flat thud of an exploding grenade — but by late morning the sounds of battle had almost ceased, and the scattered, decimated militia force had been run to ground.
The Sudanese losses were high, while the American casualties consisted of two troopers with superficial gunshot wounds, and Colonel Bill “Hurricane” Harrison had no difficulty holding his defensive perimeter. What he did was take a map, draw a two-block-wide circle around the compound, and declare everything within its radius to be under his temporary control, citing international rules of engagement that allowed the unlimited use of deadly force to safeguard an endangered embassy.
Needless to say, these developments did not sit well with Hassan al-Mahdi.
“This is worse than a defeat. We have been made to look like
“Am I alone in this room?” he said, raising his voice. “Or do you all fail to appreciate what has happened? The heart of our capital has been
“Obviously, this is unacceptable, Highness,” Foreign Minister Nizar Socotra said. He was a plump, neckless man with a gray scruff of beard, and his cupidity was exceeded only by his fawning devotion to his leader. “I have already lodged a complaint with the U.N. Security Council—”
Al-Mahdi brushed him aside with a ferocious swipe of his hand. “Do not speak of it. Diplomacy is a salve, and nothing more. The Americans cannot be allowed to stay where they are. We must regain control of our city.”
“I agree,” Saabdulah said. It was the first time he’d spoken since the emergency meeting had been called. “Our response to an outrage of this order must be forceful and expeditious. And for that we will have to commit our military… which, I assume, is why the esteemed colonel has been summoned here this morning.” Hammik dipped his head in acknowledgment.
“What sort of force can you muster?” al-Mahdi asked him.
“It should be possible to have an infantry battalion in the city within an hour,” he said. “There is, in addition, an armored company attached to it.”
Al-Mahdi noticed his Minister of State shaking his head even before Abdel-Ghani caught himself doing it. “You disapprove of the proposed action?” the warlord asked.
“The thought of tanks rolling through our own streets troubles me,” Abdel-Ghani said. “We would be exposing civilians to tremendous danger, and the consequent property damage of such an encounter—”
“This is a time for strength, not counting the cost,” al-Mahdi said. “You are growing far too tentative these days, Abdel-Ghani. It surprises me.” Abdel-Ghani was silent in response. Al-Mahdi allowed his gaze to linger on him a moment, then turned back toward Colonel Hammik. “Mobilize your infantry,” he said.
The composite prop/rotors on the engine nacelles tilted down for horizontal flight, the trio of Ospreys buzzed toward shore with Lieutenant Colonel Wes Jackson in the lead slot. Bare minutes earlier, they had launched from the flight deck of the USS
Their rabbit-in-the-hat gambit had panned out beautifully. The PHIBRON and their escorts had encountered no resistance at all until they came within sight of the Sudanese mainland and were hailed by astonished coastal patrols. By this time, though, the first wave rescue birds had left their flight decks and were Khartoum-bound. Now Jackson briefly checked the multi-function displays in front of him, tweaked the autopilot to make a minor correction in altitude, and scanned the sky. He saw two flights of sleek Harrier fighter bombers on his left and right, the sunlight glinting off their skins as they escorted the Ospreys toward their destination. Within easy view up ahead lay the level, sandy curve of the Sudanese shoreline.
Cruising along at a steady 150 knots, Jackson sank back in his cockpit’s bang seat and ran the mission plan through his head for the umpteenth time. In his mind’s phenomenally clear eye, he could see the street grid of Khartoum just as it had appeared on Colonel LeVardier’s video-projected map, see the aerial layout of the embassy compound with the pickup coordinates superimposed over it, also as it had been presented during the briefing. Within minutes he would reach the LZ, an employee motor pool near the gymnasium where the evacuees had been gathered. The descent and subsequent takeoff from the embassy would be the hairiest parts of this carny ride; his flight would be deep in enemy territory and exceedingly vulnerable to ground fire. But, he’d trained his men well and they were ready. As ready as they’d ever be, anyway.
Thus far the operation had succeeded beyond all expectations: The paratroops had established their perimeter without sustaining any significant losses, and managed to tighten the ring around the compound while encountering only light opposition from a few straggling Sudanese militiamen. It was too good to last, though. The first, ominous rumblings of armor were heard—
The sudden cackle of automatic weapons fire from one of the forward tanks instantly drove home the point that this was no mere showing of tail-and-breast feathers. These boys meant business. With machine-gun rounds slamming the ground near his feet, Sergeant Joe Blount quickly decided to demonstrate how a kid from Brooklyn responded when someone bullied him — especially if he was equipped with a Javelin antitank missile. Moments before the armor had turned onto the wide avenue bordering on the embassy, Blount had felt the rolling vibration of its approach underfoot, and hurriedly lifted the Javelin’s lightweight, disposable launch tube onto his shoulder. Now he squinted through the command launch system sight, zeroed the lead tank in his thermal view, and squeezed the trigger.
The missile whizzed from the launcher, its kick motor ejecting it on a stream of pressurized gas, its guidance fins unfolding, the electronic sensors in its nose unerringly guiding it toward its target. Within several seconds the missile’s software recognized that it was diving into the armor of the tank and detonated the warhead. The eruption that followed was so spectacular that for several heartbeats Blount and his fellow troopers could only stare down- range in wonder. The Sudanese tank rumbled and shook with a massive peristaltic convulsion, its armor bulging out and rending where pale blue fireballs punched their own exit holes. The balls of flame soared up and up like helium balloons cut from their strings, and climbed to a whirling hover before breaking apart. Finally there was a whoosh of trembling, superheated air, and the entire tank was blanketed by a wave of fire. The Sudanese foot soldiers that had been flanking the knocked-out juggernaut simultaneously ran for cover behind nearby buildings and started blasting away at the paratroops with their submachine guns. The fierce, relentless fight for the embassy would last for hours, and be paralleled by similar confrontations all around the airborne’s doughnut perimeter.
Hassan al-Mahdi’s orders to his military had been unequivocal: He wanted the compound taken at any cost. So far, the Sudanese lacked the currency to pay the price.
In the cockpit of his Osprey, Major Wes Jackson eased back on his thumbwheel control to rotate the propellers ninety degrees — effecting a vertical position in preparation for touchdown. Thankfully, the other two birds in his flight had also made it through the enemy ground fire outside the embassy, and were swooping onto the parking area off his port wing. The approach had been nerve-wracking, to put it mildly. Light flak had zinged upward from several different directions during the approach, forcing him into evasive maneuvers. Navigation had been
