Williams fell to his knees coughing and retching from smoke inhalation. He looked up as the loadmaster disappeared into the crew entrance door. A moment later, she emerged out of the smoke carrying a first aid kit and her survival vest. Together, they carried the two pilots and flight engineer to safety.
BermaNur bent over the saddle’s pommel, his cheek against his horse’s neck. It had been a long run and he had carefully husbanded his mount, varying the gait, yet always urging it on. He sensed the horse still had more to give, and he was determined to outdistance the others. Even Jahel had waved him past, shouting his approval. Now only Jahel’s second in command, a superb horseman, was in front of him. Ahead, he saw the burning wreckage of a Hercules and his spirits soared. Allah was most great and his justice certain. The rider in front slowed to a canter and then to a walk. BermaNur slowed and rode beside him, wise enough to know the race was over and not to shame a superior.
The rider stopped when he saw two Americans standing over their comrades lying on the ground. He leaned forward, his arms resting on the pommel, as a cunning look spread across his face. One of the Americans was a woman and the other a short African. “A kafir,” the rider snorted. He turned and ordered BermaNur to stop. “This is not for you.” He waved his AK-47 at the teenager, making his point. BermaNur reined his horse around and trotted away. He had made a mark and that was enough for now. He turned to watch — and to learn.
Alone, the rider cantered up to the Americans, still waving his AK-47. He smiled wickedly as he circled the Americans. Then he reined his horse into the kafir, pushing him away from the woman.
Malakal
G.G. sat at the scheduling desk in his normal position, chair rocked back, feet up on the desk, and practicing a card trick that required a difficult sleight-of-hand movement when a loud wail came over the radio’s loudspeaker. He bolted upright, dumping the cards on the floor, and hit the mute button. Automatically, he copied the numbers on the readout as he hit the transmit button to call Allston and his staff. “Boss, the emergency locator beacon on Bard Green’s Herk has activated.”
“Be there in three,” Allston replied. “Call Lane and Malaby. And notify Colonel Vermullen.”
Near Wer Ping
The Janjaweed grabbed Lou by the collar and dragged her backwards while still waving his AK-47 at Williams on the other side of his horse. But Louise Colvin was not another hapless victim of rape by the marauding Janjaweed. She twisted and dug in her heels just as the horseman squeezed off a short burst at Williams. The three shots went wild, high above Williams’ head, as she grabbed the Janjaweed’s arm and pulled him out of the saddle. The horse reared as Williams pulled a combat knife out of his right boot. He scampered under the rearing horse, going directly for the Janjaweed. “Let him go!” he shouted. Lou released her grip, allowing the man to regain his balance and come to his feet. The Janjaweed spun around, bringing his AK-47 to bear. But Williams was on him and grabbed the back of the man’s neck as he brought his knife up in a hard thrusting motion, cutting deep into the Janjaweed’s chest below the sternum. Williams pulled the Janjaweed onto the knife, driving the tip into his heart. Lou grabbed the reins of the rearing horse as the Janjaweed died.
BermaNur saw his comrade go down and fired a long burst from the saddle. “Hit the dirt!” Williams roared as he dropped to the ground. Lou released the horse’s reins as she fell. It was the first time BermaNur had ever fired an AK-47 and the barrel lifted, sending the rounds high over the Americans’ heads. BermaNur dismounted and fired again. This time, two slugs cut into the horse. It bucked in terrible pain as Williams rolled clear and scooped up the dead Janjaweed’s AK-47. He squeezed off a short burst. He missed, but it drove the teenager back, who was now more concerned with saving his horse than avenging his fellow Fursan. Williams selected single-shot on the AK-47 and carefully aimed at the retreating teenager. He squeezed the trigger. He missed again and roared in frustration.
“You can’t hit squat with an AK-47 at this range,” Lou told him. She grabbed the weapon and shot the dying horse, putting it out of its misery. “Gimme an M-16 any day of the week.” She had been raised on a ranch in Oregon and grew up with horses and guns. Williams methodically stripped the dead Janjaweed and horse of weapons and ammunition. He deliberately focused on the task, ignoring the tears streaking Lou’s cheeks. “Damn,” she muttered over and over, stroking the dead horse’s ears.
Williams stood and looked around. The Dinka had all disappeared and they were alone. “We need to find better cover. The bastard will be back. With his buddies.”
Malakal
G.G. spread the chart out for Allston and Vermullen and quickly plotted the coordinates. “This is the location of the crash. It’s accurate to three meters.” He typed a command into his computer and showed the men a detailed satellite photograph of the area. “But we don’t know the status of the crew.”
“We assume they are alive until we know otherwise,” Allston said.
“Weapons?” Vermullen asked.
“The UN doesn’t allow us to carry weapons,” Dick Lane, the ops officer, said.
Vermullen was stunned that the Americans could be so stupid. “An order from the UN is only a point of discussion,” he told them. “Time is of the essence. We have two or three hours at the most. The clock is running.”
“How many men do you have and when?” Allston asked.
“I have eighty preparing now.” He checked his watch. “They should be ready to board in twenty minutes.”
“Paratroops?” Allston asked.
“All of them.”
Allston was impressed. He knew what it took for a paratrooper to suit up for a combat jump. He turned to Malaby. “The birds?”
“We got two on station. Both are OR and good to go. Sir, I must protest. We need to coordinate this with Addis Abba.”
“That will take a couple of days,” Allston told her. “Configure the birds for a personnel drop.” Malaby jammed her blue beret on and disappeared out the door. Allston watched her go. She was a good maintenance officer, but inflexible and short on imagination, two traits essential for success in any emergency. “I’ll lead in number one. G.G. you’re with me.” He thought for a moment and turned to Lane. “Dick, I want you in the left seat of number two. You fill in the crews. We brief at the aircraft and in the air. We’re like Gumby on this one — max flexibility.”
“Marci Jenkins in your right seat,” Lane said. “She’ll give me a ration of shit I don’t need if she gets left out.” He rattled off a list of names, filling in the other crew positions. “Boss, we’re pushing this one.”
“Tell me.”
Near Wer Ping
Allston throttled back and the C-130 descended, trading altitude for airspeed. “Go Guard,” he told Marci. The copilot punched at a button on the UHF radio, selecting the emergency radio channel. Allston hit the transmit button under his left thumb. “Any Irregular, this is Gizmo One on Guard. How copy?”
Williams’s faint voice came over the radio. “Read you five by, Gizmo One. Is that you, Boss?”
The worry that bound Allston yielded a notch. At least one of the crew was alive and transmitting on a handheld emergency radio. “Affirm. Is that you, Loni?”
“That’s a roger, Boss. Me and Lou are okay, the pilots and engineer are messed up a little, but conscious. No broken bones and we got the bleeding stopped.”
Allston allowed a satisfied grunt. “Say location.” On cue, a bright flash on the ground flickered at them. An old-fashioned survival mirror from Lou Colvin’s survival vest had worked its magic. “Got it.”