Authors: Richard Herman
The legionnaires were standing by their trucks, ready to roll. Vermullen paced back and forth by the lead truck, his anger slowly growing. Allston’s pickup coasted to a halt and he got out. Vermullen whirled on him, and, for a moment, Allston feared the big Frenchman. “The Legion does not surrender its weapons without a fight!”
There was no doubt in Allston’s mind that the legionnaires were going to fight. He had to change their minds, but how? His mind raced. Then, “Colonel Vermullen, there’s a battalion out there waiting to jump on us. We’re talking at least a thousand men against your two hundred. This is not Camerone.”
As one, every legionnaire within earshot turned to Allston. The myth and mystique of Camerone is the heart of the Legion. The battle happened in Mexico, on April 30, 1863, when two officers and sixty-two legionnaires under the command of Captain Jean Danjou held out against 2,000 Mexicans at the farmhouse of Camerone. The farmhouse was of no tactical value and the legionnaires were caught up in a political squabble in which they had no stake or interest. But Captain Danjou decided to fight rather than surrender, and his men swore an oath to do the same. And fight they did, for they had given their word to the Legion. Only a handful lived to tell the story and they brought Danjou’s artificial wooden left hand back to the Legion. Vermullen didn’t move and Allston had no clue what emotions were rippling through the man. “The Legion needs you to fight and die another day.”
It was enough. “When do we start this charade?” Vermullen asked.
“Right now. The supply trucks are loaded and ready to go.”
Vermullen gave the command and the 200 legionnaires climbed onboard their trucks and moved out, heading directly for the Sudanese roadblock at the main gate.
Allston drove slowly to the seven loaded supply trucks waiting behind the big supply tents. He parked where he could see the main gate. He double-checked his radio, ensuring he was on the same tactical channel as the Security Cops. Louise Colvin broke radio silence. “The legionnaires have cleared the gate and stopped.” Allston’s mouth compressed into a tight line. The loadmaster was in the defensive firing position closest to the Sudanese and he wanted her out of there. But Lou had protested that “I can shoot better than any swingin’ dick here.” Malone had confirmed it, and as all the augmentees were volunteers, Allston gave in. Now he was having second thoughts.
He scanned the activity with his binoculars. The French had driven through the main gate and pulled their trucks to the side of the road and stopped in a long line. Vermullen had walked to the last truck and was talking to Waleed. At first, it looked like the two men were arguing. Vermullen waved his right hand and six legionnaires started to slowly unload the last truck. It was time. Allston gave the signal and the seven heavily loaded supply trucks headed for the main gate. Again, there was a delay as the trucks stopped short of the gate and handed over their manifests for inspection. At the same time, Vermullen demanded that Waleed personally verify the number of mortars that were unloaded and now lined up in a neat row on the side of the road. Frustrated, Waleed waved the supply trucks through and walked back to the weapons. Allston keyed his radio. “Start engines.” The seven trucks rumbled through the roadblock as the distinctive whine of turbojet engines coming to life reached him.
Again, Allston scanned the front gate with his binoculars. Vermullen and Waleed were arguing about something as the supply trucks rumbled past, laying down a cover of dust and sound. Behind Allston, more engines came on line. Allston knew it was only seconds before Waleed heard them and reacted. Chance intervened when an old Russian-built Antonov An-12 aircraft entered the landing pattern. The four-engine turboprop aircraft was the Russian answer to the C-130 and bore a strong resemblance to the Hercules. This particular one was painted silver and green and painted with markings in what looked like Arabic script. “What the hell?” Allston said to himself. Was it military or civilian? He scanned the aircraft as it passed overhead. The military version of the An-12 had a tail gunner and the tail of this An-12 was clean. It was a civilian aircraft. Allston kept his binoculars glued on the scene at the main gate as the last of the supply trucks passed by. Vermullen and Waleed glanced at the An-12 as it landed and went back to whatever they were arguing about. The legionnaires handed down the last of the ammunition crates and started to break them open for inspection.
Waleed bent over one of the crates and did not see the trucks turn left at the nearby intersection, away from town where the Army was billeted. Allston swung his binoculars onto the two guards who had seen the trucks make the wrong turn. Allston held his breath. One guard shook his head and deliberately looked away, towards the body of his dead comrade still lying beside the road. They had gotten their second break.
The An-12 was adding to the distraction and Allston made a decision. He keyed his radio, calling the security cops. “Backstop, we got a window here. Start pulling in your troops and load ‘em up.” He trusted Malone to understand that no plan lasted the first thirty seconds of combat. “Dondo One, Two, and Three, go!”
The sound of the C-130s taxiing out reached him. The first C-130 with Jill aboard started its takeoff roll as the second taxied into position. Twenty seconds later, the second C-130 rolled down the runway. The third Hercules turned onto the runway and took off. Allston shifted his pickup into gear and drove as slowly as he could, careful to not draw the attention of the Sudanese. Once around the corner of the hangar and out of sight, he sped towards the parking ramp and the last C-130. Malone was waving a group of cops up the ramp of the last C-130. Allston accelerated across the ramp and slammed to a stop by Malone. “How many on board and who’s left?” he yelled.
“Ten on board,” Malone answered. “Twenty-one, counting me, still left.”
“Colvin?”
“She’s still with her buddies, sir.”
Allston’s face flushed. “Does she know what will happen if they capture her?”
“She knows,” Malone said. “I told her. Sir, you got to go.”
Allston didn’t move. “Everyone goes.”
Sporadic gunfire echoed from the main gate and immediately stopped. “I think it’s too late, sir.” Malone spoke into his radio. “Say situation.” The two men listened as Lou Colvin, still in the forward DFP, answered. The shots had been fired by the Sudanese and while there was plenty of shouting and confusion, there was no movement towards the airfield. “Sounds like they’re screwing up their courage,” Malone said.
Allston keyed his radio. “What’s the Legion doing?”
“They’re long gone,” Lou answered. “I can’t even see their dust now. Hold on, it looks like the SA is setting up one of the French mortars and breaking out a machine gun.”
Malone didn’t hesitate. “Pull everyone in. Now!”
Allston breathed deeply. “Good call,” he muttered, calculating how long he had before the Sudanese attacked.
Malone pointed to the civilian terminal halfway down the runway. The An-12 was taxiing out to takeoff. “You got some cover there, sir. Use it. We ain’t got time to get everyone here before it takes off, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna leave two or three of my people behind. We can escape and evade out of here on the ground.” Malone cracked a grin. “Besides, I can use your truck to play arsonist.”
It was the nudge Allston needed. “We’ll get you out.” He ran up the ramp and the C-130 taxied for the runway. He worked his way forward around the pallets and passengers crowding the cargo deck. He counted heads and ran a mental tally. Everyone was out except Malone with the rear guard, and, with a little luck, they would be gone before the Sudanese figured and tumbled to what was going on.
On the flight deck, Major Dick Lane sat in the left seat, commanding the Hercules. “Boss, I don’t know where that Antonov came from, but talk about dumb luck.”
Allston gave the command. “Go.”
Lane advanced the throttles and taxied out. He stopped on the runway, set the brakes, and ran the engines up as the An-12 taxied into position to takeoff at midfield. Lane released the brakes as the An-12 started to roll. The two aircraft lifted off at the same time. Lane leveled the C-130 off at 100 feet above the ground, raised the gear and flaps, and immediately turned out to the left, towards the Nile and away from the soldiers on the far side of the field. “Son of a bitch!” Lane roared. The green and silver An-12 with its Arabic markings was turning out in the opposite direction, to the right, and over flying the soldiers still clustered at the gate at low level. It was the perfect distraction.
“Damn,” Allston muttered to himself, angry that he had not fully exploited the unexpected arrival of the An-12. He should have slowed down and got all the Irregulars out. He cursed silently. “Dick, I need to talk to Mission Awana.” The flight engineer handed his headset to Allston, while the copilot dialed in a VHF frequency. He raised Mission Awana, and gave Allston a thumbs-up. “Mission Awana, Bossman. Request your Porter is engine running and ready for takeoff when I arrive.”
Lane turned to the right and flew along the northern side of the Nile. The copilot twisted in his seat and looked back at the rapidly receding airfield. “Whoa! Look at that. Bumfuck is on fire big time.” Allston handed the headset back to the flight Engineer and squeezed into the space on the right side of the copilot. He could see smoke and flames billowing from the big hangar and the supply tents.
“I need to get on the ground ASAP,” he shouted at Lane.
Lane pushed the throttles up and checked the GPS. “On the ground at Awana in five.”
Mission Awana
Major Dick Lane turned his C-130 onto the hard-packed earth near the three other C-130s parked on the hardstand. “Not enough room for all four Herks,” he told Allston. He taxied as close to the concrete parking ramp as possible and stopped near the Pilatus Porter. As requested, the engine was running and Toby Person was sitting in the pilot’s seat. Richards was standing between the C-130 and the Porter. Allston scrambled down from the flight deck and out the crew entrance door. The loadmaster was standing between him and the engines to ensure he wouldn’t run into the spinning propellers as Allston ran for the Porter.
“Colonel!” Richards yelled over the roar of the Hercules’s engines. “We need to talk. Now!”
“Sorry, General,” he shouted. “I haven’t got time.”
“Oh, yes you do!” She ran after him. Much to his surprise she was a fast and graceful runner. She caught him at the Porter. “Where are you going?”
“I’m getting my people out of Bumfuck.”
“The UN Secretary General in New York called on the satcom and ordered you to turn over your aircraft to his representatives in Malakal.”
“I never got that message. We’ll talk when I get back.” He pushed past her only to face Staff Sergeant Loni Williams. The short and muscular sergeant was standing by the Porter’s right cargo door holding a M-249 SAW, the venerable Squad Automatic Weapon with a 750 round per minute rate of fire. Two plastic boxes, each holding 200 rounds of 5.56mm ammunition, were at his feet.
“What the hell are you doing with that?” Allston shouted.
“Going with you,” Williams answered. He held the fifteen-pound weapon up. “We’re talking industrial-strength intimidation, Boss.”
“Get on board,” Allston said. He motioned Toby out. “You can’t go, Reverend. Some people are going to die and you can’t be part of it.” Toby understood and climbed out of the seat. Allston jumped into his seat and quickly strapped in as he scanned the instrument panel. He had never flown a Porter but the airspeed indicator had the green and yellow markings he needed. He glanced back at Williams who was sitting against the aft bulkhead and holding onto a strap attached to floor rings. The right cargo door was still open. Allston advanced the throttle and was surprised by the power surge. “How about that,” he muttered. He spun the taildragger around and headed for the runway, leaving a furious general in the prop wash. He turned onto the runway and carefully advanced the throttle to get the feel of the aircraft under power. The Porter was airborne in 600 feet and Allston headed west. Ahead, a towering pillar of smoke marked his destination.
THIRTEEN
Malakal
“B
ackstop, Bossman. How copy?” Allston asked over the Porter’s VHF radio. He waited for Malone to reply. Ahead, he could see Malakal’s runway and the towering smoke billowing out of the big hangar. Unfortunately, the supply tents were only a smoldering ruin, and the fire in the hangar was dying down. “Come on,” he muttered to himself.
After what seemed an eternity, Malone answered. “Go ahead, Bossman.”
“Say status.”
“We’ve withdrawn to the runway side of the hangar. We were taking sporadic gunfire from the main gate, but that’s stopped. They seem confused. No organization that I can see. They might be waiting for the fires to die down.”
Allston’s situational awareness kicked in. The threat was still at the main gate, a quarter-mile behind the burning hangar, and the security cops were near the runway with the hanger in between. But the fire was dying out so how much time did he have? He keyed his mike. “Backstop, did the fuel dump go up?”
“Negative, Bossman. I couldn’t get to it. Too close to the bad guys.”
“Maybe I can do something. Be ready to board when I land.”
“I have you in sight, Bossman. That’s a pretty small plane.”
“Leave your gear behind. We’ll make like a sardine can.”
“Copy all,” Malone replied, ending the transmission.
“Loni,” Allston yelled. “I’m going to climb and try to keep the smoke from the hangar between us and the Sudanese. When you see the fuel dump, pump a few rounds into the fuel bladders. Then hold on while I take evasive action.”
“Will do, Boss.”
Allston nudged the stick forward and descended to ten feet above the ground. He inched the throttle forward, wringing every knot he could out of the Porter as he flew down the runway. The aircraft was not built for speed and the airspeed indicator bounced around 130 knots, or 150 MPH. Once past the civilian terminal at midfield, he angled slightly to the left and headed directly for the burning hangar at the far end of the field. “Hold on!” he warned Williams when they reached the parking ramp. He pulled back on the stick and immediately entered a tight climbing spiral to the right, keeping the open cargo door on the inside of the turn as he climbed above the parking ramp. He coughed when they darted in and out of the towering column of smoke rising above the hangar. The altimeter read 200 feet when he caught a glimpse of the fuel bladders through the smoke.