Richard Herman - The Peacemakers

Vermullen peered into the early morning dark, trying to make sense out of the attack coming at him. Judging by the gunfire and mortar rounds the Sudanese were throwing at them, they were softening up the left for a flanking maneuver. Jamming had made the Legion’s tactical radios useless but he knew where his men were posted and could rely on them to operate independently. He mentally calculated how long the sixty legionnaires he had deployed on that section of Charlie Ring could hold out. He had trained them and knew what they could do, and Claymores and Shipons did make a big difference. The Sudanese might break through, if they were willing to pay the price. Beck piled into the DFP beside him, and loudly sucked air, catching his breath.

“Getting too old for this, Hans?” The private didn’t answer. “Everyone is briefed?” A nod answered him. Each fire team had been briefed on how Vermullen expected the attack to develop. He was certain the Sudanese would concentrate their attack on one part of Charlie Ring rather than a broad frontal assault. His plan called for that section to pull back and let the Sudanese move forward to present a flank to the other legionnaires.

Beck removed his NVGs and peered into the early-morning dark as the distinctive mix of diesel engines and clanking tracks grew louder. “Tanks,” he said. “Coming at us.” A missile from their right streaked through the night and a tank exploded. Another tank pushed around it, its turret-mounted machine gun firing. The tank commander’s head was barely visible above the open hatch as he directed the driver. Vermullen raised his FAMAS and carefully aimed. He estimated the range at 125 meters and squeezed off a single shot. The top of the tank commander’s head disappeared in a red haze. “Nice shot, Colonel,” Beck said.

A red flare arced over them from their left. The Sudanese had broken through that side of Charlie Ring. Beck centered the Shipon’s crosshairs on the driver’s side of the tank charging at them and fired.

The Porter hugged the ground and popped over a low stand of trees. “It’s getting pretty rough back here,” Williams shouted as he held on for dear life in the open cargo compartment. Bright flashes off to their left confirmed they were flying over Charlie Ring and approaching the river. “The Legion is taking a beating down there,” Williams yelled.

Allston didn’t answer and concentrated on clearing the ground rushing by fifty feet below. He jerked the Porter to the right, barely missing a tree. Now he could make out the dense green vegetation that marked the marshland bordering the White Nile. Again, he darted around a tree, using it for cover. Below him, he made out the river’s main channel. Less than a mile ahead, a long line of trucks was stopped on the road paralleling the northern side of the river. He caught a glimpse of a tall mast with the distinctive antenna arrays that marked his target. A line of tracers reached up from the road. Instinctively, he loaded the Porter with a three- g turn and dropped to ten feet off the deck as a line of tracers cut the air above them. “Fuckin’ ZSUs!” he shouted, venting his anger. The 23mm, four-barreled ZSU-23-4 was an old, but very deadly anti-aircraft artillery that he wanted nothing to do with. But he was out of options and had to challenge the ZSU in order to get at the jammer. He circled to the north, trying to get behind the weapon. “Lock and load!”

“Ready.” Williams was still firmly strapped to the cargo deck and aiming the Shipon out the left side.

“We’re going after a APC with a radar antenna on top and four barrels sticking out the front. You gotta be quick on this one.” Allston firewalled the throttle and turned towards the road. He had lost sight of it but knew where it was. He displaced his heading thirty degrees to the right of the ZSU. A line of tracers cut back and forth in front of him as the gunner fired wildly, hearing the Porter’s turboprop but not able to find it in the dark. Allston’s eyes followed the tracers back to the ZSU. “Ready, ready,” he shouted at Williams. “Pull!” They were less than 200 yards from the ZSU when he pulled on the stick and popped to eighty feet above the ground, enough to set up a pylon turn. He turned to the left as ZSU’s radar found them and the line of tracers swung around. Williams fired.

Allston rolled out, wings level, as he bunted the stick forward. The agile Porter hit the ground and bounced, the big tires and landing gear struts absorbing the shock. The tracers cut above them. One round grazed the top of the Porter’s vertical stabilizer, taking off the top nine inches but not exploding. The ZSU fireballed as the Shipon found its target. Allston fought for control, finally leveling off at thirty feet. He turned towards the road. Ahead, he could barely make out the tall mast sticking out above the low scrub. “Ready?” he shouted.

“Reloading,” Williams yelled. It seemed an eternity as the mast loomed larger with each passing second. “Ready!” Williams shouted just as Allston put the stick over to turn away. He jerked the stick back, snapping three g s in the opposite direction. Williams let out a loud “Oomph!”

“We’re engaged,” Allston shouted. This time, he half turned and half skidded the Porter around, giving Williams the angle he needed. Williams fired and the missile tracked true. Allston turned away as the jammer disintegrated in flames and smoke. The concussion rocked the Porter, sending it out of control.

Vermullen fired a green starburst flare to signal his left flank to fall back. Beck reloaded the Shipon and lifted the launcher over the edge of the DFP in time to see two tanks coming right at them. “Which one?” he asked. Vermullen pointed to the one on the right. The private sighted and fired. The missile hugged the terrain as it homed on the doomed tank. Unfortunately, the rocket motor’s plume left a very visible path back to them for the other tank to follow. Both men rolled out the backside of the DFP as the tank disappeared in a fiery cloud of death and destruction. They scampered for the next DFP as the second tank’s cannon traversed towards them. Before it could fire, another missile reached out from their far right and found the seam between the tank’s turret and hull. The explosion blew the turret off. Overlapping fields of fire had saved the two men.

Vermullen rolled into the foxhole and came to his feet and scanned the battleground. At the same instant, his radio came alive. The jamming had stopped and his teams were reporting in. Their luck was holding and the Sudanese were not pressing the attack as the legionnaires on his left flank fell back onto Bravo Ring in good order. They weren’t dead yet.

The Porter’s left wing tip grazed the ground as Allston regained control. “You okay?” he shouted at Williams.

“Do they serve cocktails on this flight?” Williams asked. He was fine.

Allston circled back, looking for another tank. He saw the road and turned, crossing it on a southerly heading. He popped up and could see for over a mile. The river was dead ahead and burning tanks littered the ground on the far side. The legionnaires had given a good account of themselves. “Boss!” Williams roared. “Helicopters coming at us!” Again, situational awareness made the difference. Allston knew that Williams was looking out the left and he turned to the left, bringing the threat to the nose. Three Russian-built MI-24 attack helicopters were bearing down on them in a loose V formation.

“Oh shit!” Allston yelled. “Hinds!” The nimble 25,000-pound helicopter had a top speed of 205 MPH and an awesome array of weapons under its stubby wings. He wanted nothing to do with one, much less three. But they were headed straight for Mission Awana. “Hold on!” Years of training and experience paid dividends as he firewalled the throttle and pulled into the vertical. He never took his eyes off the helicopters as he rolled over the top inverted. Automatically, he checked their armaments and only saw rocket pods for ground attack under the short wings. The Hinds were not carrying air-to-air missiles, which only left the 12.7mm, four-barreled Gatling gun under the nose chin. It was an awesome weapon with a 4000 rounds per minute rate of fire. Fortunately, it only held 1470 rounds and was limited to a forward-looking cone of aimed fire. It was a ground attack weapon and the Hinds would have to turn into him to fire. He watched to see how they maneuvered. “Shit hot!” he roared. The pilots were turning after him in level turns to the left and not using the vertical. He marked that up to fear of the ground and poor training. In Allston’s very specialized world, it was their death warrant. The difference between a normal pilot and a fighter pilot kicked in and his fangs came out. “Lock and load a Stinger,” he shouted at Williams.