“Bloody hell, what are we supposed to do with the survivors?” Thomas yelled.
“What survivors?” Beck shouted back.
Vermullen was surprised to find the utility truck undamaged. Beck climbed in behind the steering wheel while Vermullen took one last look around. Gunshots echoed over them as the legionnaires went about their work. Vermullen snorted and climbed in. “The command post,” he said. Beck slipped the truck into gear as more gunfire split the night air.
Malone ran through the night, hard pressed to follow the nimble Dinka. Ford, the other security cop, was right behind him, breathing hard. The teenager stopped and knelt, motioning them to do the same. Malone almost ran into him and came down beside him. Ford piled into him. “Sorry,” he said, gasping for air. The Dinka pointed into the night. Ford’s night vision was superb and he looked to the side, getting the maximum definition. “Sweet Mother of God,” he whispered. “There’s two of ’em, not one.”
Malone turned on his NVGs and waited for the image to stabilize. Slowly, the greenish image came into focus. Two, eight-wheeled armored personnel carriers were parked beside the road with their side hatches and gun ports open. A machine gun was mounted in a turret aft of the driver’s compartment. “They look like BTR-80s,” Malone said in a low voice. He could feel the Dinka beside him shake from fear. “Tell him to take off,” he said to Ford. The cop whispered a few words and the teenager disappeared into the night, running for safety. “When in doubt, run like hell,” Malone muttered. Far to their right, towards the river, they heard machine gun fire followed by two sharp explosions. An artillery shell screamed as it cut an arc overhead, striking the mission. “Sounds like things are heating up,” Malone allowed. The diesel engine of the lead BTR rumbled to life and most of the soldiers climbed aboard. The second BTR cranked to life.
“There’s nothing between them and the mission,” Ford said.
“Except the mine field,” Malone said, “and us.” More explosions from the river echoed over them. “That’s different,” he said. “How many rounds we got for the Shipon?”
“Just the one in the launcher,” Ford told him.
The first BTR started to move, coming down the road straight at them. Malone fumbled with the missile, trying to recall Mercier’s hurried instructions. “Give it to me,” Ford said, taking the Shipon away from him.
“Okay, take him out. Try to block the road.”
“Got it,” Ford said. He rolled to his knees and lifted the Shipon to his right shoulder. He dropped the monopod under the muzzle to support its weight and stabilize it. His left hand grasped the monopod while his right hand fingered the fire control lever. He laid his right cheek against the tube and sighted through the eyepiece. Now he waited. He almost dropped the Shipon when the Dinka teenager skidded to his knees beside him. Two more teenagers were right behind him. They were each carrying a FAMAS and one had a bag of hand grenades, which he quickly passed out.
“Welcome back,” Malone said, doubting they understood a word he said. The lead BTR was moving faster now, with the second close behind. A few soldiers straggled along behind. Ford laid the crosshairs over the driver’s window and rotated the fire control lever to the first detent. “Mercier said it takes less than a second for the sight to resolve and set the aim point,” Malone offered. Ford counted slowly to three and rotated the lever full down. The whoosh of the missile and plume of flame shooting out the back surprised them all. The missile tracked true and Malone was certain the soldiers had seen the fiery blowback. “Run!” he shouted. He sprang to his feet and ran to his right, angling away from the BTRs. Ford dropped the launcher tube and followed as the missile hit the lead BTR less than an inch from its aim point. The tandem-shaped charge punched through the relatively thin-skinned armored personnel carrier, allowing the second stage to detonate inside. It was a massive case of overkill and the second explosion shredded the men inside and blew the engine out the back, into the second oncoming BTR.
Malone ran harder with Ford and the three boys still behind. The machine gun on the second BTR raked the night, kicking up dirt around them. One of the boys stumbled as a burst of gunfire cut the air above him. Then he was up and running again. The BTR pushed around the burning hulk as the sharp crack of an M-16 echoed. Ford had fallen into a prone firing position and was trying to draw the gunner’s attention so the others could flank the BTR. The gas tank on the burning personnel carrier exploded, coating the moving BTR with burning diesel fuel. It still came on, its machine gun firing wildly as flames washed over its carapace. One of the Dinka teenagers dropped his FAMAS and ran towards the BTR, pulling the pin of a grenade as he zigzagged.
A gun port on the left side of the BTR flipped open and the muzzle of an AK-47 poked out. The shooter mashed the trigger and emptied the magazine in a vain attempt to cut down the running Dinka. He missed and the Dinka reached the BTR. He tossed the grenade through the open gun port and fell to the ground. Nothing happened and Malone swore loudly. The side hatch of the BTR started to open as the grenade exploded, ripping into the men inside and blowing the hatch down. A secondary explosion rocked the BTR. “Son of a bitch,” Malone breathed. In the heat of battle, his sense of time had slowed down.
The Dinka jumped to his feet in victory and waved his arms in victory. A burst of gunfire cut into him. “Get the bastards,” Ford yelled as he squeezed off round after round. It felt good and he kept firing. Suddenly, a hand clasped his right shoulder.
“It’s okay,” Malone said. “We got ’em all.” They ran for the destroyed BTRs and reached the Dinka teenager. “He’s still alive,” Malone yelled. “Let’s get him to the hospital.”
“LPs Four and Five report tanks are in the water,” Mercier told Vermullen. The big Frenchman studied the chart on the wall of the command post and pinpointed the two LPs that flanked the river ford on the southern bank. The telephone line to LP Four buzzed and Mercier pressed his headset against his head to hear. “Merde!” he shouted. “Two tanks are across and eight more are in the water.” The two Frenchmen were speaking English so Allston and Williams could understand.
“Where’s Captain Bouchard?” Vermullen asked.
“The lines are dead,” Mercier answered. “He was on Charlie Ring opposite the ford.”
“I’m going forward,” Vermullen said. He would lead from the front. He picked up his FAMAS and waited as an artillery shell whistled overhead. A dull explosion reverberated through the command post. Then it was silent. Vermullen snorted in contempt. “Harassing fire only.” He motioned at Beck and darted out the entrance.
Allston analyzed the frequency and pattern of the shelling. As best he could tell, the SA only had two artillery tubes and, given the sporadic rate of fire, a limited number of rounds to waste on barrage fire. Only the airfield had been subject to aimed fire and only when a C-130 was on the ground. “Their spotter is at the airfield and doesn’t appear to be moving,” he finally said.
“He must be dug in,” Mercier replied. “He’s probably waiting for one of your aircraft to land.”
“We’ve got a security police team posted at the airfield,” Allston said. “Maybe they can find him before the next Herk lands.”
“That will not be easy,” Mercier said. The telephone line to LP Four buzzed and Mercier hit the toggle switch to listen. He looked at Allston. “All ten tanks are across the river. If they break through Charlie Ring, I will have to close the corridors through the minefield. Perhaps it would be best if you went to the hospital.”