Riley ran his checklist and reported the systems on the aircraft were fully functional and appeared undamaged. “If the gear comes down, we’re golden.”
“A-okay in the rear,” the loadmaster said.
“Sounds like we got lucky,” Allston said. He instinctively sensed the odds had shifted in their favor and they had a window of opportunity. It was his job to keep it open and the best way to do that was to get more firepower on the ground. “Captain, ask the patrol if the area is secure enough for the airdrop.” He still expected the legionnaires to take some casualties when they parachuted in.
The French captain spoke into his radio and grunted in satisfaction. “Oui, Colonel, the area is secure.” There was a deep respect in his voice.
Allston continued to circle as he called Marci’s C-130 to join on him for the drop. “I have you in sight and will join on you in three,” she radioed. “What were you guys doing over there?”
“Just having some fun,” Allston replied.
“Colonel Vermullen,” G.G. said over the intercom, “I’m using a new program I developed for airdrops and need to validate its accuracy under actual conditions. The computed air release point where I give the green light is based on where I want the first man to land — on the road and less than fifty meters from the trucks. If possible, can the lead jumper not maneuver and land wherever the wind blows to verify the accuracy of the system?” Vermullen replied that he was the lead jumper and would not maneuver if it looked close.
Six minutes later, the two C-130s over-flew the legionnaires. Allston’s aircraft led and Marci’s was offset 500 feet behind and 200 feet above his. Jumpers streamed out both sides of Allston’s aircraft, shortly followed by sixty more from Marci’s Hercules. Allston immediately circled back to track the accuracy of the drop. “Vermullen in sight,” he told G.G.
“Got him,” the navigator said.
“Oh no!” the French captain shouted. “He will land in a tree.” The men watched transfixed as Vermullen disappeared into the top of a tall tree next to the road.
“I’ll be damned,” Green said. “It looks like he’s fifty meters from the trucks and ten meters off the road.” He groaned. “Bird colonels don’t like landing in trees.”
“He will not be happy,” the French captain predicted.
“Well, you know what they say about a bird in the bush,” G.G. quipped, making the best of it.
The two C-130s continued to circle the area as Vermullen’s legionnaires went through a well-rehearsed routine and secured the area. They were out of their parachutes within seconds after hitting the ground and formed up into firing teams. There was no attempt to join up with their assigned squads and as soon as a sergeant had five or six men, they moved out, securing the perimeter. From his perch in the tree, Vermullen had an excellent view of the action and made no attempt to lower himself to the ground. One fire team ran down the road in the direction the fleeing horsemen had taken. Whenever they came across a horse or Janjaweed lying on the ground, they fired a short burst of gunfire, making sure the unfortunate animal was out of its misery and the man was no longer a threat. It was quick, efficient, and brutal. Exactly sixteen minutes after Vermullen had landed, the area was secure and two sergeants from the patrol were waiting for Vermullen to lower himself out of the tree. They quickly briefed him on the situation.
Allston landed first in case they had taken battle damage to the landing gear and might block the road. He eased the big aircraft onto the road and reversed the props. A cloud of dust roared out in front of them, blocking his view. He stopped and waited for the dust to settle. A bruised and battered Vermullen walked out of the dust with two sergeants and the ever-present Hans. A ragged and gaunt boy from the village followed them. The colonel’s uniform was torn and his left cheek was bandaged. He fixed the C-130 with a hard look. “There is one angry dude,” Allston said. He keyed the radio. “Marci, we’re okay. You’re cleared to land behind me. You’ve got about 4000 feet.” A flying safety officer could cite chapter and verse about what could go wrong with one aircraft landing behind the other without a clear rollout, but Allston knew she could handle it. He set the brakes and quickly shut down the engines. “Come on, G.G. I think the Colonel wants to talk to us. And please, no jokes about a bird in the bush. He won’t think it’s funny.” The two men clambered down the boarding steps and marched towards the waiting Frenchmen. Much to their surprise, Vermullen smiled at them.
“Captain G.G., I must apologize. I maneuvered to land in the tree. Otherwise, I would have landed on the road.”
“Why?” Allston asked.
“The tree was a good place to observe if my men can operate independently of command. Forming up and grouping for action after landing is the most difficult and critical phase.” He motioned at the two sergeants and the boy. “These men were on the patrol. The boy is the only survivor from the village. He hid in the bush and saw what happened. He speaks some English. There is something you need to see.” He spoke in French and the sergeant in charge of the patrol led them into the nearby village of Wer Ping. The boy followed, shaking with fear.
The smell of burning flesh assaulted them well before they reached the village. “The Janjaweed camped here,” the sergeant said. He walked over and kicked a body lying in the dirt. Hard. “This one didn’t get away.” He fired a short burst of submachine gun fire into the dead body. Allston shot a warning glance at Vermullen. The legionnaire had crossed the line and had committed a war crime. Vermullen only stared back. The sergeant led the way to a shallow pit a few feet from the campsite. The bodies of two young girls were staked out over a bed of charcoal. “They were roasted alive. Do you have a camera to document this?” G.G. pulled a small digital camera out of a pocket and started to take pictures.
“Janjaweed laugh,” the boy said in halting English.
“They laughed when they did this?” Allston asked. The boy nodded in answer.
“It took a long time for the girls to die,” the sergeant added.
“How do you know that?” Allston asked.
“Janjaweed watch,” the boy said. “Janjaweed talk, talk, talk, laugh when die.”
Vermullen spoke softly. “Il y a plus.” There is more. He led the way into the smoldering ruins of the village. A line of nineteen bodies were stretched out on the ground. All were male with bloody crotches. “They were castrated before they were shot.” The sergeant checked the mouth of the nearest corpse. The man’s genitals were shoved down his throat. “The women and girls were made to watch this before they were raped and killed.”
“Where are the women?” G.G. asked.
“In the huts,” the sergeant said.
“But they’re all burned down,” G.G. said, not understanding. Vermullen gestured for him to examine one and take a photograph. The navigator walked slowly to the charred ruins of the nearest hut. The stench of burning flesh was overpowering but he snapped four photographs before retreating.
“Il y a plus,” Vermullen said. His small tactical radio buzzed with a message. “They found the body of the village chief.” The boy looked at them, his emaciated body shaking. Not able to take anymore, he turned and ran.