The Peacemakers by Richard Herman

stormed out.

FIVE
    Wer Ping, South Sudan
    T he chatter on the flight deck died away as the C-130 descended to 800 feet above the ground. G.G. sat at the navigator’s station aft of the copilot and typed a correction into the navigation computer. The symbology on the navigation display in front of the pilots moved a fraction of an inch as the computer integrated the latest GPS inputs. “Release point on the nose,” he told the pilots. He jumped up and stood beside the French captain who was standing behind the copilot and picked up the visual references he was looking for. His eyes narrowed. He wasn’t happy with what the GPS and computer were telling him. Trusting his own instincts, he sat down and typed in another correction. “Ten minutes out.”
    The aircraft shifted as the sixty-one Legionnaire paratroopers in the rear stood and snapped their static lines to the overhead cable. Allston slowed to 120 knots, their drop airspeed, and automatically trimmed the big aircraft. The French captain pressed his earphones to his head to hear better. “Colonel Vermullen says they are ready,” the captain said.
    “Is he always the first man out?” Allston asked.
    “Always,” the captain replied. He keyed his FM radio and contacted the trapped patrol on the ground. He spoke in rapid-fire French. “Merde! They are taking incoming fire. The drop is unsafe.”
    “SAM! SAM! SAM!” the loadmaster in the rear of the aircraft yelled over the intercom.
    Bard Green’s right hand flashed out and hit the flare button, popping a trail of flares into their wake in a desperate effort to decoy the surface-to-air missile. Allston jinked the big transport to the left and then to the right as he cut a spiral in the sky. A Grail, a Russian-built shoulder-held missile, flashed by on the right and missed the Hercules. The men standing in the rear of the aircraft were tossed about like bowling balls in their heavy equipment, crashing into each other. “Everyone okay back there?” Allston asked over the intercom. The loadmaster reported that the legionnaires were picking themselves up off the deck and sorting out their equipment, but other than a few bruises, no one was injured.
    Again, the French captain contacted the legionnaires on the ground. The news was not good. “The incoming fire is growing more heavy, now from all sides,” he told Allston. “It is small caliber only, no heavy weapons.” He relayed the information to Vermullen and the jumpmaster. G.G. announced they were ten miles out with five minutes to go, which the captain relayed to the waiting legionnaires in the rear. A deep frown crossed the captain’s face as he listened. “My colonel says they are ready.”
    Allston didn’t hesitate. “Abort the drop. Repeat, abort the drop.” It was an easy decision, honed by years of experience and countless combat missions. “The jump is on hold until we neutralize the threat. We don’t need the bastards using you for target practice when you’re in your chutes. Everyone strap in. Loadmaster, that includes you and the jumpmaster.” The aircraft shifted as the legionnaires sat back down in the canvas jump seats along the sides of the aircraft. Allston firewalled the throttles and dropped to 200 feet above the ground. “Listen up, it’s fire suppression time. It’s gonna be one pass, haul ass. Captain, tell your troops on the ground to keep their heads down. Stay in contact with them and I want a constant update on what the Janjaweed are doing.” Another thought came to him. “Colonel Vermullen, I’m going to buzz the livin’ hell out of the bad guys and get their attention. They’re gonna shoot at us. You okay with that?”
    “Demerdez-vous,” Vermullen answered.
    “Stalwart soul,” Allston replied. He hit the com switch under his left thumb to transmit on the UHF radio and called the second Hercules behind him. “Marci, break it off and hold west of the river. I’ll call you in when needed.”
    “Will do. I