Allston agreed. “Where are they?”
“Running down the runway,” MacRay replied.
“Hold on,” Allston ordered. He climbed to 150 feet and banked sharply to the left, circling back around. “Short field landing,” he said. “MacRay, the moment we land, get shooters in the jump doors and on the ramp.”
“Will do.”
Allston flew a short downwind and located the two men on the runway. They were stopped and looking in his direction. “Keep going,” he urged, wanting them at least a thousand feet further on. But they were exhausted from the long run from the bridge. Allston climbed to 300 feet and circled to land. He touched down on the first fifty feet of the runway, slammed the nose down, and raked the throttles aft and over the detent, throwing the props into reverse. The airspeed indicator needle descended through fifty knots as they passed Vermullen and Williams.
“It’s them!” the copilot shouted.
“We’re taking fire!” MacRay shouted. “Six o’clock,”
“Hose the livin’ shit out of ’em,” Allston said, his voice amazingly calm. He left the props in reverse and backed down the runway, into the gunfire, as the shooters in the rear opened fire. The din was horrific as every legionnaire who could get to the ramp helped lay down suppressive fire. The smell of cordite flooded the flight deck.
“Stop!” the copilot shouted. He saw Vermullen lying on the ground but no Williams. Allston stomped on the brakes and moved the throttles forward, bringing the props out of reverse. The nose of the Hercules lifted high into the air as the rear skid hit the ground. The nose banged down. Vermullen was up and running. Much to their surprise, Williams was right behind. The Frenchman had covered Williams’s body with his, giving him what little protection he could from the hostile gunfire. Allston stomped on the brakes and ran the engines up as the legionnaires kept firing.
Vermullen was the first to reach the rear parachute door of the C-130. He grabbed Williams and pitched him on board. Willing hands grabbed the colonel and pulled him through the open door. “We got ’em!” MacRay shouted. “Go! Go! Go!”
Allston released the brakes and the Hercules surged forward. The gunfire in the rear slowly trickled off and stopped as they rotated, climbing into the bright clear morning. Allston leveled off at fifty feet and cleaned up the aircraft, flying low and leaving the threat behind. “All secure in the rear,” MacRay announced.
“Check for battle damage,” Allston said. The copilot and flight engineer checked their instruments and systems.
“A-okay,” the flight engineer announced.
“A-okay,” the copilot repeated.
“We got holes in the ramp,” MacRay said.
Allston reduced power and climbed to a thousand feet. “Controllability check,” he ordered as he gently cycled the controls to see how the Hercules responded. They were lucky that a round had not nicked a propeller blade. “It looks good,” he announced.
“We might want to take it easy,” Riley said. “Just in case.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Allston said. “MacRay, have the good colonel come forward whenever it’s convenient.”
“Will do, as soon as his men stop hugging him and kissing him on the cheek.”
“That’s the French,” Allston replied. A smiling Vermullen climbed onto the flight deck. Allston turned around in his seat. “Well, Colonel, that was a piece of cake.”
“Indeed it was, mon ami.”
SEVENTEEN
E-Ring
The click of Richards’ high heels echoed down the quiet and almost deserted corridor announcing her presence. She liked late Saturday afternoons in the Pentagon as it gave her chance to savor the building for itself and all that it meant. The aura of contained power that was part of the walls rejuvenated her, filling her with a sense of purpose and resolve. She was surprised that the doors to Fitzgerald’s offices were open and he was alone. He waved her to a seat. “Have you read the latest OpRep?” he asked, assuming that was why she was in his office.
He assumed right. “Yes, sir, I have. We have a problem.”
“Which is?”
The brigadier pitched her voice to match the seriousness of the situation. “The raid on Bentiu was not authorized — not by the UN, not by the NMCC, nor by AFRICOM. We definitely have a loose cannon on our hands.”
“Any reaction from the other side of the River?” In Pentagon-speak, the ‘other side of the River’ meant Congress and the White House. Supposedly, the Office of Military-Political Affairs was created to facilitate communications between the two sides of the river but Richards had leveraged her office into policy role. While Fitzgerald didn’t like that arrangement, it was one beyond his control. But Richards was not.
“I received a query from the Speaker’s office,” she replied. The ‘Speaker’ was the Speaker of the House and Richards’ sponsor. “I related what I knew and said I would get back to them.” She anticipated Fitzgerald’s next question and hastened to add, “I confined my answer to what is in the OpRep.” It was a blatant lie but there was no way he would ever learn of the private conversation she and the Speaker had the night before.
Fitzgerald nodded in approval. “We should have a better handle on what went down by Monday.”
“General, my sources are telling me that the Speaker will talk about the Bentiu raid on Meet the Press Sunday morning. Apparently, it’s the hot topic of the day and he’s promising that heads will roll in the Pentagon.”
Again, Fitzgerald nodded, masking his reaction. “Get back to them and confirm they know all we know. Make sure they understand there are still many unknowns and that we’ll forward any new information the moment we receive it. Stay on top of this. You may have to burn some midnight oil but I don’t want our political masters claiming we blindsided them.” The meeting was over. “Thanks for coming in.”
Richards stood. “It’s my job, sir.”
Fitzgerald leaned back in his chair and watched her leave. He folded his fingers and rubbed his chin with his thumbs. He wasn’t a happy man. His Air Force was caught in a no-win situation because his political masters on the other side of the River wanted to cuddle up to the UN, and the diplomats in the State Department had convinced the President that placing the 4440th under the operational control of the UN Peacekeeping Mission was critical in stroking the UN’s fragile ego. However, the end result was that the 4440th was caught in a no-man’s land, vulnerable to the marauding Janjaweed and hamstrung by a corrupt UN relief mission. He also suspected Richards was kicking the 4440th around like a political football to curry favor with the Speaker. He hoped to solve that problem by Monday evening.
He turned to the computer screen and keyboard on the right side of his desk. He called up his secure line and sent Richards a memo recapping all they had discussed. Satisfied that he had covered his backside, he composed another message to Allston, this one much longer.
Mission Awana
It was late Sunday afternoon before Allston finally returned to his office and had a chance to check his e-mail. He snorted when he read Fitzgerald’s message. “The games we play,” he muttered to himself. He hit the secure delete and consigned the message to electronic oblivion.
“What games?” Dick Lane asked. Allston looked up to see his Ops Officer standing in the doorway.
“I just got a magic-gram from Merlin. He’s playing Puzzle Palace games over Bentiu and needs more info.”
Lane was perplexed. “We covered Bentiu in detail in the OpRep; the time line, personnel and aircraft involved, exactly what weapons we recovered, even burning the town down.”
“I know,” Allston said. “You did good work getting that out. Specifically, Merlin needs a copy of this.” He handed Lane a single page document. “I can’t make the damn scanner work.”