The Peacemakers (7 page)

Allston almost said that what he had seen did not look like neutrality or peace. An inner voice warned him to caution and he remained silent. “Thank you for coming so promptly,” the head of mission said. Allston was dismissed and he quickly left, glad to escape. Outside, he asked the gorgeous secretary to please call for a staff car. He waited while she made the call in case she forgot the moment he was out of sight. Vermullen came out of the office and they walked in silence until they were out of the building and on the steps.

“You must learn to handle our UN masters,” Vermullen cautioned, seemingly undisturbed by the peacekeeping mission’s abandoning the southern tribes to the Sudanese. “As for the standing operational orders you were issued, I view our relationship as collegial and not as a commander and subordinate. We must work together to be effective.”

“Sir, have you been out in the field?” Allston asked.

“In the Sudan? Not yet. Like you, I just arrived, but I have been on peace keeping missions in other parts of Africa many times.” A staff car pulled up and a much older legionnaire hustled to open the door. “Ah, there’s Hans. On the spot, as always. By the way, you were right about the uniforms.” The private held the door and snapped a sharp open-handed salute as the colonel squeezed his bulk inside. The car drove off and another staff car arrived, this one a black Mercedes flying a UN flag. The head of the peacekeeping mission came down the steps with the gorgeous secretary from his office on his arm. They ignored him and got inside.

“Over here, Mr. Colonel,” a voice said. It was Allston’s driver.

“Any idea where they’re going?” Allston asked.

“The Hilton, where else?” the driver replied. “For lunch and afternoon activities.” He led the way to their car. “Where to, Mr. Colonel? The Hilton?” He laughed uproariously, enjoying his own humor.

Allston never considered it. “Where do they sell hats?” The driver pulled out into the traffic, and, within minutes, they were inching their way past crowded stalls in an open-air market. Allston saw what he wanted. “Over there.” The driver stopped and Allston pointed to a stall with hats. “The stall with the tan Australian bush hats. Can you negotiate for me?” He pointed to the rugged, wide-brimmed hats with a leather chinstrap and the right side of the brim folded up and snapped to the side of the low crown.

“You want one of those?” the driver asked.

“Not one, two hundred.”

Malakal

“Colonel, there’s a C-17 ten minutes out,” the Ops Officer, Dick Lane, said. He was monitoring the UHF radio in airlift operations, the closest thing they had to a control tower, and checked the meteorological display before keying the mike. “Roger Dumbo Four. The wind is calm, altimeter 29.99. Recommend Runway Two-three for landing, no other reported traffic.”

It was Allston’s first full day after returning from Addis Ababa and was still learning the ropes. “A Dumbo, isn’t that unusual?” Dumbo was the call sign for a C-17 Globemaster III, the Air Force’s primary heavy lifter cargo aircraft.

“Very,” Lane replied. He explained that their normal logistical supply line was by truck out of Ethiopia. “The UN contracts for civilian trucks to haul all supplies. I’d guess that over half the loads are stolen or hijacked along the way. They even take JP5, which they can’t use.” JP5 was the jet fuel the C-130s burned. “We buy it back from the bastards who stole it. According to rumor, the three UN commissioners get a couple of million euros a month from kickbacks outta the arrangement. Needless to say, someone is gonna be very pissed.” The two men walked out to the ramp to watch the Air Force’s main cargo lifter taxi in. “That’s what I want to fly,” Lane said, his voice wistful.

“But you’re stuck in Herks,” Allston said. Lane nodded in reply, a less than happy man.

The C-17 taxied into the compound, its 170-foot wingspan barely clearing the parked C-130s. Sergeant Loni Williams and two wing walkers guided it through a tight turn and, by judicious reversing of thrust, were able to turn it around. Lieutenant Colonel Susan Malaby, Allston’s cantankerous maintenance officer, was beside herself as the cargo was offloaded. “Colonel,” she called, “we’re golden! We even got the engine we needed.” A new Allison T56 turboprop engine on its dolly rolled down the huge aircraft’s cargo ramp under the high T-tail. Maintenance crews quickly rolled it over to a parked C-130 that had been grounded waiting for an engine change. The old engine was already off and mounted on a dolly for return shipment.

Then pallet after pallet of supplies was offloaded, effectively doubling their stocks of essential parts and supplies. “Can you believe that?” Allston’s Logistics officer said. He actually bounced in excitement. Allston berated himself for being so slow. His troops wanted to do their job and all he had to do was to supply the wherewithal. But could he take them to the next level? He didn’t know, but he had to try.

A four-man maintenance team got off the C-17 with a pallet of equipment for X-raying the wings. Finally, a strange looking captain wearing a flightsuit walked down the ramp loaded with bags and an old leather suitcase strapped closed with a belt. ‘Mandrake the Magician’ was stenciled on the side of the suitcase in faded gold letters. He seemed to wilt in the heat as he struggled with his load. Sergeant Loni Williams took pity on him and shouldered part of the load. Williams pointed to Allston and Lane and the two made their way across the ramp. The newcomer carefully set the suitcase down. He threw Allston a salute. “Captain Glen Libby reporting for duty.”

Allston studied the man, not sure if he should send him back. Libby stood five feet six with a potato-like body and toothpick arms and legs. His face reminded Allston of a bulldog. Then it hit him. Libby was a remake of a young Winston Churchill. “Don’t salute outside,” Allston told him, returning the salute. He glanced at Libby’s nametag. There was no star over his navigator wings, which meant he hadn’t been flying that long, and his full name was Glen G. Libby. “What’s the G. stand for?” Allston asked.

“It’s Glen Gordon,” Libby replied. “Everyone calls me G.G.” It sounded like Gigi and Lane suppressed a chuckle. He considered navigators a hold-over from the past and no longer needed in the modern Air Force.

Allston’s and Lane’s communicators squawked simultaneously. The gate guard was calling with the news that two Sudanese Army trucks had barged through the gate without stopping. “Well, we better go howdy those folks,” Allston said. He headed for the detachment’s offices but didn’t get far. Two weapons carrier type trucks sped around the corner of the hangar and headed directly for the C-17. Two soldiers stood in the back of each truck manning a machine gun mounted over the cab. The trucks slammed to a halt, and Allston’s eyes narrowed as an army major got out of the lead truck. He was heavyset and his potbelly strained at the buttons on his uniform. A web belt was strapped around his middle with a holster holding a large, well-used automatic.

“The commander of the army garrison in town,” Lane whispered. “A real bastard.”

“Major Hamid Waleed, Army of Sudan,” the newcomer announced in a rapid-fire, staccato bark. “Don’t you salute your superior officers?”Allston extended his right hand. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel David Allston, United States Air Force. At your service.” The major ignored the outstretched hand. “And, yes, I do salute my superior officers.” He almost added a ‘Don’t you?’ but thought better of it.

Waleed flushed at the rebuke that he had not recognized Allston’s rank and was out-ranked. “Colonel Allston,” Waleed said, “I’m here to investigate an unauthorized landing and possible smuggling.” He gestured at the C-17.

“Just routine resupply,” Allston explained.

“Still, I must investigate. Orders, you know. As a military man, I’m sure you understand I have no choice.” He spoke to his men in Arabic and gave them lengthy instructions.

Libby walked calmly over to Loni Williams and spoke in a low voice. Williams nodded and quickly disappeared behind the C-17. The pudgy captain then joined Allston. “I speak Arabic,” he said in a low voice, his back to Waleed. “He just told his men that he wants the engine that came off the Globemaster.”

“What the hell for? What can they do with it? That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does if you’re an Arab. He’s establishing his authority. He figures that the engine is the most valuable thing that was offloaded.”

“Crap! So I’ve just got to stand here and let him take it?”

“Maybe not,” Libby said. “Let me talk to him. While I distract him, tell the C-17 to start engines and be ready to taxi when I give the high sign. Tell the aircraft commander to kick up dust and hose the place down with his jet wash.”

Allston didn’t hesitate. “Do it.” Lane spoke into his communicator to make it happen. “Major Waleed,” Allston called. “May we speak for a moment? May I introduce my protocol officer, Captain Libby?”

Libby made a big show of saluting Waleed and broke into a torrent of Arabic as the C-17 started engines. The surprised Waleed could only stare at Libby as he gushed on, an unbroken torrent of words as he waved his hands. Both Allston and Lane caught the ‘chocks out’ signal and Lane spoke into his communicator. Immediately, the huge cargo plane started to move as its big turbofan engines spun up. The aircraft commander rode the brakes as he taxied out and swerved back and forth, blasting the ramp and kicking up a huge cloud of fine dust. The C-17 turned onto the runway and stopped. The engines ran up and the big plane surged forward, taking off.

One of Waleed’s soldiers ran up, still coughing from the dust, and spoke rapidly. Libby translated for Allston and Lane. “He says the aircraft was empty.”

Waleed wiped his face with a grimy handkerchief. “My sergeant says that the only unauthorized item was an engine that was brought in.” Libby immediately protested in Arabic but Waleed only smiled. “It is not for me to determine what is contraband. I am only following orders.” Libby gave up and pointed to a dolly with the engine. Waleed spoke to his men and they quickly hitched it to the lead truck. Waleed barked a command and climbed on board. The two trucks sped away, towing the bouncing engine.

Malaby drove up in her pickup and got out. “What did they want with the old engine?” she asked.

Allston and Lane turned to Libby who only shrugged with a sheepish look on his face. “We distracted ‘em while Sergeant Williams did the old switcheroo.” They all stared at the strange looking captain. “Hey, if you’re not cheating, you’re not doing your job,” Libby said in his own defense.

Allston knew when he was in the presence of a warrior, no matter how he looked. “Welcome to Bumfuck South, G.G. You wouldn’t happen to be drop qualified, would you?”

“Done a few,” Libby replied, “and won a few bucks.” He had been on countless airdrop missions delivering everything from paratroopers to bulldozers. In his small world, he was the king of drop-qualified navigators and had won so many bets about whose load landed the closest to the mark that only the unknowing bet against him. He thought for a moment. “You want the old engine back?”

“You can do that?” Malaby asked.

“I think Sergeant Williams and I might be able to arrange something.”

“Don’t get your ass in a crack,” Allston replied.