“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
“Backstop, 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.
“I got ’em in sight!” Williams shouted.
Allston leveled off but continued the pylon turn to the right. They were on the outside of the turn, away from the burning hangar and over the parking ramp when Williams fired a short burst through the smoke over the hangar. Nothing. “We’re too low,” Williams told him. “I’m hitting the berm around the bladders. Gimme another fifty feet.” Allston continued the turn, again flying through the smoke from the hangar. The rising air currents lifted the Porter. Again, Allston coughed from the smoke. Why wasn’t Williams coughing? Allston chanced a quick look into the rear. Williams had tied a water-soaked red bandana over his mouth and nose. They came out of the smoke and Allston checked their altitude — 280 feet. He held the turn as Williams fired another short burst. One of the big bladders erupted, sending a pillar of fire shooting into the sky. Allston pulled the throttle to flight idle and tightened up the turn as he dove for the ground. Something heavy rolled across the deck of the cargo bay and bounced against the back of his seat. The second fuel bladder erupted like a huge Roman candle.
Allston dumped the flaps and flew a curvilinear approach to land on the runway. But he landed across it and used the taxi path leading to the parking area to roll out. He spun the taildragger around and pointed the Porter’s nose back towards the runway. The security cops broke from their DFPs and converged on the Porter, shedding their equipment as they ran. Allston turned to his right and looked into the cargo area. He couldn’t see Williams. “Damn, Colonel,” Williams said, “that hurt.” He was crumpled up behind the pilot’s seat.