The Peacemakers (17 page)

“Ah, shit,” he moaned. “Idi, you need to read this.” The big Frenchman read the report without comment. Allston motioned her to a chair. She sat down gracefully, her wide hips almost filling the seat. He stifled an inward groan and looked away. She was too full-figured to meet the beauty standards demanded by Hollywood and fashion magazines, but she was incredibly alluring and he was suddenly aware of an aching void in his life. He forced himself to concentrate. “Okay, what happened?”

Jill related how she had interviewed the UN head of mission and his two cohorts, the Zulu chief and Nigerian general, who she called the three stooges. They had talked around her in French and Swahili, assuming that she was a typical American and only spoke English. Fortunately, she was fluent in both languages. Based on what she heard, she filled in the gaps and was certain the three men were selling UN supplies to the highest bidder on the black market. Her problem was proving it. “From Addis,” she continued, “I went to Djibouti where all UN supplies arriving by ship are offloaded. The Air Force detachment there is a study in frustration and the UN won’t allow them to airlift even a toothpick into the Sudan. It’s all got to go by truck, so I bribed my way onto a UN truck convoy that was destined for Malakal. That’s when it got interesting.”

She recounted how the fourteen-truck convoy was never meant to reach its destination and had lost five trucks in the first two hundred miles. By the time they reached the Sudan border, they were down to three trucks. Two of the trucks disappeared that night and the only way she was able to continue was by paying more bribes. But she ran out of money and had to promise the driver she would pay him even more when they reached Malakal. It had been touch and go and at one point she was certain he was going to abandon her. “It got a little physical, but I convinced him otherwise. Based on what I overheard from the drivers, about one truck in ten reaches its destination. I don’t know how much the three stooges are skimming off the top, but it’s substantial. You should see their homes and cars in Addis.”

“Not to mention their women,” Allston grumbled. “It sounds like the African version of the Iraqi ‘Oil for Food’ scam is alive and well.”

“That’s the good part,” Jill said. “Apparently, the three stooges promised the Sudanese government that the UN peacekeepers would not react to any incident by the Janjaweed as long as they get their kickbacks.”

“Well, we certainly have been reacting lately,” Allston said. “Which is contrary to their game plan.”

Jill nodded. “According to the jungle telegraph, the three stooges popped a few hemorrhoids when you rescued the crew that crashed at the refugee camp.”

“So you heard about that even when traveling in the outback,” Vermullen said.

“The jungle telegraph,” Jill replied, “is very efficient.” She didn’t mention the rumor of a deal cut between the UN commissioners and the Sudanese government over oil.

G.G. knocked at the door. “They’re back,” he sang. “The honorable Major Hamid Waleed and crew.”

“What the hell does he want now?” Allston groused, still angry from the last time they had met.

“The supply truck Major Sharp came in on,” G.G. answered.

Allston jammed on his hat and ran out of his office. “No fucking way.” Vermullen, Jill, and G.G. were right behind him.

“We’re due for re-supply,” Vermullen said.

“If what’s on the truck is yours, you’ll get it,” Allston promised. He slowed when he saw Waleed. “G.G., translate for me. Tell him to get the fuck off my base.”

G.G. spoke in Arabic and greeted the Sudanese major, carefully following the established rituals. After a lengthy reply from Waleed, the two men babbled on for a few minutes. It was enough for Allston to cool down. They finally reached an end and G.G. turned to Allston. “He says he must confiscate the truck as it is smuggling contraband.”

“What contraband?” Allston demanded.

“Weapons,” Waleed answered in English.

Vermullen headed for the loaded truck, which was still parked in front of the hangar. He ripped off the tarpaulin covering the load. Over half of the crates were clearly marked for the Legion. Vermullen fixed Waleed with a hard stare. For a moment, it was a contest of wills. Then the Frenchman relaxed and looked away. “Let him have it.”

“Why?” Allston demanded. Vermullen jutted his chin towards the hangar. Over a hundred Sudanese soldiers were scattered around the perimeter, their weapons at the ready. In his anger, Allston had lost situational awareness. It was a mistake he would not make again. Waleed shot a look of contempt at Allston and Vermullen, turned and barked a command. Within moments, the loaded truck was moving away as the soldiers followed on foot. Allston burned with anger. Slowly, he regained control and forced himself to calm down. “How are you doing on munitions?” he asked Vermullen.

“We’re getting low,” Vermullen admitted.

“They’re probably taking it to the Sudanese Army dump at Bentiu,” Jill said.

“How do you know that?” Allston asked.

She shrugged. “The truck driver. Some men can’t keep their mouth shut around women.”

Allston pulled a face. “And I thought that only applied to American males.”

“It’s a universal affliction,” Vermullen added. “Leave it for now.” He wasn’t ready to take on Waleed and the Sudanese Army.

NINE

Malakal

A
llston stood in the operations office attached to the big hangar and wondered how long the creaky air conditioner in the window had to live. It still managed to keep the temperature down to a relatively reasonable eighty-four degrees but was making ominous sounds. He made a mental note to requisition a new one before the machine’s demise, which was long overdue. A man’s voice crackled over the UHF radio behind the scheduling counter. “UN Flight Ops, this is Dumbo One.” Since he was alone in the office, Alston stretched his arm across the waist-high counter for the remote mike, but couldn’t reach it. “UN Flight Ops,” the voice repeated, now more insistent, “I say again, this is Dumbo One.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a bunch,” Allston muttered. He did an easy arm lift and swung his legs over the counter, landing on the other side.

“You’ll break your neck, Colonel,” Jill called from the doorway. Her voice was cool and reserved as always, the dispassionate observer.

Allston wished he could read her better. He smiled as his slightly misshapen jaw offset to the right and his hazel eyes flashed with amusement. “Piece of cake,” he told her, playing to his fighter pilot image. It normally impressed the ladies, but not Jill Sharp. He scooped up the mike as Captain G.G. Libby finally returned from the latrine. Allston mashed the transmit button. “Dumbo One, UN Flight Ops, go ahead.”

“Roger, UN Flight Ops. Dumbo One is inbound, fifteen minutes out, with a code three. Request priority handling.” A code three was a distinguished visitor equivalent to a four star general or admiral, a cardinal, or a special assistant to the President, someone less than God but much more than a regular passenger.

Allston shot G.G. a look. “Sorry, Colonel,” G.G. replied, “no Dumbos are on the schedule.” Allston tossed the mike to Libby, an unspoken command to deal with it. Since Malakal didn’t have a control tower, Libby checked the meteorological display and keyed the mike. “Dumbo One be advised the wind is calm, altimeter 30.10. Recommend Runway Two-three for landing, no other reported traffic.”

A relieved pilot answered. “Roger, Flight Ops. Request minimum time on the ground for offload and transportation for five passengers.”

“Well,” Jill said, “no code three travels alone.”

Allston gave her chain a little tug. “I think I knew that, Major.” Jill never blinked. “I suppose we should go howdy those folks,” he said. “They won’t appreciate walking in, not in this heat.”

“I’ll get the two six-pacs,” Jill replied. “Their air conditioners are still working and they’ve got room to haul any baggage.” She picked up the phone, spoke a few words in Dinka, and listened to the reply before hanging up. “They’ll be here in five minutes.” For reasons beyond Allston’s understanding, when Jill was involved the locals who worked for the Americans were not on African time, which otherwise meant jacking up the time required by a factor of five. True to her word, the two four-wheel drive pickups with their big crew cabs were waiting outside the hangar in four minutes. Allston and Jill walked out and climbed inside for the short drive to the parking apron. She told the drivers to keep the engines running and the air conditioners on.

The two Air Force officers watched in silence as the C-17 entered the pattern and turned onto the base leg. Allston’s eyes narrowed as the big airlifter came down final and he gauged the approach and landing. “Not bad,” he allowed, paying the pilot a rare compliment.

Libby’s voice came over Allston’s handheld UHF radio. “Dumbo, roll out long and taxi to the parking area at the far end. Transportation is waiting for your code three.” Again, they waited in silence while the C-17 taxied in and a ground crew turned and marshaled it to a stop next to a C-130. The engines spun down and the crew door flopped down. A lone figure deplaned, looked around, and walked towards them.

Allston ran his hand through his short dark hair in frustration. “That’s not the code three. That’s Brigadier General Yvonne Richards.”

Jill was surprised. “You know her?”

“Oh, yeah. She hates my guts and wants my head bad enough to fly sixty-five hundred miles to serve it up.”

Jill was fully aware of his reputation and that Richards was an extremely attractive woman. She gave him the look he couldn’t read. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“Make a strafing run on her? I only met her once, eight weeks ago in the Pentagon. I’m not suicidal, Major.”

“Sorry, sir.” She sat up straight, her eyes wide when she saw the other four passengers step off the C-17. “Is that who I think it is?”

The Dinka driver immediately recognized the actress. “Yes, mum. She comes here many times. She is loved in Africa.”

“So that’s our code three.” Allston shook his head and groaned. “We got better things to do than baby-sit a Hollywood star with White House connections and a clueless one-star. Why would anyone in their right mind come to Malakal?”

Jill opened her door to get out. “It may have something to do with why we’re here.” She paused. “Or maybe it’s about Abyei.”

Allston climbed out of the six-pac to greet Richards as she walked in from the C-17. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the beautiful actress following the general. “Don’t get distracted,” Jill warned. “Richards is all business. Let me handle her as much as I can.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Allston replied. He raked his bush hat to the right angle and walked with measured stride towards Richards. He stopped six feet short and threw her a sharp salute. “Welcome to the 4440th and Malakal,” he said. She returned the salute as Jill joined them. Jill snapped a salute, which the general returned with a little smile.

Richards turned to the actress. “Tara, may I introduce Colonel Allston, the commander of the detachment, and Major Sharp, the detachment’s Intelligence officer.”

Tara Scott was one of those celebrities who truly needed no introduction. She had won two Academy Awards and spent the majority of her fortune on African relief. She was a petite five foot four with dark blonde hair, startling green eyes, and a magnificent figure. She extended her right hand to Allston, instantly captivating him as her ever-present cameraman recorded the scene. “General Richards has told me all about you,” she purred. She introduced the four men with her. Only the cameraman was unarmed and the other three were bodyguards.

Allston gestured at the waiting pickups. “Why don’t we get out of the sun? It’s cooler inside.” Tara smiled at him as she took his hand and climbed into the crew cab. He turned in time to see Richards staring at him. What is she up to? he thought. He held the door for her. “General?” She climbed in for the short drive to the hangar.

The Irregulars were a tight-knit group and word of the actress’s arrival spread like wildfire. Within minutes, everyone who could think of an excuse was gathered in the hangar and craning their necks to get a glimpse of Tara Scott. Vermullen arrived in his battered Panhard utility truck and pushed through the crowd with Hans in tow. Even the old German wanted to meet her.

Richards sucked in her breath when she saw Vermullen. Nothing had prepared her for the shear physical presence of the man. Allston made the introductions and Vermullen snatched off his blue beret. “Mademoiselle Scott, this is indeed a rare privilege. My wife and I were enchanted by your last movie, ‘Flying Blind,’ and your work in African relief has made a difference.”

Tara keyed on his French accent and replied in that language, thanking him for his kind words. Unexpectedly, she turned to G.G. and read his nametag. “Do you go by Gigi?”

The portly captain managed a very lame “Yes, ma’am” and became an instant fan.

“Well, folks, we need to get organized,” Allston said, taking charge. He turned to Richards. “General, I assume we need to talk.” She nodded in answer. “Major Sharp, Captain Libby, please escort our guests to the mess tent and find them billets. The ladies can use my quarters and I can move in with Major Lane.” Within moments, the office had cleared out and he was alone with Richards. He cocked an eyebrow. “How may I help you, General?”

“General Fitzgerald sent me here to evaluate the situation on the ground and report back with recommendations as to our continued involvement. Needless to say, your conduct of operations has raised quite a few concerns.”

“I can live with that. I’ll detail Major Sharp to escort you and run interference. She’s very good at that. But I do have a concern. Why is Scott here? This is a very dangerous part of the world.”

“Colonel, the world has changed and image is everything. We are here in a humanitarian role and Tara reinforces that image. She wants to visit the refugee camp at Abyei.”

“General, Hollywood stars with bullet holes in them are as dead as anyone else.” It was obvious Richards hadn’t heard the news. “The Army of the Sudan wiped Abyei off the face of the earth two days ago. Luckily, we got most of the refugees out the day before.” He waited as the reality of where she was finally registered. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve got to see a very good pilot about a flight. I’ll have someone escort you to the mess tent.”