “It’s my job, sir.”
Fitzgerald leaned back in his chair and watched her leave. He folded his fingers and rubbed his chin with his thumbs. He wasn’t a happy man. His Air Force was caught in a no-win situation because his political masters on the other side of the River wanted to cuddle up to the UN, and the diplomats in the State Department had convinced the President that placing the 4440th under the operational control of the UN Peacekeeping Mission was critical in stroking the UN’s fragile ego. However, the end result was that the 4440th was caught in a no-man’s land, vulnerable to the marauding Janjaweed and hamstrung by a corrupt UN relief mission. He also suspected Richards was kicking the 4440th around like a political football to curry favor with the Speaker. He hoped to solve that problem by Monday evening.
He turned to the computer screen and keyboard on the right side of his desk. He called up his secure line and sent Richards a memo recapping all they had discussed. Satisfied that he had covered his backside, he composed another message to Allston, this one much longer.
Mission Awana
It was late Sunday afternoon before Allston finally returned to his office and had a chance to check his e-mail. He snorted when he read Fitzgerald’s message. “The games we play,” he muttered to himself. He hit the secure delete and consigned the message to electronic oblivion.
“What games?” Dick Lane asked. Allston looked up to see his Ops Officer standing in the doorway.
“I just got a magic-gram from Merlin. He’s playing Puzzle Palace games over Bentiu and needs more info.”
Lane was perplexed. “We covered Bentiu in detail in the OpRep; the time line, personnel and aircraft involved, exactly what weapons we recovered, even burning the town down.”
“I know,” Allston said. “You did good work getting that out. Specifically, Merlin needs a copy of this.” He handed Lane a single page document. “I can’t make the damn scanner work.”
“Not a problem.” Lane glanced at the document and looked at Allston, his eyes wide. “I hadn’t seen this. Sum-bitch.” He showed Allston how to scan the single page and encrypt it for transmission.
“Our masters in Addis Ababa laid this on me the second day I was here,” Allston explained. “It’s our get-out-of-jail-free card.” He changed the subject. “How’s it going with Sixty Minutes?” Thanks to Tara, they had made the world news and CBS had sent a film crew and a reporter to interview the actress for the Sunday news show. Allston had detailed Lane to take care of the film crew while he and Vermullen dealt with the Bentiu operation. The major had done a good job but Allston sensed Jill would have done it better. He wanted her back, the sooner the better.
“Tara has them eating out of her hand,” Lane answered, “and they can’t get enough of Toby. Sixty Minutes is running a special Sunday afternoon, New York time, devoted to the Sudan. The producer wants to end the show by doing a segment from here. They’re going to broadcast Toby’s evening church service live,” he checked his watch, “which starts in an hour. Tara asked for you to be there.”
“Do I have to?”
“It might be a good idea, Boss.” Allston nodded. Tara had pulled some powerful strings to make it happen and he owed her. “Good call,” Lane said.
Air House, Fort Myer, Maryland
It was a rare Sunday for the Air Force Chief of Staff. He was kicked back in his den and enjoying the basketball games on TV. His wife had not seen him so relaxed in weeks and protected the moment, determined to make it last. She was used to him watching two games at once but was surprised that he also kept replaying the clip from the early Sunday morning Meet the Press talk show. In her estimation, it had been a disaster for the Air Force but he wasn’t upset in the least. The TV program had triggered a conference telephone call with the Secretary of Defense and General Misner, and he had replied with calm and reassuring words. “No need to disturb the President prematurely on this,” he counseled. “We’ll sort it out in the morning in the situation room. The President can decide then how he wants to respond after he’s seen all the facts.”
Frustrated, his wife waited until commercials were playing and asked him a direct question, wondering why he was taking it all so calmly. Fitzgerald only smiled as his fingers played on the remote control and the clip from Meet the Press replayed. The Speaker of the House was responding to a question about the raid by the UN peacekeepers on the town of Bentiu in the Sudan. “As you know,” the urbane and handsome politician said, “we are in the Sudan to support the UN Relief and Peacekeeping Mission. The raid on Bentiu by the 4440th was not authorized. Not by our National Military Command Center, not by AFRICOM, nor, according to my sources, by anyone in the UN. It appears we have a loose cannon on our hands.”
The general pounded the arm of his chair, which was much closer to his normal self. “I know where that came from!” He let the clip play out.
“I intend
to get to the bottom of this,” the Speaker continued. “I assure you, the right questions will be asked, and” — Fitzgerald joined with him in chorus — “heads will roll in the Pentagon.”
Fitzgerald gave his wife a hungry look. “He’s not going to like the answers.”
“But you will,” she replied.
“One can always hope.”
She wasn’t convinced. “Some idiot will screw it up.”
“Not to worry.” He reached for the remote. “Isn’t it time for that Sixty Minutes special?” He touched her hand and changed channels.
Most of the program had been pre-recorded at Mission Awana, and played exactly as he had been briefed. The TV reporter started by recapping the genocide and violence in the Sudan with scenes of destroyed villages and wounded Africans. He then introduced Tara as a one-woman tour de force, forcing the world to take note of the ongoing tragedy. She led him on a walking tour of the mission leading to the hospital where Toby was tending patients. “This is the largest and most successful hospital in this part of Africa,” Tara explained. After a tour of the wards, Tara led the reporter to the runway where a C-130 was landing. They watched as it taxied in and discharged 128 refugees.
“In the last forty-eight hours,” she explained, “the Irregulars of the 4440th have flown over a thousand refugees to safety here. Their aircraft is the venerable C-130 Hercules, the workhorse that has served the Air Force for over fifty years.” She handed her bush hat to the reporter. “The men and women of the 4440th wear these hats with pride. For them, it is the symbol of what they do.” The reporter asked her what they did with the refugees and she continued on the tour, showing him the large camp outside the mission where the refugees were housed and fed. “As soon as we can,” Tara explained, “we transport them to refugee camps in the south where they are safe. But it’s a slow process.”
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