“Reloading,” Williams yelled. It seemed an eternity as the mast loomed larger with each passing second. “Ready!” Williams shouted just as Allston put the stick over to turn away. He jerked the stick back, snapping three gs in the opposite direction. Williams let out a loud “Oomph!”
“We’re engaged,” Allston shouted. This time, he half turned and half skidded the Porter around, giving Williams the angle he needed. Williams fired and the missile tracked true. Allston turned away as the jammer disintegrated in flames and smoke. The concussion rocked the Porter, sending it out of control.
Vermullen fired a green starburst flare to signal his left flank to fall back. Beck reloaded the Shipon and lifted the launcher over the edge of the DFP in time to see two tanks coming right at them. “Which one?” he asked. Vermullen pointed to the one on the right. The private sighted and fired. The missile hugged the terrain as it homed on the doomed tank. Unfortunately, the rocket motor’s plume left a very visible path back to them for the other tank to follow. Both men rolled out the backside of the DFP as the tank disappeared in a fiery cloud of death and destruction. They scampered for the next DFP as the second tank’s cannon traversed towards them. Before it could fire, another missile reached out from their far right and found the seam between the tank’s turret and hull. The explosion blew the turret off. Overlapping fields of fire had saved the two men.
Vermullen rolled into the foxhole and came to his feet and scanned the battleground. At the same instant, his radio came alive. The jamming had stopped and his teams were reporting in. Their luck was holding and the Sudanese were not pressing the attack as the legionnaires on his left flank fell back onto Bravo Ring in good order. They weren’t dead yet.
The Porter’s left wing tip grazed the ground as Allston regained control. “You okay?” he shouted at Williams.
“Do they serve cocktails on this flight?” Williams asked. He was fine.
Allston circled back, looking for another tank. He saw the road and turned, crossing it on a southerly heading. He popped up and could see for over a mile. The river was dead ahead and burning tanks littered the ground on the far side. The legionnaires had given a good account of themselves. “Boss!” Williams roared. “Helicopters coming at us!” Again, situational awareness made the difference. Allston knew that Williams was looking out the left and he turned to the left, bringing the threat to the nose. Three Russian-built MI-24 attack helicopters were bearing down on them in a loose V formation.
“Oh shit!” Allston yelled. “Hinds!” The nimble 25,000-pound helicopter had a top speed of 205 MPH and an awesome array of weapons under its stubby wings. He wanted nothing to do with one, much less three. But they were headed straight for Mission Awana. “Hold on!” Years of training and experience paid dividends as he firewalled the throttle and pulled into the vertical. He never took his eyes off the helicopters as he rolled over the top inverted. Automatically, he checked their armaments and only saw rocket pods for ground attack under the short wings. The Hinds were not carrying air-to-air missiles, which only left the 12.7mm, four-barreled Gatling gun under the nose chin. It was an awesome weapon with a 4000 rounds per minute rate of fire. Fortunately, it only held 1470 rounds and was limited to a forward-looking cone of aimed fire. It was a ground attack weapon and the Hinds would have to turn into him to fire. He watched to see how they maneuvered. “Shit hot!” he roared. The pilots were turning after him in level turns to the left and not using the vertical. He marked that up to fear of the ground and poor training. In Allston’s very specialized world, it was their death warrant. The difference between a normal pilot and a fighter pilot kicked in and his fangs came out. “Lock and load a Stinger,” he shouted at Williams.
The trick was to stay above the helicopters and keep their noses off him, which was no small feat. He shot out in front of the low-flying helicopters, which were 500 feet below him. The gunners tried to follow the Porter but their weapons hit the up stop at fifteen degrees of elevation. The lead Hind’s nose came up, finally bringing its machine gun to bear. Allston ballooned the Porter and immediately ruddered the Porter to his right, skidding away from the Hind. A line of tracers cut through the night well behind him. He circled back to the left, calculating the Hinds would keep turning. “Ready?” he called, his voice calm and controlled.
“Ready,” Williams answered.
Allston did a wingover and sliced into the Hinds. His timing and positioning were perfect. The helicopters were at their nine o’clock position at 500 yards with their tails to them. Williams fired. The Stinger is an incredibly fast missile and tracked true, homing on the exhaust of the tail-end Charlie. The helicopter fireballed and pitched forward. Allston pulled into the vertical, again using the cloud deck for cover. “Reload,” he ordered.
“This is the last one,” Williams told him. Then, “Ready.”
But where were the two Hinds? They were scattering the last time he had seen them, and were probably panicked by the fate of their comrade. But he knew where to look.
Vermullen had lost track of the battle. As best he could tell, his left flank was withdrawing to the minefield in good order, making the SA pay dearly for every foot of ground it gained. Far to his left, a pillar of flame shot skyward, again proving how lethal a Shipon was in the right hands. But what about his right flank? He hunkered down in the DFP and pressed the earpiece deeper into his ear, trying to make sense out of the radio calls. Slowly, a picture emerged. The tanks were concentrating their attack on his left and his right flank was falling apart as APCs and infantry opened up a corridor. “Colonel,” Beck said, gaining his attention. “A tank with infantry.” He laid the Shipon’s crosshairs on the tank. “This is the last one.” Vermullen chanced a glance as Beck fired their last missile. The missile barely had time to arm before it struck the tank’s carapace, easily penetrating the T-62’s seven inches of armor. The secondary charge detonated inside, shredding the four-man crew. An oxygen bottle cooked off, adding to the carnage.
Jill instinctively covered her ears as the Paladin raised its cannon to the near vertical and fired. The high angle indicated the target was very close and the projectile was arcing high into the air, trading range for altitude. She sank back against the sandbagged revetment and read the manual for the laser rangefinder/designator Corporal Rickert had given her. She picked up the small device and peered through the rangefinder. It was easy to use but surprisingly heavy at six pounds. She gingerly laid it in her lap as the Paladin fired again. Malone’s voice came over her radio. “Janjaweed horsemen are in the refugee camp. Repeat, Janjaweed in the refugee camp.” She switched frequencies to the channel the legionnaires were using. Mercier was trying to raise the four legionnaires still guarding the refugee camp. There was no answer.
“Close the corridor through the minefield,” she mentally urged. Her head came up when she heard the unmistakable drone of a C-130. She switched frequencies to the operations channel in time to hear Marci Jenkins voice announce she was on short final for landing. “Do not land, do not land,” Jill radioed. “The field is closed, repeat, the field is closed due to mortar fire.”
“Going around,” Marci said, her voice cool and calm.
Jill stood and watched as the Hercules leveled off twenty feet above the ground and started to climb. But before Marci could turn out, a mortar shrieked overhead and hit the runway in front of her. The Hercules flew through the explosion and cartwheeled into the ground. The cargo plane’s fuel tanks exploded and a pillar of fire reached skyward. Jill forced her eyes away, remembering what Allston had said about a spotter directing fire on the field. But what did a spotter look like? She climbed into the Land Rover and drove slowly around the airfield, determined to find the spotter. At the far eastern end, a flash of light from a low tree caught her attention. Flames from the burning C-130 had reflected off the lens of a spotting scope. She breathed deeply as her heart raced. In her excitement, she stomped on the brakes and stalled the Rover. She quickly raised the laser range finder and zoomed in on the tree. A woman was hidden in the branches, holding a radio to her lips, her body jerking with excitement, and her other arm pointing at the flaming wreck.