Fitzgerald turned to his staff. “Next.” His chief of staff hit a button to summon the next briefer.
The door opened and a woman entered. Her blue eyes were still wide from learning the fate of Colonel Banks. Her auburn hair was cut short and framed a lovely face. She was short and stocky, big busted and big hipped with an hourglass figure. She would never be fashionably thin, but Renoir would have painted her with admiring gusto. She stepped to the podium and picked up the remote control. “Good morning, sir. I’m Major Gillian Sharp. I work for the African Desk at the DIA as an intelligence analyst, and will be briefing you today on the current situation in the Sudan.”
She cycled to the first display and started to talk. A slight flicker of light caught her attention when the image on the screen behind her changed for no reason. At the same time, she noticed that Fitzgerald was holding a remote control. He pressed the button again, and the display again changed. She waited quietly while he ran through her entire briefing in less than twenty seconds. Satisfied, he nodded, willing to cut a junior staff officer more slack than a colonel. “Go ahead, Major.”
“Sir, as you know, the detachment commander, Lieutenant Colonel Anne McKenzie, was among those lost in the crash.” She announced the names of the other four crewmembers in a way that made Fitzgerald think of an honor roll. “The exact cause of the crash is not known at this time, but satellite photography down-linked two hours ago indicates it might be structural failure.” The general was impressed and he bombarded her with questions. He grunted in satisfaction when she gave him the exact latitude and longitude of the crash site. “Both Abyei and the crash site,” she added, “are in the disputed border area between Sudan and the new Republic of South Sudan.”
Then he hit her with the heavy stuff. “How unstable is the situation on the ground?”
“The recent increase in attacks indicates the Sudanese government in Khartoum has unleashed the Janjaweed in a new, but still low-intensity round of genocide in the area. We are expecting a repeat of the violence in Darfur. Khartoum is fighting desperately to hold on to the area, and the external violence seems to be quieting their internal dissidents, insulating them from the ‘Arab Spring’.”
“Who are the major players? I’m looking for names and faces, Major.” For Fitzgerald, conflict was a personal thing and leadership made the difference between victory and defeat.
She typed a command on the podium’s keyboard, and a photo of an overweight officer wearing a medal-bedecked uniform that stretched over his potbelly materialized on the screen. “This is Major Hamid Waleed, the commander of the Sudanese Army garrison at Malakal. While Malakal is nominally part of South Sudan, the Sudanese have not withdrawn their army, adding to regional instability.” She didn’t remind Fitzgerald that the 4440th was based at the airfield at Malakal. “Waleed was a key player in Darfur.” She quickly recapped how the Government of Sudan had armed Baggara horsemen, the Janjaweed, in Darfur and implemented a program of genocide, murdering African tribesmen. When the task proved too big for the Janjaweed, the government sent in the army with armed helicopters to complete the killing in that part of western Sudan.
The image on the screen changed to a tall, bearded man in a ceremonial robe and riding a magnificent horse. He clutched a gold-plated AK-47 in his right hand. “This is Sheikh Amal Jahel of the Rizeigat, a tribe of the nomadic Bedouin Baggara people. He leads the Fursan, the cavaliers or horsemen of the Baggara, who form the core of the Janjaweed. Unlike Waleed, Jahel is reported to be fearless and commands the absolute loyalty of the Fursan and the Janjaweed. The AK-47 was presented to him by a Chinese peace delegation.”
“How does all this affect our mission in the area?”
“Sir, that is beyond my pay grade, but I can offer an opinion.”
“Offer.”
“First, we are in the process of re-evaluating the threat. If the crash was caused by hostile action, we may have to pull back from the forward relief area and confine our operations to more secure areas. Second, the accident aircraft was delivered to the Air Force in 1976 and was the low-time airframe of the six Hercules deployed to the Sudan. If the crash was caused by structural failure, we may have to ground the remaining five pending an inspection, or replace them with more modern aircraft.”
“And if we can’t do any of the above?”
Her eyes softened. “Then expect more losses, sir.”
“Thank you, Major Sharp. Stay on top of the situation. A daily briefing.” Notes were made all around and she was placed on the schedule. The major set the remote control on the podium as Richards caught her eye and signaled for her to wait in the corridor. She hurried out.
Fitzgerald looked down the table. “The 4440th needs a commander. Any names?” Normally, the selection of a detachment commander would have been made at the wing and numbered Air Force level, far below the Pentagon. But the 4440th was in a unique position and outside the normal hierarchy and chain of command. His staff had been expecting that question and a list with five names was passed to him. He quickly read it and the short description after each name. They were all dedicated, highly educated, competent, and superbly trained professionals who were deathly afraid to say or do anything that anyone might find objectionable. He wasn’t impressed. A name came to him from the time he commanded Air Combat Command. “Lieutenant Colonel David Orde Allston.”
Around the table, fingers danced on BlackBerries to research the name. The lieutenant general who served as Deputy Chief of Staff for Manpower and Personnel studied the readout in front of him. “He made the news last week and certainly had an interesting career. Over two thousand hours flying F-15s, and a top gun at William Tell.” William Tell was the Air Force’s live-fire fighter gunnery competition held every other year. The general quickly scrolled down, scanning Allston’s career. “He was later reprimanded as a squadron commander when a sexual discrimination complaint was filed against him. The charges were dismissed, but he was relieved of command and put out to pasture flying C-130s.” As an afterthought, he added, “He was married and divorced three times, and has a daughter and stepson who live with him.”
“And he shot down a MiG,” Fitzgerald replied.
Richards sensed Fitzgerald knew more about Allston than he was letting on and tested the waters. “He has an interesting nickname.”
“Mad Dawg,” Fitzgerald replied.
“There is another problem,” the director of personnel said. “He retired two months ago.”
“Un retire him.”
“Sir,” Richards said, “may I ask why you selected this Mad Dawg?” She deliberately stressed Allston’s nickname to make her point. “I would have thought an officer with experience interfacing with our allies would be more suitable.”
Fitzgerald gave her high marks but it was time for the shock treatment. “If you mean more politically correct, you thought wrong, Brigadier.” He studied Richards for a moment. She was among the best the Air Force had, yet he doubted she understood. Allston was a fighter pilot and could lead men and women in combat, a personality type that had long been driven out of the Pentagon and an increasing rarity in the Air Force. And there was no doubt in Fitzgerald’s mind that his five C-130s in the Sudan were in combat and harm’s way. He relented and gave her a reason that was true, as far as it went. “He’ll do what it takes to get the job done.” The meeting was over.
Richards waited until Fitzgerald had left before gathering up her notes. As expected, Gillian Sharp was waiting in the corridor. “Walk with me, Major,” she commanded. “Do you go by Gillian?”
“I prefer Jill, ma’am.” She fell in beside the one-star general, all too aware they looked like a female Mutt and Jeff team. Richards was everything she was not; tall, slender, graceful, and movie star beautiful. She was also well connected politically and rumored to have a sponsor who trumped any four-star general.
“You impressed the general. What’s your background?”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ve spent most of my c
areer with the DIA working the African Desk as an area specialist. I did a tour teaching Geography and Geopolitics at the Air Force Academy, and a year in Afghanistan.” She didn’t mention the numerous times she had been to Africa on temporary assignments as that went with her job.
“May I ask how old you are?”
“I turned thirty-eight last month.”
“Married? Children?” A slight shake of the head answered her. “Well, Jill, you’re old enough to understand your situation. You have the general’s attention and are in a unique position to make a difference.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll do my job as best I can.”
“We have a problem. Fitzgerald is a dinosaur who should have been put out to pasture twenty years ago.” Anger edged her words. “Look who he selected to command the 4440th. Unbelievable.” Her voice echoed with disgust. “It was a chance to demonstrate to the world we have changed and are team players. But what do we get? An over-the-hill fighter jock, an absolute throwback. Fitzgerald doesn’t understand the world has evolved and our place in it. World opinion counts because it conveys legitimacy. That was the big lesson of the Iraq fiasco. Fortunately, our political masters understand that.” She pulled out the big guns. “That is why the Speaker of the House created the Office of Military-Political Affairs and made sure I headed it.”
Jill glanced up at the general. She understood all too well what Richards was telling her and didn’t like the implications. Richards was a political general on the make, and generals on the make used subordinates like Jill as stepping-stones to promotion.
“The way we employ our Air Force,” Richards continued, “requires legitimacy in the court of world opinion, and every command decision we make must reflect that reality. Your job is to help make sure Merlin understands that. Everything you tell him must be filtered through that prism.” She gave Jill a quick smile. “I hope I can rely on your help… and discretion.” Now the carrot. “I think you would make an excellent member of my team and help bring the Air Force into the Twenty-First Century.”
“I hope it’s not a breech birth, ma’am.”
The general laughed. “Jill, I think we are going to get along just fine.”
~~~
The captain held the door leading into the Office of Military-Political Affairs. “We’re in the E-Ring now,” he told David Allston. It was a gentle reminder they were in the command section of the Pentagon. “Brigadier General Richards is expecting you.” Allston suppressed a groan. He was still suffering from jet lag and a lack of sleep after catching the red-eye from San Francisco. The recall to active duty had come as a total surprise and he was still wondering what had driven that decision. The Air Force was full of active-duty lieutenant colonels and colonels who would jump at chance for an independent command, no matter how small. Still, there was no mistaking the urgency behind the order to report to the Pentagon. This was his fifth stop as he worked his way through the staff receiving a series of briefings on his assignment. “The General expects you to report in a military manner,” the captain said.
“I think I can remember how to do that,” Allston reassured him. The captain spoke to a secretary who buzzed Richards’ inner sanctum. She motioned them to chairs to wait. Allston smiled at her. “Is it still fifteen minutes for majors, ten minutes for lieutenant colonels, and five minutes for colonels?” he asked. The time kept waiting was an old Pentagon pecking-order game many generals still played.
The secretary gave him an angry look only to be met with his lopsided grin. Something softened inside her. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Tea?”
“Now that’s a first,” the captain escorting Allston grumbled.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Allston replied.
Exactly ten minutes later, the secretary ushered Allston into Richards’ office. The secretary gave Allston a sweet smile, hoping he would ask her out to coffee. Allston snapped a sharp salute. “Lieutenant Colonel Allston reporting as directed.” It wasn’t “as ordered,” which was his way of reminding the general that she was not in his chain of command.
Richards returned the salute and let him stand at attention. It was her way of establishing control. It was also a mistake since it gave Allston time to size her up. His eyes roamed around her office, taking in the plaques and photographs. There was not a single item indicating she had ever been close to operations, or an airplane for that matter. “You’re wearing the retro service dress jacket,” she told him. “It was phased out last year.” The jacket was a throwback to the 1940’s with a belt and patch pockets.
Allston played the game. He went to parade rest, his hands clasped behind his back. “Permission to speak,” he said.
She smiled indulgently. “Permission to speak is not necessary, Colonel. We’re not the Marines.”
“Thank you ma’am. At least this looks military and reminds folks of our heritage, and not a bus driver.”
“I take it you wouldn’t be caught dead in the new uniform?
“Only if I wanted to be laughed out of the nearest bar.”
She gave him the tight smile. “I designed it, Colonel.”
Not the best of beginnings, he thought. “My apologies, ma’am, but I believe it is counterproductive.”
“How so?”
“The new uniform is a fashion statement. No staying power, which is what the military is all about.”
She dropped the subject. “Well, Colonel, I’m your last briefing.” That wasn’t true, and Allston had one more stop that she didn’t need to know about. “It’s critical that you understand the 4440th Special Airlift Detachment’s unique position. You fall under the operational command of the United Nations Relief and Peacekeeping Mission, Southern Sudan.” Allston already knew that. “That command arrangement is part of the quid pro quo for our participation in the United Nations Sudanese relief operation. That means you are outside the normal command and control of AFRICOM and the NMCC.” AFRICOM was US Africa Command, the unified command in charge of US forces in Africa that reported directly to the NMCC, the National Military Command Center.
“That does not mean you are a free agent. You take direct logistical support from the Air Force and you are to consider yourself part of the Air Force at all times. However, operationally you will respond to the UN Relief and Peacekeeping Mission. As this is part of the White House’s new foreign policy initiatives, you will liaison with my office.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
“There is one more thing,” she said flatly. “You have a reputation for singing rude drinking songs, smoking cigars, and drinking, all of which must stop.”
“I only sing in the shower now, gave up cigars years ago, and hardly drink.”
She frowned. “And womanizing.”
“I did do market studies between wives.”
“Today’s Air Force strongly discourages that type of conduct. Do you understand?”
“Completely.”
“Good. Dismissed.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He threw a sharp salute and beat a dignified retreat, glad to escape the lion’s den.
Outside, Allston checked the time. He thanked the captain escorting him and said he wanted to join a friend for dinner and could find his own way. The captain was glad to escape and took off. The secretary looked at him expectantly, hoping she was the friend. Allston gave her his best grin and ambled down the hall towards the riverfront. He walked into an outer office and was immediately ushered into General John “Merlin” Fitzgerald. The general returned his salute and came to his feet, extending his right hand. “Welcome back aboard.” Fitzgerald pointed to a couch and sat down beside him.
“Dave, I inherited a can of worms on this one and have dropped you into it. I would have never let the 4440th be placed under the operational control of the UN and cannot think of a surer way to hang our people out to dry, especially in an area that is coming apart.” His jaw hardened. “I’m not going to let that happen, but the Air Force has been effectively sidelined. Right n
ow, I only have one dog in this fight — you.” He spent the next eighteen minutes detailing Allston’s marching orders and what he expected.
When he finished, Allston shook his head. “General, this sucks. You’ve got better things to do with your time than have me reporting directly to you through a back channel. You need to set up a special directorate for this type of thing.”
“Unfortunately, that directorate is the Office of Military-Political Affairs that Congress created. I believe you’ve met Brigadier General Richards.”
Allston leaned back and groaned loudly.
TWO
Over South Sudan
Captain Marci Jenkins didn’t know what to make of her new commander. The 4440th had received word he was coming and his reputation had spread like wildfire through the detachment. The reaction was universal — they had been lumbered with a broken-down fighter pilot, the last thing trash haulers needed. The acting commander of the detachment, Major Dick Lane, had bit his tongue and detailed her to fly a C-130 to Bole International Airport at Addis Ababa in Ethiopia and pick him up. Once on the ground, Allston had simply walked up to the waiting Hercules and introduced himself. Surprisingly, he was wearing a gray-green ABU, the Airman Battle Uniform, and not a dress uniform. He wasn’t what she had expected.
The flight from Bole was just over ninety minutes and she asked if he would like to sit in the copilot’s seat and fly the Hercules. He gave her his lopsided grin, settled into the seat, and took control. She was impressed with the smooth and instinctive way Allston flew the C-130. Even Technical Sergeant Leroy Riley, the flight engineer, noticed the way he brought the old bird onto the step with ease, increasing their airspeed and lowering fuel consumption. Most pilots only talked about it, and many denied it could be done. But their airspeed and fuel flow were ample proof it could. “How’s she feel?” Marci Jenkins asked from the left seat.
The Peacemakers Page 2
