The Peacemakers (38 page)

The lawyer stood. “We will advise the President and the Speaker.” The meeting was over.

The two generals walked in thoughtful silence back to their offices. Misner motioned for Fitzgerald to join him in private. “We drove a stake in their hearts on that one,” Misner said.

“You can kill ‘em but you can’t kill ‘em dead,” Fitzgerald said. “Hal, how do you read the Administration on this?”

“It all depends on how committed the President is to reconciling with the UN. He may decide to hang Allston out to dry to accomplish that.” A wry grin split his weather-beaten face. “He may nail our hides to the wall to make it a trifecta. But the political reality is how the public views the situation. Right now, the Speaker appears tone-deaf and the President looks like he’s isolated from the facts on the ground. Thanks to Tara Scott, we’re out in front on this one, at least for now.”

“How deep a pile are we in?” Fitzgerald asked.

“I don’t know,” Misner replied. “But your General Richards isn’t helping. You need to stomp on her.”

“I’m waiting for the right moment. No need to piss off the Speaker twice in one day.”

Al Ubayyid, North Kordofan, Sudan

Jahel tried to relax into the helicopter’s leather-covered seat but wearing a ceremonial robe and holding the gold-plated AK-47 upright between his knees made it difficult. BermaNur sat in the seat opposite and twitched nervously, uncomfortable in his borrowed robe and panicked by his first ride in an aircraft. Jahel gave him a reassuring look. It was the Sheikh’s second time in a helicopter; Waleed had invited him for a ride in one of his MI-24s to interrogate a Fursan suspected of spying for the Americans. But the man had protested his innocence so the MI-24 landed with one less passenger. But this helicopter was totally beyond the MI-24, quieter, air-conditioned and much more comfortable. He knew the crew was Chinese, which did not surprise him, but not the make nor type of the aircraft, which was French. He glanced out the window as the pilot circled the capital of North Kordofan.

A flight attendant wearing an exquisite headscarf that accentuated her eyes and beautiful face joined them. She spoke in Shuwa, the language of the Baggara, another mark of respect. “We will be landing soon. Would you like to circle the airfield first to announce your arrival?” Jahel swelled at the compliment and told her to make it happen.

BermaNur could not contain his excitement as they flew over the airport on the southern end of the large town. He tried to count the tanks, artillery, armored personnel carriers, and trucks lined up for inspection. “There’s over a thousand men,” he said as their helicopter landed next to three MI-24 attack helicopters. The flight attendant opened the passenger door and bowed them out.

Waleed was waiting for them in his dress uniform in the arid heat. He saluted the two Baggara and invited them to join him in the back of a small truck designed for review. Jahel handed BermaNur his AK-47 and climbed up the steps to the truck. Waleed stood beside him as they drove past the men and equipment on review and took the salute. They continued to the northern end of the airdrome where a complex of glistening white tents were surrounded by even more soldiers. The truck stopped in front of the largest tent and Waleed invited Jahel to enter while he waited outside. Inside, four Asian men, all in civilian clothes, were waiting with two Sudanese generals. Aides from both groups hovered in the background, ready to be of instant service. An interpreter stepped forward and made the introductions, his Suwa, Arabic, and Chinese faultless. He ended by escorting the men to a circle of divans and overstuffed chairs arranged on a priceless Persian rug. Jahel was given the seat of honor and BermaNur stood behind him, the AK-47 at the ready.

Refreshments were served before the ranking Sudanese general stood and went through the formal opening statements. He turned the meeting over to the second general who stood beside a large computer-driven screen. “You are all aware of the attack on Bentiu by the French Legionnaires and their American lackeys. It will be avenged.” The civilians nodded in approval with hard looks, their faces frozen. The general turned to Jahel, “I will lead the forces you have seen outside.” A map came on the screen and he tapped the target, 265 miles to the south. “But we must cross the Al Bahr Al Abyad before it floods. Unfortunately, the floods will come early this year and we must move now. In order to be successful, we must hold the French in place. To that end, it falls to the Fursan of the Baggara to lead the attack and kill this man.” A photograph of Allston flashed on the screen.

BermaNur snapped to attention as Jahel lifted his head and spoke. “The honor is mine.”

Mission Awana

Jill knocked on the door jam and motioned Marci Jenkins inside. Allston looked up, glad to see the two women had finally returned. They reported in with sharp salutes. “I hear I missed all the fun,” Marci said. Allston returned the salute and asked about G.G.’s funeral. “G.G.’s parents almost adopted me,” the captain said. “He was their only child and I cannot tell you how proud they are of him.”

“I’ve recommended him for a Silver Star,” Allston said.

Marci beamed at him. “His family will appreciate that. Mrs. Libby said they were thankful for the time they had together. She wished it was more, but it was enough.” There were tears in her eyes.

“The Libbys sound like wonderful people,” Jill offered.

“They are,” Jenkins said.

“Well, Captain,” Allston said, “I’m glad you’re back. See Major Lane and get on the flying schedule soonest.”

“Will do, sir.” She threw him a salute and hurried out of the room.

He smiled at Jill. “Well, Major, welcome back – finally.” He felt better saying the last bit. Jill returned his smile and made no attempt to account for the eight days it had taken her to reach the mission, much less the time she had spent in Ethiopia. “How are things at Fort Fumble?” Allston asked.

“Normal. One third of the troops haven’t got a clue, one third don’t care, and the other third are confused.”

Allston laughed. “Some things never change.”

Jill chewed on her lower lip. “Sir, ah, there’s something we need to discuss. In private.” He motioned for her to close the door. She did and turned to face him. “Colonel, Marci’s expecting.”

Allston was at a loss for words. “Are you sure?” he finally stammered. Jill nodded in answer. “Any idea who the ‘he’ is?”

Jill gave him the look she normally reserved for the totally clueless. “G.G.”

The answer set Allston back. He blinked. “Why did she come back? She should have asked for reassignment.”

“I don’t know, sir. You’ll have to ask her.”

“I will. And I’m really glad you’re back. To say the situation here is fluid is an understatement. I’m worried about the threat, so talk to whoever you talk to and get back to me with an assessment.”

“Will do, sir.” She turned and left, leaving a trace of perfume in the air.

Allston studied the empty space where she had been standing. She does grow on a guy, he thought. He refused to follow that thought and tucked it away. Still, it kept coming back. “Damn,” he muttered. He concentrated on Marci Jenkins and G.G. How had he missed that? As a commander, it was his job to be aware of any relationship that might compromise his unit’s morale. He had been around the flagpole enough to learn that a pair bonding of any kind chipped away at unit identification and morale. However, they were both captains and had been discreet enough that he was unaware of the affair. Fraternization was never an issue and was a moot point now. Still, Mission Awana was no place for a pregnant pilot. But thanks to Toby, they had excellent medical care. Another thought came to him. How many pregnant women did he see every day working around the mission? He put it aside, called up a file on his computer, and went to work.

He was still at it that afternoon when Dick Lane burst into his office. “Sir, we got a Herk inbound with battle damage and casualties. It’s Bard Green. I’ve scrambled the mission’s fire truck and the medics.”

Allston came to his feet. “Stay here and handle the radios. I’ll be at the airfield.” He grabbed his hat and ran for his pickup. Jill was right behind him. The airfield was over a mile away and he had to drive slowly to clear the mission compound. Then he accelerated, racing for the airstrip. “There it is,” Jill said, “to the west. It looks like a long straight in approach.” Allston was driving and couldn’t twist around to see it. He took Jill’s word, impressed that she understood what Green was doing.

The truck’s radio blared at them. “Bossman, Outhouse.” It was Lane calling Allston from Operations. “Be advised there are 128 souls on board and their primary hydraulics are out.”

Allston relaxed. The C-130 had two backup hydraulic systems plus the auxiliary power unit in the right wheel well. “It’s a precautionary landing,” he told Jill. He slowed and glanced at her. “Where did you learn about approaches?”

Without turning, she said, matter-of-factly, “I pay attention.”

Indeed you do, he thought. Another stray thought intruded. She did have a lovely profile. “Damn,” he grumbled.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He lied. “I’m thinking about the threat. Any updates yet?”

“It’s complicated and I haven’t gotten the total picture yet. But it’s coming together. I’ll brief you later today, if that’s okay.”

He wheeled the pickup to a stop behind the maintenance tents and they got out. Susan Malaby was standing on the parking ramp watching the damaged C-130 come down final. “Gear’s down,” Malaby said. They waited in silence as the Hercules touched down and rolled out. Green made it look normal. “The lieutenant did good,” Malaby conceded. The aircraft taxied in and shut down. Malaby sucked in her breath. The left side of the fuselage aft of the wheel well was perforated with bullet holes and hydraulic fluid was leaking from under the left wing.

“You call that a precautionary landing?” Jill asked.

Malaby was worried. “Not good,” she said. The three walked out to the aircraft as refugees streamed off the back.

“It looks like Bard saved another 100 or so refugees,” Allston countered. “In my book, that’s good.” An inner voice told him they had to do more even though the danger was ratcheting up. The mission’s makeshift ambulance arrived and two legionnaires deplaned carrying a litter with the body of a comrade.

Finally, Bard Green got off with his flight engineer. They walked around the Hercules, surveying the damage. “A legionnaire caught a round,” Green told them. “During takeoff.”

“Where and who” Allston asked.

“Al Araish,” Green said. His face turned hard. “I think the shooters were SA, but I can’t be sure.”

“Major Sharp, your estimate?” Allston asked.

“The good news is that Al Araish is north of the river. The bad news is that Al Araish is only seventy miles away. If it was the SA, they’ll probably try to cross the Nile in force and hook up with Waleed at Malakal.”

Malaby ignored them and examined the holes in the side of the aircraft. “Small caliber machine gun,” she announced. “We got lucky on this one. A heavier weapon with high-explosive rounds would have been fatal.” She thought for a moment. “We need to pull some panels off the wing to check the damage, but we should have her back in commission by tomorrow morning.” Allston was impressed and told her so.

“Major Sharp, let’s go,” Allston said. “We got work to do.”

“Which is?” Jill asked.

“We need a base defense plan. Like soonest. Get all the players together today.” He rattled off a list of names, starting with Jerry Malone, the NCOIC of the security police. “And we need to talk to Idi.”

“He isn’t here,” Jill said. “Most of the legionnaires are training in the field.”

“He never lets up,” Allston conceded. “Let’s make something happen.” Another thought came to him. “How did you know that?”

“That’s what I get paid for,” she replied.