The Peacemakers
Richard Herman
The twin specters of starvation and genocide stalk the southern Sudan when the tyrannical regime in Khartoum unleashes the Janjaweed, horseback-mounted Baggara tribesmen, on the defenseless Dinka and Nuer tribes. The prize is control of the oil reserves lying beneath tribal lands, and a weary United Nations responds with a half-hearted attempt riddled with corruption to rescue a beleaguered people. The United States sends six aging Air Force C-130 Hercules cargo aircraft and 165 personnel to support the UN peacekeepers and fly relief into the heart of the war-torn land. But age-old hatreds cannot be suppressed and the Janjaweed cause one of the C-130s to crash, killing the crew and commander of the US detachment. The UN peacekeepers are withdrawing when the newly appointed commander of the C-130 unit arrives. His unit’s morale is in the dirt and the situation chaotic. Appalled by the slaughter he witnesses, he becomes a driven man, determined to save the Nuer and Dinka tribesmen. He makes an unlikely ally, the French commander of the peacekeeping force who was born Senegalese. The two men are military anachronisms, throwbacks to an earlier age. But both know how to fight — one in the air, the other on the ground — and fight they will. The situation spins out of control and becomes a battle of personal survival where defeat will result in genocide.
Richard Herman
THE PEACEMAKERS
In memoriam
David “Bull” Baker
Brig. General, USAF (Ret.)
He led and made a difference.
Blessed are the peacemakers:
For they shall be called the children of God.
Matthew 5:9
PROLOGUE
Rancho Cordova, California
David Orde Allston sat in the backseat of the small Toyota and bit his tongue. It was hard being a passenger and keeping quiet while his kids did the driving. He rearranged his legs in a futile attempt to be more comfortable, but the rear seat of the Toyota wasn’t designed for someone six feet tall. The former fighter pilot was forty-five years old, and thanks to hard effort, still lean and fit. That helped somewhat, but he was convinced a sadistic contortionist had designed the rear seat.
Allston made small talk mainly to relax Ben, his sixteen-year-old stepson, who was behind the wheel and learning to drive. “Heavy traffic for a Saturday.”
“Piece of cake, Pop,” Ben replied.
Allston smiled as his slightly misshapen jaw offset to the right and his hazel eyes flashed with amusement. Ben’s one goal in life was to be a fighter pilot, and he was going through a World War II phase and imagined himself flying in the Battle of Britain, which explained his current vocabulary.
“He wants to fly a Spitfire,” Lynne said from the front passenger’s seat. She turned around to face Allston. Lynne was Allston’s twenty-one-year-old daughter and tall and beautiful like her mother, his first wife. “See what you’ve done, teaching him to fly.”
“Spits can be arranged,” Allston said. He tried not to think what Ben’s mother, his former third wife, would say about that, but at sixteen Ben was already an excellent pilot flying high-performance aircraft.
“Yes!” Ben shouted. The teenager’s enthusiasm was infectious and Lynne smiled at Allston, enjoying the moment.
The car slowed as the traffic on Sunrise Boulevard piled up. Ben didn’t quite make it through the last traffic light before they hit Highway 50, the freeway leading to Sacramento’s airport thirty-five miles away, and had to stop short of the intersection. They were first in line and caught in the right hand lane. Once past the intersection, it was a clear shot to the freeway. Lynne was worried. “Will we make Ben’s flight to Los Angeles?” Her half-brother was booked on Southwest for one of his periodic visits to see his mother and didn’t want to go.
Ben smiled. “Ain’t that a shame?” He hummed a few bars of the song and beat the steering wheel in rhythm.
A quarter mile ahead, Allston saw the traffic sign pointing to the freeway’s on ramp. Automatically, he checked his watch and ran the numbers. It would be close. “Piece of cake,” he said.
The last three cars making a left hand turn in front of them slammed to a halt, blocking the intersection. “Gridlock,” Ben announced, happy their forward progress had come to a halt.
“You’re not getting out of this,” Allston told him, “so quit smiling.” Then, “Lock your doors.” Lynne and Ben heard the change in his voice and quickly depressed their lock buttons. “At your four o’clock,” Allston said. His words were short and clipped, a sure indication his situational awareness had kicked in. Lynne shot a look to her right. A tall, skinny, raggedy, gaunt-looking man was standing on the corner less than ten feet from her door. His eyes darted from car to car and his hands twitched with anticipation. Their light changed to green, but no one could move because of the three cars still blocking the intersection. “Ben, heads up,” Allston ordered.
“Roger.”
The man bolted for the last car in line trying to make the left hand turn. He grabbed the driver’s door handle and jerked the door open. Allston hit the release button to his seatbelt as the man dragged a young woman out of the car by her hair. “Car-jacking. Lynne, get out and call 9-1-1.” His words were crisp and clear with no sign of panic.
“My baby!” the woman cried, holding on to the man. He threw her to the ground and kicked at her.
Allston and Lynne were out of the car. “Ben, block the car so it can’t back up.” Ben understood immediately. If the hijacker backed up, he could turn the car and would have a clear shot at the freeway for a quick escape. Allston slammed the door and ran for the woman lying in the street while Lynne ran for safety, her cell phone in her hand.
Allston bent over the woman as the hijacker jumped into the driver’s seat. “My baby’s in the rear seat!” the woman cried. At the same time, Ben stepped on the accelerator and twisted the wheel to the right. Allston leaped for the hijacker as Ben slammed his Toyota to a halt behind the woman’s car, his front bumper against its rear bumper.
“Ben!” Allston shouted. “Get out.” The teenager bolted out the door and ran for the woman still lying in the street.
Allston was a blur of motion as he reached into the open car window and grabbed the hijacker’s hair. Allston drove his left fist into the man’s face with three short pile driver jabs as Ben scooped up the prostrate woman and carried her to safety. The man managed to shift the car into reverse and stomped on the accelerator, pushing Ben’s Toyota. There was no bang, only the sound of grinding metal on metal as the two cars shot backwards. Allston stumbled but held onto the hijacker’s shirt and hair with both hands. The car had room to turn and the man hit the brakes as he twisted the wheel to the right. It was enough for Allston to regain his balance. He braced his left foot against the door and pulled the hijacker out the window. He banged the hijacker’s head against the pavement, stunning him.
Two other men were there and it was over. “Nice going,” one of the men said in admiration. Lynne and the young mother ran for the baby still in the car. The baby was fine and the mother cried with relief. The wail of a police siren echoed in the distance, growing louder by the second.
Ben and Lynne stood by Allston in the street. “You did good, son. Real good.”
Lynne affectionately ruffled Allston’s short dark hair. “You never change, Dad.”
“When something goes wrong, get aggressive,” Allston replied. It was one of the basic rules of survival he had learned long ago flying fighters.
Lynne understood. “You’ve just got to get involved — no matter what.”
ONE
Abyei, South Sudan
BermaNur scrambled to the top of the low hummock as the sun rose above the eastern horizon and established its dominion over the ancie
nt land. Dust swirled around his feet as his eyes narrowed and swept the eastern horizon. He knew the airplane bringing food would come from that direction. Behind him, the first of the refugees swarmed out of the compound, clutching baskets and large pots.
He burned with hatred when he saw the Dinka who followed the two UN relief workers and mixed in with his fellow tribesmen. Neither the Dinka, the two Europeans, nor the Americans who flew the big white airplanes, deserved to live, but food and the three went together and his hunger was stronger than his hate. BermaNur was seventeen-years old, scrawny from malnutrition, and old beyond his years.
He looked over the ragged mob and saw his mother and older sister pushing their way to the front. With him, they were the last survivors of his family. Again, his hatred flared. He knew his mother had sold herself for food and he promised himself that someday he would blot out that dishonor by killing her. And he would immediately kill his sister if she ever sold her body. Jahel would honor him for the honor killing, and his tribe, the Rizeigat, demanded no less. BermaNur swelled with pride. The Rizeigat were Fursan, the cavaliers, or horsemen, of the Baggara, and honor was more important than life. For now, the age-old rules and traditions were in abeyance, but only until the western intruders and their big white airplanes were gone.
His small wireless, the modern version of the walkie-talkie, vibrated in his hand. He pressed the receive button and held it to his ear. It was Jahel. “Do you see anything?” The sheik had spoken in the same quiet way when he had chastised BermaBur for his mother’s misconduct. That conversation had ended when Jahel had taken BermaNur’s horse, his most valuable possession. Without a horse, BermaNur was not able to join the marauding bands of Rizeigat and increase his family’s wealth. But once his family’s honor was restored, Jahel would return his horse, and with it, his personal honor. That was the way of the Rizeigat and the Baggara. BermaNur fumbled for the transmit button. “Nothing, sire.”
“Watch closely,” Jahel said. “We must stay hidden until the last possible moment. All depends on your warning.”
BermaNur’s heart beat fast. “I see it! It is far to the east.”
“Is it coming this way?”
The young Sudanese paused. This was the test he had been waiting for and he had to be right. Then, “Yes!”
“Good.” Jahel broke the connection. Now the teenager had to wait.
The white C-130 Hercules descended to 1200 feet above the ground and entered a racetrack pattern around the strip of road on the southern side of the ravaged village that served as a landing strip. The Hercules was an old workhorse of the United States Air Force and this particular aircraft had entered service in 1976. A coat of white paint belied the aircraft’s thirty-four-years of age and it was nearing the time when it would be consigned to the bone yard.
One of the UN relief workers made sure the villagers were clear of the road and fired a canister, laying green smoke to indicate wind direction and signal the four-engine cargo plane that it was safe to land. The pilot saw the smoke, entered a downwind leg, and called for the before landing checklist. The copilot started the flaps down and lowered the landing gear. The C-130 turned onto the base leg and the pilot marked the spot where she would touch down. It was a much-practiced routine. The pilot turned onto final approach and flew the big bird, nose high in the air, towards the touchdown point she had selected.
The copilot placed his left hand over the pilot’s right hand that controlled the throttles. It was a technique they had developed to prevent the pilot’s hand from bouncing off the throttles on a hard landing. She planted the C-130 hard in a controlled crash. The large tandem main wheels absorbed the shock, sinking a foot into the hard earth. The pilot slammed the nose onto the dirt road and jerked the throttles aft. The four propellers went into reverse as she stomped on the brakes, dragging the Hercules to a stop in less than 2000 feet.
BermaNur’s eyes followed the landing C-130 as it hurtled down the road, blasting dust out in front, and coming directly at him. His jaw went rigid when he thought the left outboard propeller would hit him. He closed his eyes and refused to move. But his perspective was wrong and the plane passed by with over twenty feet to spare. He breathed a sigh of relief as his communicator vibrated. He pressed the receive button. “Did you think it would hit you?” Jahel asked. His laughter filled BermaNur’s ear.
The teenage Baggara knew he was being watched, part of the test. “Insh’ Allah,” as God wills, he replied. It was one of the few Arabic phrases he knew. He turned towards the airplane as it backed up, its powerful props in reverse. The cargo door under the tail was raised and the loading ramp lowered to the horizontal position. A crewman wearing a headset stood on the ramp and directed the pilot. Inside, the teenager saw pallets piled with food. Again, he refused to move as the plane backed down the road and the wing passed over him. For a brief moment, he looked directly into the face of the pilot — a woman! Her blonde ponytail bounced as she turned and waved at him.
He could only stare at the nose of the big aircraft when it finally stopped far down the road and the starving villagers swarmed around it. The anger that threatened to consume him burned with a white-hot intensity. Because of a woman pilot Jahel was laughing at him! It was too much for any Fursan. He keyed the communicator. “It is a woman who pilots the airplane,” he told Jahel.
“Why do you speak of this?” Jahel asked.
“Do the Rizeigat beg from women?”
“Never,” Jahel said. There was no laughter in his voice now.
“It cannot be tolerated,” BermaNur said.
“Tell me when the airplane takes off,” Jahel said. The boy sat down to wait.
Exactly twenty-four minutes later, one of the propellers started to turn as the villagers who had swarmed near to get the food shipment, moved away from the airplane. Soon, all four engines were turning as the pilot called for the before takeoff checklist. She set the brakes as the engines spun up and the propellers bit into the air. The nose lowered as the roar of the turboprop engines beat at him. The nose came up when she released the brakes and the Hercules surged forward. The teenager didn’t move as the plane lifted off well before it reached him. The landing gear came up as it passed overhead. He made the radio call. “The infidels have taken off.” The Hercules climbed into the sky and turned to the east. “The infidels will fly directly over you,” he radioed.
BermaNur watched as the distinctive smoke trails of two shoulder-held surface-to-air missiles streaked from the ground, chasing down the lumbering aircraft. But someone on the Hercules saw the missiles and decoy flares popped in the aircraft’s wake. The aircraft took evasive action and jerked wildly, surprising him by its agility. He held his breath, afraid the aircraft would escape the fate Allah had willed. The two missiles missed and went ballistic. His eyes opened wide when the Hercules’s right wing folded up on its own and the plane rolled to the right.
The plane spun into the ground as a feeling of pure vindication flooded through the starving teenager. He shouted “Allahu akbar!” God is most great, at the top of his lungs as a pillar of smoke and flames mushroomed into the sky and a thundering roar momentarily shook the ground. He stood up and headed for the mob of villagers now running for the compound. He ran to find his mother and sister to ensure they had all the food they could carry. If not, he would have to beat them. His family’s honor demanded no less. It was the will of God.
E-Ring, The Pentagon
Every head turned when Fitzgerald entered the conference room. Since there were six lower-ranking generals present, the room was not called to attention, per Fitzgerald’s instructions. But everyone stood anyway. General John “Merlin” Fitzgerald, the Air Force Chief of Staff, commanded that level of respect. Fitzgerald was tall and solidly built, his face care-worn, and his salt and pepper hair cut short in a military haircut. The Chief of Staff’s bright blue eyes often danced with amusement — but not this morning.
Brigadier General Yvonne Richards stood on the opposite side o
f the table and studied his body language as he sat down, trying to read his mood. Fitzgerald was a much-studied commodity in her world, and she considered the way he used briefings to keep his staff on the same page, not to mention on edge, hopelessly old-fashioned.
“Seats, please,” Fitzgerald said. He turned to the large computer-driven display screen at the front of the room and the officer standing beside it. “Good morning, Colonel. Let’s have it.” Everyone knew what was on Fitzgerald’s mind.
“Good morning, sir,” the colonel said, starting the Power Point presentation. “I’m Colonel Robert Banks, chief of the Policy Division of the Office of Military-Political Affairs. As you know, the Air Force lost a C-130 yesterday morning in the Sudan.” A stylistic photo of a C-130 flashed on the screen. “The Hercules was part of the 4440th” — he pronounced it ‘forty-four fortieth’ — “Special Airlift Detachment providing support and flying relief missions for the United Nations peacekeeping force to the Sudan out of Malakal.” He had just told Fitzgerald what he already knew, not the best of beginnings, and missed the narrowing of Fitzgerald’s eyes. But not Richards. The general’s body language told her that he was not hearing what he wanted. Colonel Banks was a key member of her staff she was grooming for command, but he was in danger of suffering a professional death by Power Point. She gave him the high sign to move on.
“There were no survivors,” the colonel continued, “and an investigation team is en route to the crash site.” Again, it was something Fitzgerald knew. “Moreover, the Administration has determined that no change in our peacekeeping operations is warranted because of the crash.” That also was not news.
Fitzgerald’s fingers beat a tattoo on the table. A colonel’s job was to think, evaluate, and react accordingly. This one was wasting his time, and the general firmly believed in three strikes and you are out. “Clear your desk and pack your bag, Banks.” The colonel gulped and stifled a reply. He had been relieved and any chance of command had just gone up in smoke. He walked out with as much dignity as he could muster.
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