“Lovely,” Allston groused. A thought niggled at the back of his mind. Then it came to him. “You know, I think we’ve got one of their satcoms. The last I remember, Sergeant Williams had it.” Vermullen nodded at Beck who disappeared out the entrance. “So,” Allston continued, “how are we doing on our defenses?”
Vermullen used the wall chart to recap their posture. “We’ve bunkered about half the DFPs on Charlie Ring, and have eight phone lines strung out to Delta Ring.” He touched the eight listening posts on the outer defensive ring that were tied to his command post with landlines. “We placed four where we think the Sudanese will ford the river. The other four are spread out around the perimeter. I have teamed a legionnaire with one of the Juban soldiers to man each one. We have thirty-two more listening posts on Delta Ring and need volunteers to man them. Their job is to warn the LPs with a landline, or the command post here, if they hear or see any activity. They must be very fast runners and know the terrain.” Toby said that he would ask for volunteers from the boys and young men at the mission. “It will be very dangerous,” Vermullen cautioned. “And if there is an attack, they will be on their own.”
“They want to help,” Toby assured him.
“They are very brave,” Vermullen replied. “That leaves 190 legionnaires to man Charlie Ring. Half of them are pre-positioned, again concentrated where we expect the attack. I’m holding the other half in reserve inside Bravo Ring.” Bravo Ring was the minefield that surrounded the mission but not the refugee camp that was closer to the airstrip, over a mile away. “I will deploy them as the attack develops.”
“What about the security cops?” Allston asked.
“Their job is to defend the mission,” Vermullen said.
“Who activates the mines in the corridors through the minefield?” Toby asked.
“They can be activated either here or by Sergeant Malone in his bunker.” The men fell silent and listened as a loud protest echoed from outside. “I believe that is Hans,” Vermullen said.
Loni Williams tumbled into the command post followed by Beck. “He didn’t understand,” Beck explained in French.
“Fuckin’ Kraut,” Williams muttered.
“Knock it off,” Allston said. “Do you remember that satcom you took off the Janjaweed?”
“The guy I morted? I still got it.”
“We need it,” Allston told him. Williams bobbed his head and hurried out of the bunker. “We’re gonna have to work on communications,” Allston said. Vermullen filled in more details of his defense plan as they waited. Allston was uncomfortable with the way he relied on his legionnaires to operate so independently in small units, but given their degraded communications, there were no alternatives. Williams was back in minutes and handed over the satcom. Allston turned it over in his hands, examining it. He removed the battery cover and tried to read the markings. “It’s Chinese. Why am I not surprised?” He snapped the cover back in place and turned it on. It was not a telephone but a transceiver. He cycled through the channels and found one that was clear of jamming and in use.
“That’s Arabic,” Toby said. Allston handed him the satcom. Toby listened as his face paled. “The Janjaweed are going to attack the refugee camp after midnight.”
“I wish we had enough mines to protect the refugee camp,” Toby said.
Allston cocked an eyebrow at the admission. “When you’re on the short end of the stick, mines are the great equalizer.” He checked the time. It was midnight. “I hope we’ve read it right. Otherwise, we’ve given them a target rich environment.” The two men were standing outside the legion’s bunkered command post as the last of the refugees from the camp streamed into the mission compound. The shrill scream of an incoming artillery shell arched overhead. They held their breath, waiting to see where it impacted. A dull explosion from the refugee camp echoed over the compound. “How about that?” Allston said. “As advertised.”
“I’ll be at the hospital,” Toby said. There was an infinite sadness in his voice. He knew what was coming. Allston watched the small man make his way through the crowded refugees who were huddled in big groups clutching their meager possessions. Vermullen emerged from the bunker with Beck right behind. Both were in full battle dress. “I’ll be at the refugee camp,” Vermullen told him.
“I’ll be here,” Allston replied. Vermullen climbed into his Panhard and Beck drove him slowly through the mission compound.
“You should stay in the bunker with Colonel Allston,” Beck told Vermullen.
Vermullen gave a shrug. “As long as they are jamming our radios, it is best I go forward. Besides, Major Mercier can handle it.” Vermullen was a master at small unit operations and had turned the refugee camp into an ambush. His natural inclination was to command from the front and that was where they were headed. “Either we are right or we are dead.” They drove through the now deserted refugee camp with its empty tents hanging like ghostly shadows in the night. It was deathly silent except for the low rumble of the Panhard’s engine. Vermullen keyed his tactical radio and hit the mute button. “The jamming is more intense. Let’s talk to the lads.”
Beck parked the Panhard near a hardened defensive firing position at the center of the camp that was linked by a field telephone line to the Legion’s command post. The DFP was at the apex of a big V formed by two lines of DFPs that opened to the south, the expected direction of the attack. The four firing positions that made up each arm of the V created a huge funnel with overlapping fields of fire. The plan was to channel the Janjaweed when they entered the V into a narrow lane as they passed through the apex and charged into a kill box flanked by Claymore anti-personnel mines. An artillery round drove Vermullen and Beck into the sandbagged foxhole where three legionnaires were hunkered down. Three more artillery rounds walked harmlessly across the camp. “The softening up begins,” Vermullen told the men. “Hans, check the men on the left. Encourage them to shoot straight ahead and remember where their comrades are.” It was Vermullen’s way of telling his legionnaires that he was with them. The old private waited for a pause in the shelling. He bolted out of the DFP and ran into the night.
Vermullen scanned the area with his NVGs. “Waiting is always the hardest part,” he told the three men. More artillery shells walked through the camp. Beck was back. The men on the left were ready and relieved that Vermullen was there. “Now tell the ones on the right. Beck grunted an obscenity in German and again disappeared into the night. “Stalwart fellow, Private Beck,” Vermullen said. The three legionnaires laughed. The artillery shelling stopped. “Now the attack begins,” Vermullen predicted. Beck exploited the lull and piled into the foxhole. The right side was ready.
Sergeant Thomas, one of Vermullen’s veterans, heard it first. “Bloody trucks.”
“And I promised you Janjaweed,” Vermullen replied. “So much the better, is it not? Much more sporting.”
“It’s not bloody Eton,” Thomas replied, his Cockney accent even more pronounced than usual.
Nine trucks charged out of the brush and accelerated straight for the camp. A machine gun was mounted over the cab of each truck and the gunners swept the field in front of them with heavy fire. Sporadic gunfire from the DFPs cut into the trucks, forcing them straight-ahead and deeper into the funnel. A truck was hit and rolled to a stop. The drivers bailed out as the legionnaires unlimbered their assault rifles and shredded the soldiers. The other trucks veered to the right only to encounter concentrated gunfire from the DFPs on that side. A truck exploded as the others cut back. Behind them, a large group of Janjaweed broke from cover at a full gallop and charged after the trucks, heading into the V.