The Peacemakers (9 page)

“It’s too bad your UN compatriots have no clue as to what constitutes flight safety,” Fitzgerald replied.

“However,” Richards said, “he just happened to have the accident investigation team on board, which had not received permission from the UN to examine the crash site. Once on the ground, Colonel Allston arranged for the team to survey the crash site, again, without clearance from the UN.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Fitzgerald asked. In his world, the information gained was critical to continuing operations and Allston was protecting his aircrews.

“In itself, no,” she answered. “However, the incident may prove to be counterproductive in the long run to our mission in the Sudan.”

“Do you think so?” Fitzgerald replied.

“Of course, that remains to be seen,” she said, conceding the argument.

Fitzgerald wasn’t finished. “In your response, remind your UN counterparts that we lost five personnel and one aircraft supporting their mission, and that flying safety must remain paramount if we are to continue operations.”

“Yes, sir.” She sat down, careful to conceal her anger and frustration. Seven minutes later, the meeting was over and she hurried out of the conference room. Jill was waiting for her. “Walk with me, Major,” Richards said. “You did very well in there today. Unfortunately, I didn’t. But I think I made my point. Your prediction about the discovery of oil was brilliant, but I would appreciate a heads up in the future.”

“Yes, ma’am. I will if I can.” They walked in silence for a few moments.

“I hope you will forgive me,” Richards said, “but there is, ah, a personal matter we need to discuss. A few of my counterparts in there are, well, lecherous old bastards. They couldn’t take their eyes off your breasts.”

Jill blushed. She was very sensitive about her breast size. “Sorry, ma’am. This is what Mother Nature gave me.”

Richards nodded in sympathy. “I do understand. But career-wise, you may want to think about a breast reduction.” Richards stopped outside her office. “Jill, you are a most unique and gifted officer with a future. I’d like to help, but it may require that you step out of your traditional role.”

Jill carefully masked her reactions and gave Richards the serious and concerned look she had practiced and refined over the years. “Thank you, ma’am. I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

Fitzgerald hit the intercom button to his secretary. “Mary, if there’s nothing pressing on my schedule, can you clear an hour?” She told him there was nothing that couldn’t be slipped. He gave her a number to call. “Call me when you get through,” he added, wondering how he could do the job without her. He kicked back in his chair and folded his hands across his chest. His eyes never closed as he processed Jill’s briefing and what Richards had said about Allston’s unauthorized landing at Abyei being counterproductive to their mission in the Sudan. In Fitzgerald’s world, Allston’s job was to carry out the mission, and Fitzgerald’s job was to provide the support Allston needed to do it. He typed a brief message into his computer, but hesitated before hitting the send button. He humphed, the decision made, and hit the button. Exactly eight minutes later, Mary buzzed him. The spook he had summoned was waiting outside. “Please show him in,” Fitzgerald said. The civilian who came through the door moved with an easy motion that belied his bulk. He was a ‘gray man,’ perfect for his profession and nondescript to the point of invisibility. “How are things in the basement these days?” Fitzgerald asked.

“Holding tight.” The spook headed The Boys in the Basement, the elite band of covert intelligence operators who hid in the Pentagon’s basement. On paper, they were part of the military and escaped the scrutiny of the congressional committees on intelligence oversight. More importantly, they escaped the constant leaks that bedevil all congressional committees. In the world of heads-on head intelligence, hard experience had taught the Boys that no secret was safe with a politician. As long as the Boys were ‘holding tight’ they were safe from politicians and could do their job. But they could never drop their guard.

Fitzgerald came right to the point. “The 4440th is operating in the blind in the Sudan and I suspect the UN is hanging them out to dry. We’ve got the big picture and know what the Sudanese are up to, but we need to fill in the details on the ground or the 4440th will be blindsided before I can get them out. In short, we need better operational intelligence, which we don’t have at this time.”

The spook had worked with Fitzgerald before and trusted him to follow the unique rules of his trade. Everything was highly compartmentalized and access to the product, and how it was gathered, was based on a strict need-to-know. “We’ve got a few gremlins who speak the lingo.”

“Yours or mine?” Fitzgerald knew that the Boys recruited and used Air Force personnel, but the spook would never reveal their identity.

The spook laughed and didn’t answer the question. “Fitz, you haven’t changed. Always worried about your folks.” He thought for a moment, calculating how much he could reveal. Part of his job was to give Fitzgerald credible deniability, but at the same time, the general had to be told enough to keep him in the loop. “We have a few sources in Addis Ababa we can exploit. The bad news is that the best source in the Sudan, Dr. Tobias Person at Mission Awana, won’t talk to us. He can’t risk compromising his neutrality.” He gave Fitzgerald his good old boy grin. “But we can always backdoor that one.”

“Do it,” Fitzgerald said.

“We’ll get on it.”

The intercom buzzed. “General,” Mary said, “your call to France is on the secure line.”

“I need to take this,” Fitzgerald said. The spook smiled and excused himself.

Malakal

Allston walked through the hangar that was packed with maintenance equipment and cargo pallets ready to be loaded on relief missions. He stopped and stared at the engine dolly holding an Allison T-56 turboprop engine parked at the end of a neat row. Where did that come from? he wondered. Outside, he heard a C-130 taxi in. He glanced at his watch. It was the last mission of the day and all his aircrews and aircraft were safely recovered. The unyielding tension that bound him tight yielded a notch and he breathed easier. But it would all repeat itself the next day, and every day after that as long as he commanded the 4440th and sent his aircrews into harm’s way. It was a burden few sane men or women chose to carry, and fewer yet who could do it successfully. He walked into operations.

Inside, G.G. was sitting behind the counter monitoring the radio, his feet up on the desk, the microphone in his left hand. He keyed the mike. “That’s it for the day, Marci.” He noted the C-130’s landing time on the big tracking board and turned to his commander. “All five birds back, OR, and good to go.”

“G.G., did you have anything to do with that engine out there?”

“Guilty. Me and Loni, er, Sergeant Williams, convinced a few misguided souls they didn’t really want it.”

“How did you do that?” Allston asked. He wasn’t really sure he wanted to know.

“Magic, sir, pure magic.” G.G. laughed. “I did a few slight-of-hand tricks and then offered to not tell their futures.” He flicked his fingers and produced a big coin from nowhere. “No Muslim wants to know the day he will die.” Now Allston was sure he didn’t want to know any more.

The office rapidly filled as a sergeant and four airmen filed in. They threw their blue berets on the counter and stood there, big grins on their faces. “We flew with Captain Jenkins today,” the sergeant announced. They had come for their bush hats. G.G. rummaged in a nearby cardboard box.

“Learn anything?” Allston asked.

“Yes, sir,” a young airman answered. She looked all of sixteen. “The Dinka are hurting.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve never seen starving children before.” G.G. handed her a hat and she held it, caressing the brim. “I gotta do something.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Allston said.

She slung the hat over her head, and let it hang on her back. The others quickly fitted theirs and did the same. The sergeant stood tall. “Irregulars, a-ten-HUT!” The five came to attention and threw Allston a salute.

“Welcome aboard,” Allston said, returning their salutes. They quickly filed out, eager to wear their hats outside.

“The hats are working, Boss,” G.G. said.

“It’s not the hats,” Allston told him. “It’s about unit identification and having a mission.” He walked into his office and opened the safe to get his laptop computer. He sat down to answer the mail. As usual, he had over a hundred messages. He scanned them, looking for the important ones. Richards in the office of Military-Political Affairs had sent six pages of detailed and revised Rules of Operations he was to adhere to. However, the important message was a one-liner from Fitzgerald.

Coordinate with and support Col Vermullen to max extent possible.

“What the hell is going on?” he wondered to no one. He warned himself to quit thinking out loud. He returned his computer to the safe and went to the mess tent for dinner.