Richard Herman - The Peacemakers

The trick was to stay above the helicopters and keep their noses off him, which was no small feat. He shot out in front of the low-flying helicopters, which were 500 feet below him. The gunners tried to follow the Porter but their weapons hit the up stop at fifteen degrees of elevation. The lead Hind’s nose came up, finally bringing its machine gun to bear. Allston ballooned the Porter and immediately ruddered the Porter to his right, skidding away from the Hind. A line of tracers cut through the night well behind him. He circled back to the left, calculating the Hinds would keep turning. “Ready?” he called, his voice calm and controlled.

“Ready,” Williams answered.

Allston did a wingover and sliced into the Hinds. His timing and positioning were perfect. The helicopters were at their nine o’clock position at 500 yards with their tails to them. Williams fired. The Stinger is an incredibly fast missile and tracked true, homing on the exhaust of the tail-end Charlie. The helicopter fireballed and pitched forward. Allston pulled into the vertical, again using the cloud deck for cover. “Reload,” he ordered.

“This is the last one,” Williams told him. Then, “Ready.”

But where were the two Hinds? They were scattering the last time he had seen them, and were probably panicked by the fate of their comrade. But he knew where to look.

Vermullen had lost track of the battle. As best he could tell, his left flank was withdrawing to the minefield in good order, making the SA pay dearly for every foot of ground it gained. Far to his left, a pillar of flame shot skyward, again proving how lethal a Shipon was in the right hands. But what about his right flank? He hunkered down in the DFP and pressed the earpiece deeper into his ear, trying to make sense out of the radio calls. Slowly, a picture emerged. The tanks were concentrating their attack on his left and his right flank was falling apart as APCs and infantry opened up a corridor. “Colonel,” Beck said, gaining his attention. “A tank with infantry.” He laid the Shipon’s crosshairs on the tank. “This is the last one.” Vermullen chanced a glance as Beck fired their last missile. The missile barely had time to arm before it struck the tank’s carapace, easily penetrating the T-62’s seven inches of armor. The secondary charge detonated inside, shredding the four-man crew. An oxygen bottle cooked off, adding to the carnage.

Jill instinctively covered her ears as the Paladin raised its cannon to the near vertical and fired. The high angle indicated the target was very close and the projectile was arcing high into the air, trading range for altitude. She sank back against the sandbagged revetment and read the manual for the laser rangefinder/designator Corporal Rickert had given her. She picked up the small device and peered through the rangefinder. It was easy to use but surprisingly heavy at six pounds. She gingerly laid it in her lap as the Paladin fired again. Malone’s voice came over her radio. “Janjaweed horsemen are in the refugee camp. Repeat, Janjaweed in the refugee camp.” She switched frequencies to the channel the legionnaires were using. Mercier was trying to raise the four legionnaires still guarding the refugee camp. There was no answer.

“Close the corridor through the minefield,” she mentally urged. Her head came up when she heard the unmistakable drone of a C-130. She switched frequencies to the operations channel in time to hear Marci Jenkins voice announce she was on short final for landing. “Do not land, do not land,” Jill radioed. “The field is closed, repeat, the field is closed due to mortar fire.”

“Going around,” Marci said, her voice cool and calm.

Jill stood and watched as the Hercules leveled off twenty feet above the ground and started to climb. But before Marci could turn out, a mortar shrieked overhead and hit the runway in front of her. The Hercules flew through the explosion and cartwheeled into the ground. The cargo plane’s fuel tanks exploded and a pillar of fire reached skyward. Jill forced her eyes away, remembering what Allston had said about a spotter directing fire on the field. But what did a spotter look like? She climbed into the Land Rover and drove slowly around the airfield, determined to find the spotter. At the far eastern end, a flash of light from a low tree caught her attention. Flames from the burning C-130 had reflected off the lens of a spotting scope. She breathed deeply as her heart raced. In her excitement, she stomped on the brakes and stalled the Rover. She quickly raised the laser range finder and zoomed in on the tree. A woman was hidden in the branches, holding a radio to her lips, her body jerking with excitement, and her other arm pointing at the flaming wreck.

“You are history,” Jill whispered as she laid the crosshairs on the woman’s head. A killing rage swept over her and she forced herself to calm down. She keyed her radio and called the Paladin. “I’ve found the spotter,” she said. “It’s a woman in a low tree maybe a quarter of a mile to the east of the airfield.” Rickert was over a mile away at the western end of the airfield and did not have a visual on the tree. He asked her for the coordinates. “I haven’t got a clue,” she replied. “We got to get her before she moves.”

“Can you designate with the rangefinder?” Rickert asked.

“Can do,” she answered.

“Say your location.”

“I’m on the eastern end of the runway,” she told him. She pressed a button. “Designating now.”

“On the way,” Rickert said. The Paladin roared and a Copperhead arced high into the sky and homed on the reflected laser energy. The tree came apart as the shell exploded, shredding it into matchwood.

She radioed Malone. “The airfield will be open as soon as we fill in a crater.”

“Copy all,” Malone replied. “Be advised horsemen broke out of the refugee camp. Whereabouts unknown. Also, all corridors through the minefield are closed and are hot.” Mercier had activated the mines in the corridors, sealing the mission and cutting off the legionnaires — and the airfield.

Allston found the two Hinds hovering over the river, a few feet off the water, poised like stalking tigers and ready to pounce. He almost flew over them before he could turn away and circle behind them. There was nothing chivalrous or heroic in what he intended to do. He was going to sneak up behind them and kill at least one with their remaining Stinger. “Ready?”

“Go for it,” Williams replied. They had welded into a team, and Williams was reacting instinctively.

Allston turned back towards the river where the Hinds were still hovering over the river. He displaced thirty-five degrees to the right and simply flew behind them. “Coming under the left wing now,” he told Williams.

“Got ’em,” Williams said. He fired the Stinger and Allston turned hard to the right, escaping to the north. They never saw the missile fly up the helicopter’s right exhaust nozzle but the bright flash lit up the night. “Scratch that fucker,” Williams shouted. Allston turned hard to the left as a burst of tracers cut behind them. Again, he pulled into the vertical and did a wingover, desperate to gain a visual on the last helicopter. Nothing.

“He’s underneath us!” Williams shouted. He had done his work well and found the Hind, keeping them alive. The nose of the Hind sliced towards them and came up, bringing its machine gun to bear. Allston pulled into the vertical and pirouetted, spinning the agile Porter on its tail as he pulled the nose back to the ground.

The Hind was still below him and turning, keeping them in sight. “M-16!” Allston shouted, communicating in shorthand.