The Peacemakers (31 page)

“I can’t blame them. Are the trucks still leaking?” The two rattletrap trucks they had on board were leaking gasoline and oil.

“We got the gas leaks stopped, but the fumes are still pretty heavy. It’s venting. Not a problem.”

“Stay on top of it,” he told MacRay. He checked his watch. Vermullen should have checked in. Is this turning into a goat rope? he wondered.

Vermullen forced himself to be calm as he searched for a place to land. The original plan called for them to land in the riverbed a mile south of the runway and destroy the bridge to seal off the airport and create a diversion. That could still happen, if they could land close enough to the bridge. He scanned the terrain through his NVGs, wishing the greenish image allowed better depth perception. Then he saw it. A branch of the Bahr el Ghazal cut around the southern side of the town, effectively making the town an island during the flood stage in two months. Fortunately, the branch was dry. Unfortunately, the town and another bridge was between them and their original objective. He pointed to a spot in the dry riverbed. “We land there.” He tightened up his turn and spiraled down.

“Relax, relax,” he told Williams, his voice barely above a whisper. He waited to hear the equipment bag dangling ten feet below his feet strike the ground. When he heard the soft whump, he pulled on the risers and stalled the parafoil. It would have been a near perfect, standing touchdown, except they landed on the equipment bag and stumbled, falling to the ground as the canopy collapsed behind them. Williams groaned under Vermullen’s weight. “I’m sorry,” Vermullen said as he stood. He pulled Williams to his feet.

“Pas de tout,” Williams replied. He gathered up the canopy as Vermullen shouldered the heavy equipment bag.

They hunched over and ran for the bank, finding cover in the heavy brush. They quickly shed their heavy jumpsuits and buried them along with the parachute and their harnesses. Vermullen checked his GPS. They were exactly 2.32 miles from the bridge.
“Merde,”
he breathed. It was further than he had hoped but he wasn’t going to quit. He motioned Williams forward, to the edge of the riverbed. Ahead of them, loud music he had never heard blared from a CD player and grated on his nerves. The two men stopped at the base of the steep bank the river had down-cut during flood stage and caught their breath. Vermullen silently crawled up the bank and got his bearings.

They were on the edge of an open area with brightly lit buildings on the other side. A tanker truck was parked in the open area. They watched as a car drove out of the town and stopped beside the tanker. A man got out of the car and pulled a hose from the side of the tanker. Within a few minutes, he had refueled his car and banged on the door of the truck. A hand came out the window and the man pressed a wad of money into the open palm. He walked back to his car and drove off, leaving the hose on the ground. Because of the angle of the hose, Vermullen realized they were on high ground and the terrain sloped down and northward, away from them and into town. He smiled. It was almost too easy.

Vermullen stood up, handed his FAMAS to Williams. “Cover me,” he said. He ambled towards the buildings and looked around until he found an open sewer. He hid in the shadows as another car drove up and went through the refueling routine. Again, money exchanged hands with the sleepy driver in the cab. The car drove off. They had found an ambitious entrepreneur selling stolen petrol. Vermullen pulled the fuel hose out as far as it could go but it didn’t reach the sewage ditch. He thought for a few moments, drew his knife, and walked back to the truck. He pounded on the door. This time, the sleeper stuck his head out and slurred a fine curse in Chinese about chicken-legged whores mothering misbegotten black bastards. Vermullen’s hands flashed. His right hand came up, driving his knife into the soft skin under the man’s jaw as his left hand slammed the man’s head down onto the blade. Vermullen jerked hard and severed the man’s thorax before dragging him out the window.

He dropped the twitching body on the ground and rolled it under a wheel. Without a word, he got in and backed the tanker up twenty feet, rolling over the man. He got out and fiddled with the hose nozzle before getting it to lock on. He laid it in the open sewer and watched for a few moments. Not satisfied with the rate of flow, he went back to the tanker and started the engine. He played with levers and valves until fuel gushed out of the open nozzle and into the ditch.

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.