The Peacemakers (22 page)

It was late in the evening when Richards entered the mess tent. The food line was still open and a savory aroma drifted over her. She was suddenly hungry and joined the queue. Laughter and cheering echoed from the far end of the tent that served as a small lounge. She looked around. Everything seemed so normal with none of the signs of stress and depression she expected. “Ma’am,” one of the cooks said, catching her attention. “Did you hear that we made the news in the States yesterday?”

“No I haven’t. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

“It was all over the TV,” the cook said. “They’re running it again in about an hour. That’s what all the noise is about. Everyone wants to see it.”

“I’ll be sure to catch it.” Richards moved down the line and looked for a table. Allston was eating alone in a corner. She decided it was an opportune time to switch tactics and walked over. “May I join you?”

Allston looked up from the manual he was reading and came to his feet. “Please do, General.” He waited while she sat and then joined her.

Richards tasted the food. “This is excellent,” she said. He smiled an answer. “It has been years since I went through a chow line.”

“A lot has changed,” Allston said. He raised a hand, gesturing at the big tent. “This is very much part of the way we do business these days. So we try to get it right.”

“There’s something we must discuss.” His look seemed receptive so she pressed ahead. “I’ve interviewed twenty-four of your officers, NCOs, and enlisted over the last three days, and talked to numerous others informally. The high level of morale I’ve seen is outstanding. I have heard a few complaints, but that’s to be expected.”

“Ah, the dreaded ten percent,” Allston said. “One of General Fitzgerald’s favorite warnings is that if everyone who works for you is happy, you aren’t doing your job and he’ll fire you.”

“After what happened Tuesday, I thought you should take a down day for counseling to deal with the trauma your people experienced.” Allston explained that he didn’t have the trained counselors available. “At least it would give everyone a chance to call home,” she added. He assured her that was not a problem and they were in constant contact via satellite communications. In fact, he talked to his kids two or three times a week. She switched topics. “Those hats everyone wears are in violation of Air Force directives.”

“General, I learned a long time ago that morale and mission identification go hand-in-hand. That’s what those hats are all about.”

“I am also very worried about the pistols everyone carries.”

“We carry side arms for a reason, ma’am. We were able to rescue those refugees because Riley and MacRay were armed and shot the two goons who stormed the flight deck.”

“But they will be misused, and because a weapon is present and available, a suicide attempt will be successful or an argument will turn deadly.”

Allston didn’t answer immediately. “I’ll deal with that if, and when it happens. But for now, they’ll carry weapons.”

“I understand being armed when you fly, but on the ground? How can you justify that?”

“This is not a peacetime base. General. We’re on the front line in a very nasty little war with real bullets. Earlier, you mentioned standing down for counseling. This is the military, ma’am. We handle the hurt and stress of losing our comrades by honoring them, getting on with the job, and never forgetting who we are and why we’re here.”

“It looks like you’re playing cowboys and … “ She cut her words off in mid sentence.

Allston gave her his lopsided grin. “And Indians,” he said, completing her thought. “It’s okay to be politically incorrect here. In fact, I rather encourage it.”

The General’s head snapped up, her eyes filled with disapproval. “And why is that?”

“Because the last thing any politically correct asshole wants to do is fly the mission and get their politically-correct ass shot off. The Irregulars are committed to the mission because they believe in what we’re doing, and they are willing to put their lives on the line every day. That gives them the right to be as politically incorrect as they want.” He gave her his lopsided grin. “Besides, it’s good for morale.”

“And if I should tell you that I believe we can accomplish the mission and still be politically correct?”

“Tell me that after you’ve flown with us, after you’ve seen starving children, babies impaled on stakes, women raped and mutilated.” He stared at her, waiting for her to take him up on the offer. Her reply surprised him.

“You are a passionate man, Colonel Allston, and it seems you have filled your people with the same passion.”

What is she up to? he wondered. He glanced at his watch. “It’s time for that TV special. Want to see it?” She nodded and he escorted her to the end of the tent that held a large LED TV screen and a huge set of loudspeakers. They sat in the front row as Jill walked to the front and stood beside the screen.

She held a microphone to her lips. “This news story made every major network in the States yesterday. The Armed Forces Network is re-broadcasting it, commercials and all. Please remember we have a very important guest with us tonight, Brigadier General Richards.” A polite round of applause broke out as the screen came to life.

The program opened with a commercial promoting a hemorrhoid cream. “Yep,” a voice at the rear called, “it’s all about us.” Laughter rippled through the Irregulars. They fell silent as an aerial view of the Sahara filled the screen and Tara Scott’s voice explained she was aboard a C-17 inbound to an American airbase in the Sudan. “I love you,” another voice called. The audience quieted as Malakal came into view and Tara explained this was her eleventh visit to Africa. The scene shifted to the cockpit as the C-17 landed and taxied in.

“Lieutenant Colonel Allston and Major Gillian Sharp met us on landing,” Tara said as the camera zoomed in on Jill. Loud whistles and cheers filled the tent as Allston came alert. Jill was extremely photogenic. He glanced at her standing to the side of the TV, her face bright red. She gave him a helpless shrug. Her mouth formed a silent ‘I didn’t know.’

“Within hours of our arrival,” Tara continued, “all hell broke loose.” The scene transitioned to the Nuer hostages huddled on the tarmac. Urgency filled Tara’s voice as carefully-edited and blurred images recorded G.G.’s death and Allston’s reaction. Silence ruled the tent as the camera documented the killing and fighting. The scene transitioned to Tara standing in the hangar filled with the wounded and dying and the tone of her voice changed again, now soft and caring, as she led the camera through the aftermath and to Jill who was examining the weapons and equipment of the gunmen killed in the fighting. “Who were they?” Tara asked.

“It appears they were a suicide squad,” Jill answered. “Fortunately, the French peacekeepers arrived in time, or it would have been a total massacre.”

The scene shifted to the ramp as the Irregulars lined up under the tail of the C-17. “Captain G.G. Libby was the only American killed,” Tara explained, “and the 4440th honored their fallen comrade.” Only Allston’s voice could be heard as he called the Irregulars to attention. The camera focused on Loni Williams as he followed the coffin, saluted Allston, and then presented G.G.’s bush hat to Tara. The scene cut to Tara wearing G.G.’s hat. In the background, a C-130 was taxiing out. “For the men and women of the 4440th, it was business as usual the next day, delivering food and medicine to thousands of starving Africans. They are often called ‘trash haulers’ by the more glamorous fighter pilots, but they call themselves ‘the Irregulars.’

“They are led by an unusual man they call ‘the Boss.’ It would be a mistake to think they are like your neighbors next door. They are not. They are warriors who wear this hat with pride, and they want nothing more than to bring peace to this troubled land, and I am honored to wear their hat.”

The TV screen went dark, and for a moment the tent was silent. Then it exploded in applause, whistles, and cheers. Jill waited patiently for it to subside. Her eyes glistened as she looked directly at Allston. He gave a little nod in return. Slowly the pandemonium died away. “Well, that’s it,” Jill finally said. “I hope your loved ones at home see it.”

Richards caught it all and ran her mental abacus, adding it all up. She stood and walked back to her sleeping quarters, deep in thought. A note was slipped under the door.

Yvonne,
We moved the refugees to Mission Awana, about twenty miles east of here. We’re going to stay at Awana and build a camp that really works and is safe. Thanks for all the help and come see us if you get a chance.
Tara

“We’ll just have to do that,” Richards said in a low voice. She hummed a tuneless melody and went to bed. But she couldn’t sleep as she scripted a new scenario.

ELEVEN

Mission Awana, Republic of South Sudan

T
ara was waiting on the wide veranda that surrounded the mission’s guesthouse when Jill wheeled the big six-pac pickup around the corner and coasted to a stop. She jumped out and held the rear door open for her passengers. Richards was the first out, closely followed by Allston. He sucked in his breath as Tara came down the steps, dressed in a wrap-around modeled after the sarongs the local women wore. The cloth seemed to take on a magic of its own and shimmered and changed color when she came into the full sunlight. The effect was stunning. “Welcome to Mission Awana,” Tara said, extending her hand. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

They exchanged greetings, and Jill followed the three onto the cooler veranda, feeling very much out of place. The two women were beautiful by any standard and complemented by Allston’s rugged looks. As usual, Tara’s cameraman was recording the event. Jill was about to mention it when Tara motioned at the camera and said, “It’s all about publicity and promotion. Our special was number four in the ratings, and the network wants a follow-up. There’s a rumor that Sixty Minutes is interested.”

“We saw it,” Richards said. “You were very complimentary.”

Allston grinned “No joke. You should see my e-mail. So far, I’ve gotten three marriage proposals.” He pulled a face, as if he were considering it. “One’s very pretty, one says she’s wealthy, and the other I can’t repeat the offer.” He laughed. “And my kids had to change their cell phone numbers.”

Tara guided them to comfortable chairs on the veranda, and poured them a cool drink from an unusual ceramic pitcher. “I didn’t know you were married.”

“Divorced. But I’ve got two great kids.” The three women were very attentive, all for different reasons, as he told them about Lynne, his tall and beautiful twenty-one-year-old daughter, and Ben his gangly sixteen-year-old stepson. “Lynne’s in college and Ben is currently with his mother in Los Angeles. But he prefers to live with me.” The loud drone of a single-engine airplane caught their attention as it flew low over the mission compound. Automatically, Allston looked up and searched for the aircraft. He quickly found the plane, a high-wing, single-engine turbo prop Pilatus Porter. Tara and Jill studied his face as he took the measure of the pilot, looking for the telltale clues that marked an eagle.

Tara never took her eyes off Allston, sensing something was very different about the man. Then it came to her. He was a raptor, only truly at home in the sky, hunting on the wing. “That’s Dr. Tobias Person,” she said, breaking the spell.

“Toby Person?” Allston asked, suddenly alert. “Short, red-hair, pudgy, early forties, nice guy. He used to be in the Air Force.”

“He’s not pudgy,” Tara said, “but that does sound like him.”

Allston watched as the light plane circled to land at the airstrip located a half-mile to the east of the mission. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured. From the looks on the women’s faces, an explanation was in order. “Toby was the best Weapons Systems Officer that ever strapped on an F-15 Strike Eagle. He was teamed with Gus Tyler, one of the finest officers and pilots in the Air Force. Talk about putting bombs on target.”

Tara couldn’t believe it. “Dr. Person? He’s the most gentle soul I’ve ever met.” She checked her watch. “Why don’t we go meet him?”

“I’ll drive,” Jill said, feeling marginally useful. She wheeled the six-pac through the compound that radiated out in spokes from Mission House at the hub. “Mission Awana,” she explained, “is one of the oldest and most successful missions in Africa, all thanks to Dr. Person. Unfortunately, it is located in the disputed border area. So far, Khartoum has ignored it, but how much longer that will happen is anyone’s guess.”

“It certainly looks prosperous,” Allston said. Within minutes they were at the airstrip where three men were pushing the tail dragger into a hangar. A short, wiry man with red hair waved and walked towards them. Allston got out to meet him. “Toby Person,” he said. “It’s been a long time.” The two men shook hands. Person’s hands were gnarled and calloused, his grip strong.

A big smile split Toby’s leathery features. “Mad Dawg Allston, I heard you were in country. Upsetting any apple carts?”

“No more than usual.” The two men laughed, sharing the memories of when they were young.

“Reverend Person has invited us to lunch,” Tara said, interrupting the two old friends.

“Reverend Person?” Allston said.

Toby laughed. “Well, it sounds better than Parson Person.”

“I thought you were a doctor, like in M.D.”

“That too. Let’s go to lunch. We can talk and get caught up.”