The general reread the message one last time, hit the encrypt button, and sent it out. He kicked back in his chair, disgusted with the situation. A ragtag group of C-130s and legionnaires was all that was sparing the world of another round of genocide, and he was a co-conspirator in a game of nation building. He hadn’t joined up for that and had enough pressing matters just running the Air Force to fill his days. For a moment he considered resigning, but just as quickly, dropped it. That wasn’t the way he played the game, but he would if he had no other choice.
Mission Awana
Allston sipped at his water bottle in a vain attempt to drown the butterflies fluttering in the lower regions of his abdomen. When that failed, he reread the message for the third time, hoping it would be a distraction. There was no doubt that Fitzgerald wanted him to continue operations as long as he could, but it didn’t help with the butterflies. He hit the ‘secure delete’ button. His laptop whirred for a moment, forever shredding the message. What a shitty way to run a railroad, he thought. But he was pleased that Jill was returning. They needed the Intel officer. He checked his watch and locked the computer in his safe. It was time. He stepped outside, onto the veranda of the guesthouse. Tara Scott was sitting in a chaise lounge, enjoying the evening breeze. She gave him a dazzling smile that set another rabble of butterflies into action. “Hi there,” she said. Her hand reached out and touched his. Slowly, their fingers intertwined. “Can you stay a moment?”
He smiled back. “I wish I could. Some business to take care of.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
He shook his head, lying. “Operations stuff. By the way, Jill’s coming back. Not sure when she’ll arrive.”
“You know she’s in love with you.”
He laughed. “Sure she is. I’m her boss and she’s a good staff officer. That’s all.”
“Seriously, she is.” Tara tilted her head and studied his reaction. She laughed, enchanting him. “Men! You are so thick at times.”
Sergeant Loni Williams drove up in a battered pickup he had resurrected from oblivion. “It runs good,” he called. He waited for Allston to join him.
Reluctantly, Allston pulled his hand free. He bent over and brushed her forehead with his lips. “I’ll be back.”
Vermullen was dressed in civvies when he arrived at the two waiting C-130s. He got out of his Panhard P4 utility vehicle, pulled on a heavy jumpsuit, and strapped on a parachute harness while talking to his officers, Major Herbert Mercier and Captain Paul Bouchard. They were all in full battle dress and ready for an airdrop. “If anything goes wrong,” Vermullen said in French, “you will not wait for me. Is that understood?” The two men reluctantly agreed. “Good. What do the Americans say, mes amis? Let’s do it!” He laughed, enjoying the moment.
Allston joined them. “We’re loading the last truck. I hope four is enough.”
Vermullen assured him that four would do. “Where is Sergeant Williams?”
Allston pulled a face. “On the other side of the plane, puking his guts out. He’s never jumped before.”
Vermullen was worried. “Can he do it? He will be strapped to me.”
“He’ll be okay.” Allston hoped it was true. Williams had eagerly volunteered for the mission, claiming that only he and Vermullen were the right color and spoke the right language. Vermullen was ready to go. “You sure about all this?” Allston asked.
Vermullen shrugged. “One is never sure.”
“Let’s do it,” Allston said. His butterflies were gone.
FIFTEEN
Bentiu, Unity, Sudan
The flight deck was bathed in red light when Allston leveled off at 28,000 feet. He checked the navigation display– thirty miles to go — and retarded the throttles, slowing to drop airspeed. He looked around the flight deck. Everyone was wearing an oxygen mask and breathing easily. He keyed the intercom. “Oxygen check.” His voice sounded tinny, but he credited that to the microphone in his mask. The crew checked in. The loadmaster was the last, verifying the forty-one heavily clothed legionnaires in the rear were all on oxygen and okay. “Depressurizing, now,” Allston warned. He gave the high sign to the flight engineer. A whooshing sound filled the flight deck and he felt the change in pressure.
“Five minutes,” the copilot said. In the rear, the loadmaster motioned for Vermullen and Loni Williams to stand. They shuffled into position and stood together, back to belly with the short and stocky American in front. Vermullen snapped the sergeant’s harness to his. The loadmaster tugged at the connections, making sure they were secure. He double-checked their masks and portable oxygen bottles. At their altitude, their time of useful consciousness was less than thirty seconds without oxygen.
“Jumpers ready,” the loadmaster said over the intercom.
The seconds ticked down. “Two minutes,” the copilot called. “Lowering the ramp.” His hand moved over the right console, lowering the ramp to the trail position. At the same time, the flight engineer turned the cargo compartment and flight deck heat to full on. But they could still feel the bitter cold invading the aircraft. “One minute,” the copilot said. Vermullen and Williams shuffled to the edge of the ramp.
“Jumpers on the ramp,” the loadmaster said. They waited as the seconds ticked down, their eyes riveted on the red jump light at the rear door. The jumpmaster watched as Vermullen lifted Williams. The red light blinked to green and Vermullen stepped into the night. “Jumpers away,” the loadmaster said, stepping back from the ramp as it raised into position, sealing them in from the cold. The aircraft pressurized as they waited.
The two men plummeted earthward, reaching a terminal velocity of 120 MPH. Vermullen checked the altimeter strapped to his left wrist. They had to get out of the freezing cold and to a lower altitude before their oxygen bottles were depleted. He had practiced high altitude jumps before, but never with a passenger strapped to his harness. At twelve thousand feet they dropped through a layer of clouds and the world spread out below them in a beautiful panorama of sparkling lights and darkness. They were west of the town, exactly where he wanted to be. He pulled the ripcord. The big parafoil, a parachute-like fabric wing developed for special operations, deployed with a slight jerk. The Legionnaire looked up and scanned the canopy with a red-lens flashlight. He grunted in satisfaction. It was not a traditional round parachute but a highly maneuverable airfoil that resembled a mattress.
But something was wrong. Vermullen checked his GPS. They had encountered a wind-shift below the cloud deck and were drifting to the south, not the way he wanted to go. He had deployed the canopy at too high an altitude. He tugged at the risers and spiraled down to get out of the wind. He tugged his thick gloves off and let them dangle from wrist straps. Next, he pulled his oxygen mask free and let it hang around his neck. He pulled the NVGs, night vision goggles, on his helmet into place and turned them on. He tapped Williams on the top of his head to see if he was conscious. “You can remove your oxygen mask. But don’t drop it.” There was no response. “Are you okay?”