The Peacemakers (8 page)

Allston and his small staff walked into the big hangar just after midnight. The four-man maintenance crew that had flown in on the C-17 had been working since they had arrived and were exhausted. They had erected a high framework on wheels that arched over the wing. A large black box was on the topside of the framework and mounted on a track that moved fore and aft as the framework traversed the length of the wing. The sergeant in charge explained that it was the very latest in X-ray technology combined with sonic scanning, and that when fully assembled and calibrated, they could scan the wing spars for cracks and traces of metal fatigue. “Normally it doesn’t take too long to do the actual scan, but since the hangar here is not air conditioned, heat buildup is going to be a problem. Keeping the equipment in calibration is going to be a bitch.”

“Do we have to prep the aircraft?” Malaby asked. The sergeant explained in detail that the aircraft had to be totally defueled as the fuel tanks were in the wings, and which inspection panels had to be removed. “That will take some time,” Malaby conceded. “I’ll have to stand them down to get them ready.”

Allston thought for a moment. “Prep and scan our two OR birds first” – OR meant operationally ready – “and get them back into the air ASAP. Do the three hangar queens last. How long before all five will be OR?” Malaby and the sergeant conferred. They agreed they could have all five C-130s flying in six days, provided the wing spars all scanned clean and free of cracks. “We need to talk.” Allston led Malaby, Lane and the other two majors into the offices on the side of the hangar. The air conditioner ground noisily, barely able to hold the temperature down to eighty-five degrees.

“We’re going to hustle the next six days,” Allston told them. “We’re going to fix the Herks while we keep flying, and we’re going to make this place look military. Move the tents and trailers into straight rows. Clean everything up. Cut down all the brush. Paint everything you can. Inventory the supply tents and find out exactly what we’ve got in the way of relief supplies. And get the tents organized.” The four officers stared at him in astonishment. “And set up a decent laundry service. I’m tired of everyone smelling like a goat and looking like they crawled out from under a rock.” He paused and smiled. “Hey, at least no one needs a haircut. Next, we got a problem with the fuel dump. We need to build a berm around the bladders to contain any leaks. Hire a local with a Bulldozer. Make it happen.”

“Finally, I’d like every Dick and Jane here to fly on a relief mission. I want them to see what I saw at Abyei. But it is voluntary.” He looked at them. “Any questions?” Four very unhappy officers left him alone as he turned on his laptop computer and called up his secure line to send an e-mail to Fitzgerald.

Estimate fully operational in six days. Need more Security Police and 200 side arms.

He hit the encrypt/send button and went to bed.

FOUR

Malakal

T
he early morning shadows retreated across the parking ramp and the five C-130s gleamed in the growing light. It was the coolest part of the day as the compound came to life, and the big hangar doors accordioned back to reveal a vacant and spotless interior. The floors had been painted and the maintenance stand used for X-raying the wings disassembled. The inspection team stood by their loaded pallet, looking very pleased with themselves. Outside, Allston and his staff walked around the aircraft. “Colonel Malaby,” Allston said, “well done.”

“Thank you, sir. Please tell the troops.” Then, “Oh no!” She pointed to a big banner stretched high across the front of the hangar announcing BUMFUCK SOUTH. “Who did that?” Allston suppressed a laugh. He suspected a gremlin named Loni Williams had been at work. “I’ll get it down,” Malaby said.

“Leave it,” Allston replied. They walked into the hangar as it filled with men and women, all wearing freshly laundered flightsuits or ABUs, and the UN blue beret.

“Well,” Dick Lane said, “this may be the first Air Force open ranks inspection ever held in Africa.” The four halted as the detachment formed up in ragged groups. Lane groaned loudly. “You can dress ‘em up, but you can’t take ‘em out.”

“Call the detachment to attention,” Allston told Lane. Malaby and the two other majors stood behind Allston as Lane marched forward. He stopped and came to attention.

“Flights!” Lane bawled. “A-ten-HUT!” The 4440th more or less came to attention. Only the eight-man security police detachment had a clue and looked military. Allston told Lane to give them parade rest and the order was dutifully relayed.

Allston stepped forward. “Good morning,” he said in a loud voice. “This is a new day and there should be no doubt you are in the Air Force. You are the proud aircrews and keepers of five of the finest aircraft ever built. I have told the UN Relief Mission that we are ready to support them to the max and prepared to move cargo. Our mission is to keep as many people as we can from starving, and that is exactly what we are going to do. Seven days ago, I asked that you volunteer to go on a relief mission and see what I saw. Since then, eighty-seven of you took me up on the offer. Would all of you step forward and form up in four ranks.” He turned to his staff standing behind him. “You’ve all been on a relief mission,” he reminded them. They marched out to join the others.

Allston looked over the four ranks of men and women, a mix of aircrews, maintenance, logistics, support, and security cops. “By flying on a mission, each of you has earned the right to trade in your UN beret and wear the hat of a small group dedicated to bringing hope and peace to this devastated land. It is your choice to wear the hat, but if you do, wear it with pride.” He motioned for G.G. and Williams to come forward. Both were wearing an Australian bush hat with the right brim folded up and snapped to the crown, and each pushed a cart filled with the same hats. Libby selected a hat from his cart and walked over to Allston and handed him the hat.

The pudgy navigator snapped a salute. “Welcome to the Irregulars, sir.”

The name surprised Allston as he returned the salute. He handed over his blue beret and donned the hat. “Carry on,” he said. G.G. and Williams passed down the ranks and the UN berets were quickly exchanged for bush hats. Only Malaby hesitated. Finally, she shook her head, keeping her blue beret.

Allston faced the seventy-four men and women standing in the rear and still wearing a blue beret. “You’re more than welcome to join the Irregulars. Fly a mission and see for yourself why we are here. Then trade in your beret with Captain Libby or Sergeant Williams.”

Williams came to attention. “Ih-reg-u-LARS! Let’s hear it. Ooh-Rah!”

On cue, the Irregulars bellowed “OOH-RAH!” It echoed over the ramp and the compound.

“Okay,” Allston said. “Let’s go to work. Dismissed.” The hangar rapidly emptied but Malaby stood there, shaking her head.

“Rather juvenile and stupid,” she told Allston.

“Hey, if it’s stupid but works, it ain’t stupid.” He couldn’t remember where he had heard it, but he hoped it was true.

E-Ring

Major Jill Sharp stood at the front of the conference room nervously fingering the remote control. Briefing General John Fitzgerald every morning was not an easy task, and most mornings she felt like a fish trapped in a barrel as he blasted her with questions. A few of his staff filtered into the room and talked easily as they waited. Brigadier Yvonne Richards swept in majestically and silenced all conversation. Jill gave a silent sigh of regret. Richards was absolutely gorgeous in the new uniform, which looked like it had been specifically designed for her. Jill knew she could never look half as good. At exactly 0700 hours, Fitzgerald entered and sat down. “Please be seated,” he said. He gave Jill his friendly look, which meant it was testing time. She bit the bullet and went to work.

“Good morning, General.”

“Good morning, Major. Tomorrow morning, I’d like to hear about oil and South Sudan. Okay?”

“Sir, that’s my area of expertise, and I have a briefing that I updated two days ago.”

Fitzgerald nodded. That was exactly the response he wanted from his staff. “Let’s hear it.”

Jill’s fingers danced on the keyboard at the podium and a map of southern Sudan flashed on the screen. “By 2007, the ethnic cleansing of Darfur was mostly complete. The government of Sudan has now turned its attention eastward.” An overlay of rectangles and squares appeared on the screen and overlaid large sections of southern Sudan, all to the east of Darfur. “The prize is oil. These are the oil concessions that the Sudanese have parceled out to foreign consortiums.” She pointed to the two most southern oil concessions. “However, the border between Sudan and the Republic of South Sudan is under dispute and both governments are fighting for control of the area and the concessions.”

This was what Fitzgerald wanted to hear. “Stakeholders,” he asked.

She answered without missing a beat. “China holds the most concessions, Canada second. With Darfur on its western flank secure, the Sudanese government is now clearing the oil concessions of the African tribes, to reinforce their claim. They consider the Africans infidels and therefore not entitled to a single cent of the oil revenues. To that end, the Government of Sudan has again unleashed the Janjaweed, and we can expect the Sudanese Army to start operations at any time in a repeat of what we saw in Darfur. We have monitored elements of the Army moving into the states of Western Kordofan and Northern Bahr el Ghazal where the Janjaweed are active.” Annotations overlaid the map on the screen correlating the Sudanese Army’s movement with Janjaweed activity.

“Is the 4440th in harm’s way?”

“Not at this time.” Jill used a laser pointer to highlight Malakal. “While Malakal is in the disputed area, no oil had been discovered in the southern most concessions. However, there are currently four Chinese exploration team working in the area. If oil is discovered, we predict …”

Fitzgerald interrupted her. “Who’s the ‘we,’ Major?”

“Every area specialist I talk to.” She rattled off a list of names that ran from the CIA to the State Department. “If oil is discovered, we predict that the entire area will be a major objective for the Sudanese government and ripe for ethnic cleansing.”

“What’s the UN doing?” Fitzgerald asked. “Sitting on their fat thumbs as usual?”

“Yes and no, sir.” Every eyebrow in the room went up. It was common knowledge that Fitzgerald held the UN in deep contempt and the major was telling him something he didn’t want to hear.

“This had better be good,” he growled.

“The UN mission is withdrawing its relief teams from Sudan. However, the UN peacekeepers appear to have a different agenda.” A photo of Vermullen in battle dress filled the screen. “The new commander of the UN’s peacekeeping force is Colonel Pierre Lavelle Vermullen of the French Foreign Legion. He commands a company-sized peacekeeping force of 200 legionnaires.”

“My God!” a voice at the far end of the table blurted. “He looks just like Idi Amin.”

“Yes, sir,” Jill said. “But he’s no relation. Colonel Vermullen is 41 years old, born in Senegal and orphaned when he was three months old. A French family adopted him and took him to Paris. After graduating from St. Cyr at the head of his class, he joined the French Foreign Legion. His men nicknamed him ‘Idi’ and it stuck.” She went on to describe how he was independently wealthy and the closest thing to a renaissance man the French military had produced in over a hundred years. He was considered by many to be the army’s finest intellect and the youngest colonel since World War II. He was also a battle-hardened veteran of nine peacekeeping missions with a reputation for returning fire when fired on. “There is a rumor that al-Qaeda has placed a bounty of 50,000 euros on his head, but we cannot confirm that.”

Richards glanced at the notes on her communicator. “He also has a reputation as a womanizer. At least he has that in common with Mad Dawg Allston.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jill replied. “Vermullen is also married with three children.” She keyed her remote and a picture of a pretty blonde Parisienne with three beautiful children flashed on the screen. It was followed by a photo of Vermullen marching at the head of the 2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment based in Corsica. “He is brave and unflinching in combat and has been wounded three times. He is the most highly decorated officer on active duty in the French Army. His men revere him and say they would follow him into hell. The French government appears to have given him wide discretionary powers to use force that far exceeds anything the UN will allow. Given his record and disposition, we expect him to use those powers regardless of what the UN Mission tells him.”

Fitzgerald’s fingers beat a tattoo on the table. He had to make a phone call and find out what the French were up to. Fortunately, he still had a channel to the Ministry of Defense in Paris. “Thank you, Major,” he said, dismissing the intelligence officer. Richards caught Jill’s attention and glanced at the door, signifying she wanted to talk after the briefing. Jill placed the remote control on the podium and went outside to wait in the hall.

“General Fitzgerald,” Richards said as she stood. “My office received a complaint from the United Nations Relief and Peacekeeping Mission Southern Sudan in regards to an unauthorized landing made by Lieutenant Colonel Allston on” – she checked her notes – “Thursday, January 7. He landed at Abyei, a village in the disputed border area, and in violation of the Mission’s standing directives.” She paused for effect.

“That’s the village where we lost a C-130,” Fitzgerald said. “And?”

“Our personnel cannot flout the UN’s established procedures, and my office will have to respond.”

“Respond to what?”

Richards’ mental warnings were in full alarm. She had pushed the wrong button, and while Fitzgerald had never fired a flag ranked officer before, at least six had found themselves looking at career-ending assignments when their tour at the Pentagon ended. She quickly consulted her notes and went into a recovery mode. “It happened on the day he arrived at Malakal and was on a local area checkout flight. The aircraft experienced an unsafe door warning light and he landed to check it out.”