Malakal
G.G. was in his normal position behind the scheduling counter in operations — rocked back in his desk chair, feet up on the counter, and practicing a card trick when the radio call came in. “Outhouse, Dondo Four,” Allston radioed. G.G. acknowledged the call, relieved that the last mission of the day was inbound and that his commander was back. “Outhouse,” Allston continued, “we’re twenty minutes out with two hundred plus refugees on board. We are experiencing gunfire on the cargo deck and will require armed security police to off load.”
G.G. came to his feet, not believing what he had just heard. “Dondo Four, say again.”
“Dondo-Four has two hundred plus refugees on board and experiencing gunfire on the cargo deck. Have the security police meet us on the ramp.”
“What the hell is going…” He regained control. “Say nature of emergency.”
“Janjaweed are on board armed with knives and guns. Exact number unknown. We require armed intervention and medical aid on landing.”
“Copy all,” G.G. replied. He sprang into action and within thirty seconds had sounded the alert and the security police were headed for the parking ramp. Dick Lane was the first to arrive and G.G. explained the situation. He took a deep breath. “Sir, getting a hundred passengers on board a C-130 takes some hard packing, but over two hundred? You can’t do it. It just can’t be done.”
“Yeah, it can, standing up,” Lane replied. He grabbed the mike. “Dondo Four, say status.” He wanted an update. Malaby, Jill, and Master Sergeant Jerry Malone, the recently arrive security cop, skidded through the door in rapid succession.
Allston’s voice was cool and matter-of fact as he again described the situation. He paused. “Standby one, the loadmaster’s talking to Captain Jenkins.”
Jill was confused. “Why is he talking to Marci and not the Boss?”
“Because she’s the aircraft commander,” Lane explained, “and in command of the aircraft. The Boss is giving her a check ride.”
“That’s one hell of a check ride,” G.G. muttered.
Allston was back on the radio. “Outhouse, Dondo Four. The loadmaster is talking to the refugees. They say there are eight Janjaweed at the rear and they have one AK-47.”
“I really needed to hear that,” Malone said under his breath.
“Outhouse,” Allston radioed, “The Janjaweed can’t get to the flight deck because of all the people in the way. We can make them offload out the back, but they’ll probably come out shooting.” He quickly outlined what he was thinking.
Malone liked what he was hearing. “We’ll be waiting for them,” he promised. He bolted from the room, issuing commands into his communicator.
“This is going down fast,” Lane said, wishing Allston was there to make the decisions. “Get all the troops who are weapons qualified out to Malone to augment the cops. Two of the Herks on the ground are good to go, so let’s get them airborne and out of here ASAP. Tow the Herk that is down for maintenance over to the civilian ramp.” Malaby hurried out to make it happen. Lane thought for moment. A decision made, he said, “G.G. you’ve got the stick here. Contact Vermullen and get some firepower over here. I’ll get two crews out to the Herks that are good to go.” He bolted out the door.
Twelve minutes later, the two Herks were airborne and Lane focused on the emergency coming his way. He keyed his communicator and issued his last instructions. Now he had to wait. It seemed to take forever to tow the broken C-130, and he breathed a sigh of relief when it finally cleared the runway and turned into the civilian parking area.
Allston’s voice came over his handheld radio. “Dondo Four, ten miles out.”
Lane looked to the west, but he couldn’t see the C-130. He counted to ten slowly. Then he saw it. He keyed his communicator. “Dondo Four in sight. Backstop, are you in place?”
“That’s affirm,” Malone answered. The security cops and the Irregulars who were weapons qualified were hidden in defensive firing positions around the ramp. Each of the sandbagged foxholes held three troops and provided overlapping fields of fire. The plan was to hide their muscle until needed. Lane’s eyes tracked the C-130 as it entered the downwind leg.
He keyed his communicator. “Outhouse, any word from the French?” G.G. replied in the negative. “Where the hell are they?” Lane asked aloud. The C-130 turned onto a base leg, the aircraft still in a nose high attitude with the loading ramp lowered to the trail position. The C-130 came down final in a steep rate of descent with the aircraft’s nose high in the air for a short field landing. Lane murmured his approval when the ramp lifted into the closed position, insuring it would not drag on landing.
Marci planted the C-130’s main landing gear hard on the runway, 1500 feet short of the turnout to the parking ramp, and well past the civilian terminal at midfield. She slammed the nose down and immediately reversed the four props, dragging the Hercules to a crawl. The aircraft taxied in, swerving, accelerating, and then braking, creating a rough ride for anyone on board and not strapped in. A crew chief marshaled the C-130 as it turned into position, its nose facing the runway and tail towards the hangar. The crew chief gave the sign to run the engines up, kicking up dust and dirt, creating a smoke screen as the ramp lowered, this time to the ground. As planned, the crew chief ran for cover.
A wave of refugees flooded out the back of the C-130, only to sit down in a big group and cover their heads against the bellowing dust. “What the hell?” Lane grumbled. “Dondo, is everyone off?”
“That’s an affirmative,” Allston replied.
“Fast taxi to the runway and takeoff,” Lane ordered. The big aircraft leaped forward as Marci applied power, blowing even more dust over the refugees sitting on the ramp. A man with an AK-47 stood up in the center of the refugees and fired a short burst after the moving C-130. Fortunately, the blowing dust spoiled his aim. A single shot echoed from the far corner of the hangar and the gunman crumpled to the ground. “What the…” Lane mumbled, searching for the shooter. A legionnaire was crouched in a firing position in the shadows sighting down a sniper rifle. “About fucking time,” Lane growled.
Vermullen materialized out of the shadows and ambled towards Lane as if he were strolling down the Champs-Elysèes. “A fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Laurel,” he said with his best American accent. “My father was a Laurel and Hardy fan.” He leaned across the hood of Lane’s pickup and studied the refugees. “Cool the situation down. Time is on our side.”
Lane keyed his communicator. “Backstop, weapons cold, repeat, weapons cold. Do not fire unless fired upon.”
“Copy all,” Malone answered
“Outhouse,” Lane continued, “what happened to Dondo Four. I don’t see them.”
“They didn’t takeoff and turned into the civilian parking area,” G.G. replied.
Lane took a deep breath, relieved that Allston would soon be there to take command. He knew when he was in over his head. “Colonel Vermullen, what do you make of all this?”
Vermullen shrugged. “They have hostages, we have them surrounded, and nothing will happen until it is dark.” The big legionnaire checked his watch. It was two hours to sunset. “Now what is this?” A man was standing in the midst of the refugees waving a makeshift white flag. “I believe they want to negotiate.”
“What do we negotiate for?” Lane asked.
“For time,” Vermullen replied. “Send an American. They hate the Legion.”
Lane keyed his communicator. “I need a volunteer who speaks the local lingo to establish contact with the gunmen.”
“I’m on it, Boss,” G.G. replied. It was the first time anyone had called Lane ‘Boss’ and he liked it. A few minutes later, a pickup pulled up and G.G. got out. “I’m your man,” he announced. He motioned to the rear of the truck that was filled with cases of bottled water. “I figured this might help to get things moving.”