Richard Herman - The Peacemakers

“Got it,” Williams said as he dropped the Stinger tube and picked up his M-16. The Hind’s nose was almost on them and the helicopter’s gunner slewed the machine gun towards them as he fired.

“Fire!” Allston yelled, certain they were dead. Williams mashed the trigger and emptied the magazine, still firing out the left side of the Porter. Both Williams and the Hind’s gunner were firing wildly, making no attempt to aim their weapons. The Hind’s pilot saw the bright muzzle flashes coming from the Porter and accelerated, trying to avoid the gunfire. The nose of the Hind came down as the helicopter moved, throwing the machine gun’s muzzle down, harmlessly raking the ground.

Fighter pilots call it the “Golden BB,” the magical bullet that hits the target because of blind luck. The last round out of Williams M-16 was the Golden BB and it hit one blade in the Hind’s rotor, shattering it and throwing the helicopter out of control. The helicopter spun violently to the right and hit the ground in a flat spin. The big blades flexed down and came apart, cutting into the fuselage. But the fuel tanks did not explode. Allston circled the wreckage. He felt no jubilation or pride, no sense of accomplishment. They had just killed two more men. He watched as the flicker of a flame grew and engulfed the right engine. It quickly spread and the fuel tanks finally erupted, cremating what was left of the men inside.

“Boss,” Williams said. “Can we go home? I’m hurtin’.” Allston twisted around in his seat. Williams was hunched over holding the bandage on his left side. “I think I ripped a stitch.”

“Home plate it is,” Allston said. He had asked all he could from the sergeant. “You did good.”

“How come I’m not feeling good about it?”

Good question, Allston thought. He radioed Malone. “Backstop, Bossman inbound with one wounded. Can I land in the mission?”

“Negative, Bossman. Be advised the airfield is open but the mission is sealed off. The minefield is fully activated.”

“Say situation,” Allston replied.

“The Legion is holding on Bravo Ring but can’t withdraw through the minefield. Janjaweed are reported operating near the airfield and refugee camp.”

“Rog. I’ll check out the area.” He hugged the ground and flew a big arc over what had been Charlie Ring. Burning tanks cast eerie shadows as flashes of small arms fire punctured the dark. He climbed to a hundred feet and clearly saw the mission. Below him, a soldier raised his AK-47 and fired. It missed. He banked hard and dove, heading for the airfield.

Vermullen’s tactical radio was alive with shouts and pleas for a medic as the battle seesawed back and forth. “The left is holding,” Vermullen told Beck. His left flank had successfully collapsed to the minefield and was holding, thanks to the Shipons. Beck bobbed his head up and peered into the dark. “Our right flank has been wiped out.” Vermullen knew it was his fault. He had held the eighty men on his right in place as his left side pulled back in the hope the advancing SA would present a flank for the legionnaires to attack. But he had miscalculated and his men had been isolated and encircled, including him and Beck. But they had extracted a terrible price and stopped the Sudanese.

“Colonel, I hear a diesel.” Beck strained to hear. “It’s an APC.” Again, he chanced a look. “Maybe ten-twelve infantry following.” The diesel engine raced and Beck looked again. “It’s stuck. The men are digging it out. They have mine detectors.”

An inner voice warned Vermullen that the APC marked the SA’s final effort. But they were out of Shipons and low on ammunition. “It will be trouble if they get it moving,” Vermullen said. “It must not break through.”

“Colonel, I never wanted to die like a rat in a hole.” Beck held up their last bandolier with four, thirty-round magazines. “I have two grenades.”

“Give me one.” Vermullen clipped the grenade to his equipment suspender and shoved two of the magazines into his thigh pocket. Beck did the same. “It has been an honor to know you,” he said.

Beck squeezed off three short bursts, emptying his magazine at the APC, which was now moving. They could clearly hear the tracks and the sound of the laboring engine. Beck ejected the magazine and methodically reloaded. “The pleasure has been all mine.”

The two men looked at each other. “Now,” Vermullen said. He rolled out his side of the DFP as Beck did the same. Both came to their feet and charged the APC and the advancing men, firing from the hip. “CAMERONE!” Vermullen bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Jill coaxed the Land Rover down the runway, inspecting the surface as she went. Ahead of her, and off to the side, the C-130 was still burning. She stopped and examined the mortar’s shallow crater. It wasn’t very big, slightly over four feet across and eighteen inches deep. Still, the blast had been deadly when Marci’s C-130 had flown through it. She remembered seeing some quick-setting cement in one of the sheds. It wouldn’t be too difficult to patch. She stood in front of the Rover, listening. It was eerily quiet, no echoing gunfire and the dull reverberations of mortars were silenced. Was it over? A sudden weariness washed over her and she leaned against the fender.

Her radio squawked. It was Rickert in the Paladin. “Major! Horses! Behind you! We’re coming your way.”

Jill turned and looked back. Two riders were coming at her at a full gallop down the runway. She jumped into the Land Rover and twisted the key. But it wouldn’t start. She ground the starter. The engine coughed to life and she jammed it into gear, only to stall when she let out the clutch. The Janjaweed were almost on her. She drew her automatic and emptied the clip. She missed. The two riders split as one circled around to her left, the other to the right. Her radio blared. “We threw a track! “ Rickert shouted.

She glanced at the disabled Paladin that was over a mile away. Its long barrel traversed and fired a round, more to distract the horsemen than to kill them. It missed and she could see the tall horseman on her right laugh. He was not the typical Janjaweed and rode his horse with a rare confidence. Even at thirty yards away, she could see his ornate saddle. Who the hell are you? she thought. Then she knew. She had seen his photos many times and briefed numerous generals on his activities. He was Sheikh Amal Jahel of the Rizeigat, the leader of the Fursan. He reined his horse around and came at her, bending over, his head against the horse’s neck. A jolt of fear and awe immobilized her as he bore down. How many times had she described him as a cavalier, not really understanding what that word meant? She raised her Colt .45 and squeezed off a single round. Again, she missed. Was it deliberate? She would never know but she would always remember the look of excitement and joy on his face.

The Porter flew by, cutting between Jill and the charging horse and rider. Allston pulled up and ruddered the Porter around, again coming at Jahel. The stalled Paladin fired again, deliberately missing but adding to the confusion. It was enough to drive both horsemen away from Jill. Again, Allston pulled up and ruddered the Porter around, still chasing Jahel. Jill turned around at the sound of hooves pounding on the runway. The other rider was less than twenty yards away and coming directly at her. It was BermaNur. Her anger flared, shattering the fear and awe that had bound her tight in a burst of anger and hate. “You fucking bastard!” she roared as she fired twice. BermaNur veered away unhurt and raced for safety. She let him go and turned. Jahel was cutting back and forth as Allston closed. The Porter’s left main gear touched the runway as Allston turned after him. Then he reversed and the right gear briefly touched. Jahel turned and fired his AK-47 from the saddle.