The short American climbed into the driver’s seat. “Where to?”
“The bridge of course.” He pointed to the town, directly into the spreading inferno.
“Now I know why my momma told me never to volunteer,” Williams muttered. He banged the truck into gear and headed into town, laying on the horn to clear a path as they raced past burning compounds and fleeing people.
The legionnaires led by Major Mercier from Allston’s C-130 landed in an open field 200 yards from the southern end of the runway. In less than four minutes they were out of their parachutes, formed up in squads and running for their objectives. They rapidly cleared the shacks that served as the airport’s terminal and operations building, secured the runway, and set up defensive fire positions on the road leading to town. Only then did Mercier radio the code word that the airfield was secure. “Bastille, repeat, Bastille.”
The second wave of legionnaires, led by Captain Bouchard, from Bard Green’s C-130 landed 180 yards north of their objective, the weapons storage area. They had to dodge low scrub as they touched down and a few were scratched and cut up but nothing serious. Within minutes they formed up, moved on the compound and deployed around its northern perimeter. Bouchard scanned the heavy concertina-wire fence around the compound with his NVGs looking for gaps. There weren’t any. He motioned a squad forward and followed them as they moved along the perimeter until they flanked the two guard shacks on the road leading to the airport. Again, Bouchard scanned the area. Only one man at the gate guarded the army compound, and he was standing in the road, looking at the flames and smoke belching from the town. Bouchard keyed his radio but movement in the compound caught his attention and he broke the transmission.
Soldiers ran from the two barracks inside the compound and quickly formed up. Shouted commands carried into the night as the soldiers mounted their trucks. Within minutes, the convoy rumbled out the gate and towards the airfield and town. The French captain broke radio silence and warned his compatriots that company was coming their way. Again, he studied the compound. It looked deserted and he conferred with his sergeant. “Apparently, they left one guard at the gate. We need to get in without him raising the alarm.” The sergeant had an idea. He motioned for his men to form up on the road and quick marched them straight for the compound, hoping the guard would think they were returning soldiers. He hoped right. They were ten feet away when the gate guard realized they were not Sudanese and promptly surrendered. Bouchard ordered four of his men to guard the gate while he led the rest on a sweep through the compound. Within minutes, it was secured and they had reached the storage bunkers. But heavy steel doors barred their entrance. He radioed the code word indicating the compound was secure. “Verdun, repeat, Verdun.”
On the darkened flight deck, Allston tensed, waiting to hear what was happening at the airfield. It seemed like an eternity before he heard Major Mercier’s voice on the radio. “The trucks did not stop and are headed for town. Guests are welcome.”
Allston didn’t hesitate. They had momentum, and he radioed the code words that set the next phase in action. “Remember the Alamo, repeat, remember the Alamo.” The C-130s were going to land. For a moment, he wondered if Vermullen and Williams were still alive and how critical blowing the bridge was to their success. But it was too late to engage in second-guessing. The Monday morning quarterbacks at AFRICOM and the Pentagon would do that from the safety and security of their offices. He banked the C-130, reduced power, and circled down, certain that Bard Green was following him. He called for the before landing checklist, configuring the aircraft. He studied the terrain and finally found the darkened runway. It was clear for its entire length of 7000 feet. He wanted to minimize their approach time and opted for a steep approach typical of a short field landing. But this time he would not reverse the props and would roll out long to keep the noise to a minimum. He turned and came down final.
Thanks to his NVGs, he had a visual on the runway but his depth perception left a lot to be desired. His copilot called out their absolute altitude, the actual feet above the ground. They banged down. “Shut down one and four,” he told Riley as they rolled out to the far end. He turned off the runway and onto the large earthen parking area. Riley cut the inboard engines as Bard Green touched down. “Cock this puppy,” Allston told his crew as the ramp came down. The copilot called the checklist from memory and they readied the C-130 for a quick engine start and takeoff. In the rear, the two battered trucks rumbled off. Bard Green’s C-130 taxied to a halt next to Allston’s and within minutes, offloaded its two trucks. The four trucks raced for the weapons storage area, three quarters of a mile away.
Allston lifted his NVGs and checked his watch — 03:32. Two hours and thirteen minutes to sunrise. They were running out of time. Major Mercier climbed onto the flight deck, and Allston offered him a bottle of cold water that was gratefully accepted. “Any word from Colonel Vermullen?” Allston asked.
“Nothing,” the major replied.
“He should have let someone else do it,” Allston said. “He’s needed here.”
Mercier shrugged. “The Colonel trains us to act independently. Compared to what he does to us in training, this is what you American’s call a piece of cake.”
“Actually, that’s British.”
Mercier gazed into the night. “Colonel Vermullen is where he belongs, doing what he does best.”
The legionnaires at the guard shack pointed to the bunkers as they waved the four trucks into the storage area. Bouchard snapped an order and the lead truck backed up against the nearest steel door. A soldier connected a chain to the door and shouted at the driver to gun the engine. He did and let out the clutch. For a moment, it was a stalled tug-of-war. Then the truck inched ahead, its wheels spinning. Suddenly, the entire wall popped out. “That’s one way to do it,” Bouchard said. “Open up the others.” He ran down the aisle trying to make sense out of the markings on the crates. As best he could tell, each crate was labeled in Arabic and Chinese. He could read the Arabic but it didn’t make sense. “Does anyone read Chinese?”
The youngest of his men, a nineteen-year-old private, came forward and translated the markings on the crates. “These are all Claymores,” he announced. The Claymore’s were an anti-personnel mine about the size of a laptop computer. A pair of short legs extended from the bottom edge so it could be set up in the vertical and pointed at the enemy. A light infantryman could not ask for a better defensive weapon.
“Load them all,” Bouchard ordered. The men worked like demons and within minutes, the first truck was loaded. They went to work on the second truck.
The teenager was back, carrying a Stinger surface-to air missile. He pointed to the second bunker. “They’re all there! In the back.”
“Show me,” Bouchard ordered. The two men hurried down the darkened aisles. The teenager stopped and handed him a Shipon. They had found what they came for. The captain didn’t hesitate and ordered his men to load the Stingers and Shipons. Within minutes, the four trucks were loaded and headed for the airport. Bouchard searched the last bunker and struck gold. There were over 400 wooden crates of landmines. He ran outside and keyed his radio. “Send the trucks back.”
SIXTEEN
Bentiu
Williams sawed at the steering wheel cutting between frantic people fleeing the fire as they sped down the main road leading to the first bridge they had to cross. Twice, they had to pull over to let trucks carrying soldiers careen past, heading towards the fire. Then they were moving again. “They could use a fire department,” Williams said.