A small pickup drove up for fuel and the driver got out. The man looked around, confused, and then followed the hose, picking it up as he went. He reached the nozzle and shut it off. He dragged it back to his car and jammed the nozzle into the filler neck, cursing loudly. Vermullen ghosted through the night and closed on the man from behind. His hands flashed as he grabbed the man’s jaw, jerked back, and cut his throat. He threw the body under the pickup. He grabbed the nozzle, this time disconnecting it. He dropped the gushing hose into the sewer, and walked back to the waiting Williams. “What happens now?” the American asked.
“We wait,” Vermullen replied. He checked his watch. “The tanker is full so it will take at a few minutes to empty. By then, the sewer should be full.”
“What happens then?” Williams asked. Vermullen didn’t answer. It was a dumb question. “Oh, I get it,” Williams finally said.
Allston checked the time: 0243. Three hours to daybreak, and they were running out of time. The sun comes up quickly in the tropics and he wanted to be as far from Bentiu as possible when it did. But it all hinged on Vermullen blowing the bridge, sealing off the operation. The big Frenchman had delighted in explaining how he would fall back on the airport leaving a string of explosive booby traps behind to discourage any pursuers while his legionnaires parachuted in and secured the airport in the confusion. But Allston had serious doubts that he was going to hear the radioed codeword from Vermullen initiating the attack, much less see the explosion. He decided to give it a few more minutes. If he didn’t hear the codeword soon, he would break radio silence and call the mission off. Vermullen and Williams would have to escape and evade out of Bentiu but that shouldn’t be too difficult. They could make their way to a refugee camp where a C-130 could pick them up. The plan was simple enough in concept and, as any plan had a life expectancy of thirty seconds in combat, easy to modify. Allston wasn’t ready to give up. Not quite yet.
“Anti-collision light on,” Allston said. “Ten minute warning.” He checked the GPS and broke out of orbit, heading south for the airport. Bard Green checked in with two clicks over the UHF radio, followed by two more quick clicks. “Anti-collision light off,” he ordered. He was certain Green was behind him. He felt the aircraft shift slightly as the legionnaires in the back stood and shuffled aft. In front of him, a little box appeared on the navigation display. It was the computed air release point where the legionnaires would bail out. “Thanks, G.G.,” he said half aloud. The navigator was still very much part of the mission. He descended to 20,000 feet and checked the radar warning receiver. No radars were active.
“Five minutes,” the copilot called.
“Five minute check completed,” MacRay answered from the rear. The legionnaires were all standing, equipment checked, and ready to go.
“Depressurizing now,” Allston said. Again, he could feel the aircraft depressurize. He slowed the Hercules to jump speed. It was almost decision time. He would either hear the codeword and give the green light to jump or cancel the mission.
“It’s time,” Vermullen said. He scrambled over the edge of the riverbank and sauntered over to the tanker. The engine was still running but the tank was empty. He reached in and shut off the engine. He tapped the tank and slapped a small magnetic limpet explosive device against the outer hull. He set the timer and continued walking towards the buildings. When he reached the open sewer, he stood and casually lit a cigarette. He didn’t smoke and it was all show, just in case someone was watching. He dropped the burning match into the sewer, and walked casually away. For a moment, nothing happened. Suddenly, a wall of flame erupted out of the sewer. It moved with a will of its own and raced into town, feeding off the petrol-filled sewage ditch. He fell to the ground and rolled into a shallow depression. The tank truck exploded, sending a shower of flaming debris over the buildings and setting roofs on fire. Running figures emerged from the buildings, scrambling for their lives. Cars and trucks raced for safety, adding to the confusion.
Satisfied that he had a diversion in play, Vermullen unclipped the UHF radio on his belt and hit the transmit button. But the radio was dead. Because of the long fall and extreme cold, a drop of moisture had formed when it thawed at lower altitudes and shorted out the transmit circuit. He motioned for Williams to join him as he ran for the small pickup truck.
“Two minutes,” Allston’s copilot said, warning the crew and jumpers of the time to go. Allston peered into the night, willing the cloud deck below them to break apart. His left thumb hovered over the radio transmit button. He gave it thirty more seconds before he aborted the mission. “One minute,” the copilot said, giving the last warning.
“Jesus, mother of God,” Riley, the flight engineer said. “Look at that.” The cloud deck below them parted, and they could see Bentiu. It was lit up like a Christmas tree as fire spread through the town. A fireball lit the sky and shot skyward like a roman candle.
“Looks like an oil tank,” Allston said. He made the decision. It wasn’t the product of a logical, carefully reasoned process. It was just there, the end result of years of experience and training. Something had gone wrong and Vermullen was not able to establish radio contact. Instead, the fire was the signal and the diversion. Allston mashed the radio transmit button. “Picnic time, repeat Picnic time.” The raid was on.
The copilot counted the seconds down as the triangle, which marked their position in the navigation display, moved over the box in the center of the screen. “Green light,” Allston said over the intercom. The copilot hit the toggle switch on the right console, and, almost immediately, they felt the C-130 change attitude as the forty legionnaires bailed out.
“All clear,” the loadmaster called.
“Close her up,” Allston ordered as he trimmed the Hercules and turned to the left to enter a racetrack pattern high above the airport. Halfway through the turn, he saw Bard Green’s C-130 as another forty jumpers bailed out. He followed the plummeting bodies as they fell. It would be another high altitude jump with a low opening. While hazardous, it minimized the exposure of the legionnaires and insured they landed on their objective. Allston reached the end of the outbound leg and turned to the south, heading back for the airport. Ahead, he could see the town. The fire was generating so much heat that it had created a whirlwind and sparks and burning embers were showering the northern part of the town and setting it on fire. At the end of the leg, he turned again back to the north, hoping to see Bard’s C-130. On cue, the young pilot flashed his anti-collision light and promptly turned it off. As planned, he was still stacked in the same pattern, a thousand feet above Allston. “Lights out,” Allston ordered. He snapped his NVGs into place, and turned them on.
Again, they had to wait.
Vermullen dropped the equipment bag into the bed of the pickup. He unzipped it and pulled out two bandoliers of ammunition, a bag of hand grenades, and an old Russian RPG-7. The fourteen-pound warhead on the rocket grenade could take out any vehicle that might get in their way, but he wished they had their Shipons, the Israeli-designed and built, shoulder-held anti-tank weapon that could destroy main battle tanks, fortified targets, and bridges. The lack of Shipons was a deficiency he hoped to correct in the next few hours. “You drive,” he told Williams.