“Good thinking,” Lane replied. “I know you speak Arabic, but…” His words trailed off, his uncertainty showing.
“I’ve picked up quite a bit of the Nuer language,” G.G. countered. “It’s the most widely spoken language in this part of Africa.” He rattled off a few phrases of the Nilo-Saharan language.
Vermullen replied in the same language and listened carefully to G.G.’s response. “You are very good.”
A pickup slammed to a halt and Allston got out. “Okay, where are we?” A very relieved Lane rapidly filled him in, explaining how G.G. was ready to take a load of water under a white flag out to the refugees and try to open negotiations with the gunmen. Doubt nagged at Allston and he temporized, searching for a better option. “Those bastards shot at least a dozen or so on the aircraft and threw the bodies overboard. I’m guessing it’s only a matter of time before they start shooting again.” One of the six pacs pulled up and its doors swung open. Tara was the first out, followed by her cameraman. Jill and Richards were right behind him. Allston glared at the women. “You’re in the wrong place, ladies.”
Tara shook her head. “We will stay back and out of the way.”
“Tara.” Richards said, “Colonel Allston is right. We should leave.”
The actress was accustomed to having her way and not about to change. “Yvonne, I know it is dangerous. But I have been to Africa many times and been in much worse situations. We did not come here to be pampered or to be safe. I also speak Nuer, so let me help.” She spoke a few words and G.G. replied in some length. “I am impressed, Captain G.G.”
Tara Scott was not a typical Hollywood celebrity and Allston sensed he was dealing with an immovable force. “Take cover over there.” He pointed to the side of the hangar that was in the shade. “Be ready to beat feet if the situation heats up, but I think we’re going to be here for a few hours before anything happens.” He waited until Tara and Richards were in the truck and headed for the hangar. “Okay, I’m not so sure about this negotiations thing.”
“Captain G.G.’s command of the Nuer language is excellent,” Vermullen said.
G.G. waved his hand in a broad gesture, taking in the hostages. “At least I can get some water to them.”
Jill urged G.G. to stop well short of the refugees and wait for their spokesman to meet him in the open. “They don’t respect white flags,” she warned.
“You’ve done this before?” Allston asked.
“In Afghanistan.” The memories came surging back. She had spent a year in Afghanistan interacting and negotiating with local tribal chiefs in the vain hope of bringing stability to that torn land, but in the end there was little to negotiate. Still, this was not Afghanistan. “It might buy some time,” she offered.
Reluctantly, Allston conceded. “Okay, G.G., you’ve got it. But only go halfway.”
G.G. snapped a salute hopped into his loaded truck. He unrolled a makeshift white flag and stuck it out the driver’s side window. He started the engine and drove slowly out to the refugees who were still huddled in a large, amoeba-like group in the sun. He stopped fifty yards short and got out, holding the white flag. Soon, two men stood up in the middle of the refugees and kicked their way through the mass of people. They sauntered out to G.G.
“I don’t like this,” Allston said in a low tone. He watched as G.G. talked while motioning to the cases of bottled water in the back of his pickup.
One of the Janjaweed examined the water and turned to G.G., saying something. G.G. turned his back on the second Janjaweed to answer. The man at G.G.’s back threw an arm around his neck in a strangle hold and pulled him to the ground. The other Janjaweed ran up, and his knife flashed in the sun as he drove the blade into G.G.’s stomach. The other assailant holding G.G. drew his knife and slashed at the navigator’s neck. Four shots rang out from the side of the hangar where the legionnaires were hiding. “Fuck!” Lane roared. “G.G.’s truck is in the way!”
Allston keyed his communicator. “Backstop, have you got a shot?”
“Negative,” Malone replied.
Vermullen raised his FAMAS 62 and sighted. “No shot,” he said, lowering the assault rifle.
Something inside Allston snapped. “Shit-fuck-hate!” he roared, jumping into Lane’s pickup. He hit the ignition and the engine roared to life. He shifted into gear as he mashed the throttle and wheeled it around. He sped towards G.G. as the two Janjaweed looked up from their grisly work. They were on their feet and running for G.G.’s truck. One pulled his semi-automatic pistol as the other ran around to the driver’s side. The shooter knelt in a firing position and emptied his clip into the truck charging down on him.
Allston pulled his head down and laid across the passenger’s seat as five rounds smashed into the windshield. Glass shards rained down on him as he steered blindly with his left hand. The left side of his head felt warm. The gunfire stopped and Allston reared up. The Janjaweed in front of him was coming to his feet as he reloaded. He pulled the slide on his weapon back, chambering a round, as he raised the weapon to fire. He was too late, and Allston smashed into him going over forty miles per hour. Allston hit the brakes, dragging the pickup to a crawl. Inertia did its thing, and the man crumpled across the grill flew forward and rolled on the ground.
Allston mashed the accelerator and drove over the Janjaweed. He hit the brakes and dragged the rear wheels over the man, grinding him into the asphalt. Without glancing back, Allston accelerated as he spun the steering wheel and headed for G.G.’s truck, which was now racing towards the mass of refugees still sitting in the boiling sun. Allston never hesitated and crashed into the truck’s left rear, causing it to spin out and stall. Both trucks came to a halt. Allston leaped out, drawing his .45. He thumbed the safety off as he sprinted for the other truck. He reached the passenger’s side window and fired point blank into the driver’s head. He pulled the trigger again.
Allston’s rounds echoed across the field, unleashing chaos. Allston ran straight for the mass of people as three men in the center of the refugees stood up. One raised an AK-47 in Allston’s direction. Allston never slowed and fired wildly as he closed the gap. At the same time, the refugees started to run in all directions, effectively shielding the gunman and denying him a shot at Allston. Frustrated, the gunman emptied his clip into the backs of the fleeing refugees. Allston fell to the ground and reloaded as the hostages ran for cover. He rolled on the ground, trying to find a clear field of fire through the refugees. The rattle of the AK-47 rang out again, still cutting into the escaping refugees.
The mass of bodies in front of Allston suddenly cleared and he had a clear shot at the shooters. Still in a prone position, Allston drew down on the shooter and squeezed off a single shot. The Janjaweed fell to the ground. The remaining two Janjaweed dropped for cover. Now all Allston could see was a pile of bodies. One of the Janjaweed stood, holding the AK-47. A hail of gunfire from Allston, the security police, and the legionnaires tore the man apart. Allston was vaguely aware of the AK-47 falling to the ground with an arm and shoulder still attached to the sling.
Vermullen ran across the ramp, his FAMAS 62 against his side in a firing position. He shouted in Nuer, ordering everyone to stay on the ground. “David!” he yelled at Allston, “stay down!” Legionnaires erupted from the side of the hangar, running in groups of three as they converged. Vermullen was beside Allston. “Are you okay?” Much to his surprise, Allston was alive, but the side of his head was bleeding profusely, cut by flying shards of glass from the windshield.