~~~
Allston inched the Porter down another ten feet and skimmed the ground as they flew towards the river. He pulled up to clear a low tree and bright flames from a burning tank washed out his NVGs. Allston snapped them up as his eyes adjusted to the night. He inched the Porter back down and chanced a look towards the burning tank. A line of tracers cut the night and he followed them back to a moving shadow — another tank. “Tallyho the fox!” he called. “Time to rock and roll. Williams, you ready?”
A simple “Yeah” answered him.
Allston climbed a hundred feet and set up a left pylon turn. Williams fired two seconds later. Allston dove as the missile streaked towards the tank. The tank fireballed.
Below him, Vermullen’s missile cut through the night and another tank exploded in flames. “Someone down there can shoot,” Allston shouted. “Oh, shit!” He counted seven more moving tanks in the burning light. “We’re engaged.” He pulled back on the stick and the Porter climbed steeply. He immediately leveled off and set up a left pylon turn around the lead tank. Two lines of tracers reached up and bracketed the slow moving Porter. Williams fired.
~~~
Vermullen reloaded and sighted the Shipon on the lead tank. He depressed the fire lever to the first detent. The sound of the Porter’s turboprop engine stopped him and he released the lever, not firing his last missile. The flash of a missile launching lighted the Porter as the missile homed on the tank. Vermullen grunted as the tank disappeared in a bright flash and a thunderous explosion. Flames reached into the night sky and smoke rolled over the other tanks, obscuring them. The air cleared and he saw a burning hulk where four men had lived and breathed moments before. The turret was upside down thirty yards away with its 100mm rifled gun skewered into the ground, canting the turret in an upward angle. The searchlight mounted on the turret was still on, casting a bright light on another tank moving towards him. Not believing his luck, Vermullen quickly sighted on the tank. He depressed the fire lever. The sight stabilized and he mashed the lever. Again, the missile tracked true as more machine gun fire ripped into his DFP. He hunkered down as the tank erupted in a double explosion, deafening him. It was his last missile and Vermullen dropped the tube. He picked up his FAMAS and came to his feet in one fluid motion.
A tank was advancing directly towards him with a squad of soldiers following close behind. He laid a fresh magazine on the sandbag beside him and hummed a refrain from an old song. “Non je ne regrette rien,”
~~~
Allston reacted instinctively without thinking, the product of years of training and experience. He had a mental image of the battle around him that few men ever achieve in combat. It was reality, focused and fine tuned, and made the difference between life and death. He was skimming the ground at 130 knots, a snail’s pace by his normal standards. But he was so low that the advancing tanks could not bring their weapons to bear. He turned towards them and overflew Vermullen’s DFP. “Lock and load,” he shouted at Williams. “We’re engaged.” Again, he ballooned the Porter into a left pylon turn, and two seconds later, Williams fired a missile. Submachine gun fire raked the side of the Porter as Allston dove for the ground.
~~~
Vermullen thumbed the FAMAS to single-shot and fired as Williams’ missile hit the tank. The soldiers firing at him disappeared in the tank’s fireball. Vermullen kept firing, methodically killing the soldiers around the second tank coming at him.
~~~
Allston flicked on his instrument lights to check for damage. In less than a second, he had scanned the instruments and turned the lights off. Everything was working as advertised. At the same time, he detected movement on the ground in his peripheral vision. He jinked the Porter hard, its wing tips almost hitting the low scrub below him, as he turned into the movement. A tank was less than a hundred yards away from Vermullen’s position. “Tank in sight,” he told Williams. They had three more missiles and he intended to use them. “Ready.”
A very weak “Ready” answered him.
“We’re engaged.” Again, he jinked hard as he turned into the tank. An inner voice warned him that the soldiers knew how he attacked, always turning to the left in a low pylon turn. “No turn this time,” he shouted. “Nail him as fast as you can.” There was no answer as he closed on the tank.
At four hundred meters, Allston lifted the Porter up to fifty feet and banked hard to his right, turning his tail to the tank. He stomped on the left rudder pedal and yawed the nose to the left as he played with the ailerons and power. The agile Porter skidded sideways, tracking away from the tank. He looked to his left and could see the tank at their eight o’clock position. “Fire!” he yelled. He was answered when the blowback from the missile shot out the right side of the cargo compartment. Allston did a hard reverse and looked to his right in time to see the tank disappear in a bright flash. The concussion rocked the Porter, and an eerie light revealed a scene of death and destruction. He jinked back to his left and his eyes swept the battlefield. The mental picture he held in his mind matched what he saw on the ground. Six tanks were burning in the night. The closest one was less than fifty yards from Vermullen’s foxhole. The four remaining tanks were retreating to the river, leaving the infantrymen behind. “You got ’em,” he shouted at Williams.
“Boss, I’m hurt,” Williams said. Allston could barely hear him and he twisted around. Williams was slumped forward over the launcher as blood spread across the cargo deck. Allston headed for the mission.
~~~
Vermullen jammed a fresh clip into his FAMAS and squeezed off a single round. His face was impassive as he picked off one man after another as they retreated. It was all in a day’s work. Smoke from the destroyed tank nearest him rolled across the terrain, blocking his aim. He rolled out of his foxhole and ran towards the burning tank, using the smoke as cover. He skirted the tank in time to see three soldiers running for the river, their backs to him. He thumbed the FAMAS to full automatic and cut them down as he ran. Ahead, he saw a single soldier. Vermullen snapped his short bayonet onto the barrel as he chased the man down. In his panic, the soldier never saw nor heard the killing machine that ran over him, driving the bayonet deep into his back. Vermullen stopped to wrench the bayonet free. A sixth sense tingled in his subconscious and he fell to the ground behind the dying soldier. A long burst of submachine gun fire cut into the soldier’s body. Vermullen squinted into the dark, finding the shooter. He lay motionless in the dark, his eyes locked on his target. His right hand moved slightly as he keyed his tactical radio. All jamming had stopped and the listening posts along the river reported in. The tanks were in the water and swimming for safety. “Do not let the stragglers escape,” he ordered.
Smoke rolled over him as he came to his feet and moved forward, stalking the man who had shot at him moments before.
~~~
Allston circled the mission looking for a place to land. He picked the road leading to the hospital and flicked on the Porter’s landing lights. He buzzed the road to clear off the two vehicles and the two dozen or so people heading for the hospital. He circled to land and stalled the aircraft just as he touched down. He stomped on the brakes, dragging the Porter to a halt in 250 feet. He had to swerve past a truck at the last minute and stopped outside the hospital. He shut the engine down and jumped out, pulling the unconscious Williams out of the cargo compartment. He carried him up the steps and into the waiting arms of a nurse and an orderly.
It was triage in the rough and the nurse quickly checked Williams’ breathing as the orderly applied pressure to the wound, slowing the flow of blood. She probed the gaping wound on his left side and made a decision. “He’s next. Take him inside.” She shined a flashlight on Allston, studying his face. “Your sergeant is a very lucky man,” she said. “You’re dehydrated. Drink some water.” She pointed to an old woman sitting on the veranda and tending a box filled with a hodgepodge of plastic water bottles. Then she was gone.
The woman handed Allston a water bottl
e and he sat on the hospital steps. He drained the bottle. The eastern horizon glowed with the first light of the new day. Heavy smoke from two burning buildings billowed past as Beck trudged towards him carrying Bouchard in a fireman’s carry across his shoulders. He was fatigued to the point of collapse and his steps were faltering. Allston rushed down to help him. “Wounded man!” Allston called. “We need help here.” The nurse was there with her orderly. She quickly examined the French officer, impressed with the way Beck had dressed his wounds.
“You, my gorgeous man,” she said to Bouchard, “are going to live, but you must wait for now.”
“Can I help?” Allston asked.
“Keep him company,” the nurse replied. She turned to the next arrivals. It was Malone and Ford with the wounded Dinka teenager. Again, the nurse performed triage. She shook her head and told Malone to take him to the far side of the veranda. “Did you get the armored car?” Allston asked.
“There were two,” Malone answered. “We got ’em.” He touched the teenager. “Thanks to him.” He carried the dying boy to an open spot on the porch.
Allston sat beside Bouchard as the artillery rounds tapered off and stopped. A constant flow of wounded were streaming into the hospital. Bouchard’s eyes blinked. He was conscious. “What happened?” Allston asked.
Bouchard’s voice was barely audible. “It started with two BTRs probing for a weak spot. We let them go by to lure the others into range.” That explained the two BTRs on the road that Malone destroyed. “There were twelve more BTRs. They were no match for our Shipons. It was a turkey shoot. Then a squadron of tanks waded across supported by infantry. Their officers are idiots and they are not very good but their men are very brave. I was wounded and not sure what happened after that. When Beck found me, I knew Colonel Vermullen was there.”
“We stopped them,” Allston said.
“C’est bon,” Bouchard answered. He looked at Allston, a half smile on his lips. “My wife’s name is Clarice. Please tell her that I love her more than life itself but I had to follow… “
“You can tell her yourself,” Allston said softly. But he was speaking to a lifeless body. Shaken, he walked to the edge of the veranda. He made no attempt to wipe away the tears streaming down his cheeks.
A giant of a man walked out of the smoke drifting through the compound. Behind him, the first light of dawn cast long shadows, partially hiding and then revealing his gaunt face. Dust and smoke swirled around his feet as he walked towards the hospital, his long strides measured and steady. Two legionnaires followed him at a respectful distance, and even the irrepressible children moved aside and did not walk beside him, imitating his bold stride. Allston watched as the man climbed the steps and did not recognize Pierre Vermullen, the man he called “friend.” The American shook his head to clear the cobwebs and saw the man he knew. Yet he didn’t know him at all. Vermullen’s only allegiance was to the Legion and his men, not to a belief or his country, and for them he would willingly sacrifice his life. Then Allston understood. He was looking at an incarnation of the ancient warrior, the mythical figure who emerges from the mists of time and only lives for combat. And, for a split second, he was looking in a mirror.
“Is this all I am?” he wondered aloud.
TWENTY-FIVE
The Capitol, Washington D.C.
Richards took a deep breath as the door closed behind her. She was standing in a small anteroom off the main committee hearing room, the private preserve of the congressional elite, an inner sanctum where political deals had been cut for generations, careers made and broken, and love affairs consummated. It was a political holy of holies. The door opened and the Speaker of the House marched in followed by his ever-present personal aide. The Speaker was tall, lean, and erect with a mane of salt and pepper hair. His blue eyes sparkled with a rare intelligence, and at sixty-four, he was considered one of the most handsome men in Washington. “Yvonne,” he called, his voice rich and commanding. “Thank you for coming.”
She laughed. “Did I have a choice?” They embraced.
“You always have a choice, m’dear.” His voice changed as he turned to business. “I’ve scheduled you for last on the agenda, after Fitzgerald and Misner testify. Your job is to drive a spike into the bastards’ hearts.”
“I can do that,” she promised.
He nodded slowly, his eyes closed. Her words were music to his ears. “Thank you, m’dear. We must get together for dinner.” He squeezed her hand, the promise of things to come. He spoke quietly to his aide and bolted out the door, surprisingly quick and light on his feet.
The aide opened her planner and called up the Speaker’s schedule. “Would tomorrow night be acceptable?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You will be traveling with the Speaker on his private jet, so pack an overnight bag. May I suggest a simple black dress with high-heeled pumps? The Speaker likes stiletto heels. A short black negligee with a low back is preferred.”
“Yes, of course,” she stammered.
“Excellent,” the aide replied. “I’ll send a car at six-thirty. Please be ready.” She snapped her planner closed and followed the Speaker.
Richards was stunned, not believing what had just happened. She had been rendered like meat on the hoof. She had been in the Air Force twenty-two years and hit on many times, but not once subject to sexual harassment or treated like a commodity plucked off a shelf. She forced her breathing to slow and forced it out of her mind. The Speaker’s voice came over a small speaker on a small and exquisite antique Chippendale writing desk in the corner. She sat in the elegant chair and listened. His voice filled the anteroom as he called the hearing to order and announced they were in closed session. She fully expected the intercom to go dead but she could still hear every word. In Washington, information was the currency of power and not to be denied to the inner circle of players who had access to the anteroom. But she was not a member of that group, which meant the Speaker was paying her, in advance, for services rendered. A raging anger swept over her.
She listened as Fitzgerald was sworn in and answered the committee’s questions. She gave him high marks for his direct and complete answers. Never once did he spin his relationship with Allston and readily admitted he was in daily contact with the 4440th. When asked why, his answer impressed her. “While the command and control of the detachment was given to the United Nations peacekeeping mission, the welfare of our people remained with the Air Force. However, there is no command protocol in place to deal with this situation, which is why I became personally involved. I was, and remain, committed to the safety of our men and women. This committee has seen the spread of violence in southern Sudan, which is why I ordered the 4440th to pull back.”
General Harold Misner, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, testified next. After the standard formalities, he unloaded on the committee. “I cannot express my concern over this new policy of placing our men and women under the United Nations without an American general officer heading the chain of command. I believe it is a sure formula for disaster.” The committee erupted in bitter accusations and the Speaker was barely able to control the committee until Misner was excused.
The vice chairman of the committee, one of the Speaker’s implacable political enemies, called for a surprise witness, Tara Scott. Again, the committee room raged with debate. Finally, the Speaker gave in and allowed the actress to be called. The room fell silent as Tara entered and was sworn in. She concluded her opening statement with, “I would remind you that our Peacekeepers have saved over 26,000 men, women, and children from certain genocide in the Sudan. I was there when they were attacked by Janjaweed militia and had to fight for their lives. I know the price the men and women of the 4440th have paid.”
Civility prevailed as the committee questioned her. Upset at the turn of events, the Speaker tried a diversionary tactic. “But the commander of the peacekeepers, Lieutenant Colonel Allston, has been accused of war crimes. Specifically, torturing prisoners.”
“That
accusation is based on a video my cameraman shot at night,” Tara replied. “It was recorded at a great distance, during the attack. I know all of you have seen it, but what you did not see was Lieutenant Colonel Allston’s reaction. Nor did you see the savagery of the attack by the Janjaweed. If I may, I would like to show the committee the unedited video.” The intercom was silent as the video played and Richards flinched when she heard gasps come from the committee. Then it was over. “This video will be part of a special program that I am hosting tonight on CNC-TV. For the first time, the American public will see exactly what it means to be a peacekeeper in that ravaged part of the world.” Every man and women in the room ran for political cover. The actress had a cause and the attention of the media. Before she could do further damage, the Speaker excused her.
Richards pulled into herself, and calculated her next move. Tara Scott had changed the political landscape. The door opened and a teenage page, a pretty sixteen-year-old girl, held the door for Fitzgerald. “Please wait in here,” the girl said. “General Richards, the committee has requested your presence.”
Richards nodded at Fitzgerald as she followed the page into the committee room. She took her place at the witness table. Her heart beat fast knowing that Fitzgerald was listening to every word. The Speaker smiled knowingly at her.
Mission Awana
Beck fought the battered Land Rover he had appropriated from the mission to a stop at the side of the airstrip’s parking apron. Allston and Vermullen climbed out in time to see the C-17 turn final. “A most welcome sight,” Vermullen said.
“And a total surprise,” Allston added. He keyed his handheld UHF radio and called the big cargo plane. “Dumbo, be advised we are experiencing sporadic artillery fire. Exercise minimum time on the ground.”
The Peacemakers Page 32