The Peacemakers

by Richard Herman

  “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 Will
iams 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.

  ~~~

  Allston and his small staff walked into the big hangar just after midnight. The four-man maintenance crew that had flown in on the C-17 had been working since they had arrived and were exhausted. They had erected a high framework on wheels that arched over the wing. A large black box was on the topside of the framework and mounted on a track that moved fore and aft as the framework traversed the length of the wing. The sergeant in charge explained that it was the very latest in X-ray technology combined with sonic scanning, and that when fully assembled and calibrated, they could scan the wing spars for cracks and traces of metal fatigue. “Normally it doesn’t take too long to do the actual scan, but since the hangar here is not air conditioned, heat buildup is going to be a problem. Keeping the equipment in calibration is going to be a bitch.”

  “Do we have to prep the aircraft?” Malaby asked. The sergeant explained in detail that the aircraft had to be totally defueled as the fuel tanks were in the wings, and which inspection panels had to be removed. “That will take some time,” Malaby conceded. “I’ll have to stand them down to get them ready.”

  Allston thought for a moment. “Prep and scan our two OR birds first” — OR meant operationally ready — “and get them back into the air ASAP. Do the three hangar queens last. How long before all five will be OR?” Malaby and the sergeant conferred. They agreed they could have all five C-130s flying in six days, provided the wing spars all scanned clean and free of cracks. “We need to talk.” Allston led Malaby, Lane and the other two majors into the offices on the side of the hangar. The air conditioner ground noisily, barely able to hold the temperature down to eighty-five degrees.

  “We’re going to hustle the next six days,” Allston told them. “We’re going to fix the Herks while we keep flying, and we’re going to make this place look military. Move the tents and trailers into straight rows. Clean everything up. Cut down all the brush. Paint everything you can. Inventory the supply tents and find out exactly what we’ve got in the way of relief supplies. And get the tents organized.” The four officers stared at him in astonishment. “And set up a decent laundry service. I’m tired of everyone smelling like a goat and looking like they crawled out from under a rock.” He paused and smiled. “Hey, at least no one needs a haircut. Next, we got a problem with the fuel dump. We need to build a berm around the bladders to contain any leaks. Hire a local with a Bulldozer. Make it happen.”

  “Finally, I’d like every Dick and Jane here to fly on a relief mission. I want them to see what I saw at Abyei. But it is voluntary.” He looked at them. “Any questions?” Four very unhappy officers left him alone as he turned on his laptop computer and called up his secure line to send an e-mail to Fitzgerald.

  Estimate fully operational in six days. Need more Security Police and 200 side arms.

  He hit the encrypt/send button and went to bed.

  FOUR

  Malakal

  The early morning shadows retreated across the parking ramp and the five C-130s gleamed in the growing light. It was the coolest part of the day as the compound came to life, and the big hangar doors accordioned back to reveal a vacant and spotless interior. The floors had been painted and the maintenance stand used for X-raying the wings disassembled. The inspection team stood by their loaded pallet, looking very pleased with themselves. Outside, Allston and his staff walked around the aircraft. “Colonel Malaby,” Allston said, “well done.”

  “Thank you, sir. Please tell the troops.” Then, “Oh no!” She pointed to a big banner stretched high across the front of the hangar announcing BUMFUCK SOUTH. “Who did that?” Allston suppressed a laugh. He suspected a gremlin named Loni Williams had been at work. “I’ll get it down,” Malaby said.

  “Leave it,” Allston replied. They walked into the hangar as it filled with men and women, all wearing freshly laundered flightsuits or ABUs, and the UN blue beret.

  “Well,” Dick Lane said, “this may be the first Air Force open ranks inspection ever held in Africa.” The four halted as the detachment formed up in ragged groups. Lane groaned loudly. “You can dress ’em up, but you can’t take ’em out.”

  “Call the detachment to attention,” Allston told Lane. Malaby and the two other majors stood behind Allston as Lane marched forward. He stopped and came to attention.

  “Flights!” Lane bawled. “A-ten-HUT!” The 4440th more or less came to attention. Only the eight-man security police detachment had a clue and looked military. Allston told Lane to give them parade rest and the order was dutifully relayed.

  Allston stepped forward. “Good morning,” he said in a loud voice. “This is a new day and there should be no doubt you are in the Air Force. You are the proud aircrews and keepers of five of the finest aircraft ever built. I have told the UN Relief Mission that we are ready to support them to the max and prepared to move cargo. Our mission is to keep as many people as we can from starving, and that is exactly what we are going to do. Seven days ago, I asked that you volunteer to go on a relief mission and see what I saw. Since then, eighty-seven of you took me up on the offer. Would all of you step forward and form up in four ranks.” He turned to his staff standing behind him. “You’ve all been on a relief mission,” he reminded them. They marched out to join the others.

  Allston looked over the four ranks of men and women, a mix of aircrews, maintenance, logistics, support, and security cops. “By flying on a mission, each of you has earned the right to trade in your UN beret and wear the hat of a small group dedicated to bringing hope and peace to this devastated land. It is your choice to wear the hat, but if you do, wear it with pride.” He motioned for G.G. and Williams to come forward. Both were wearing an Australian bush hat with the right brim folded up and snapped to the crown, and each pushed a cart filled with the same hats. Libby selected a hat from his cart and walked over to Allston and handed him the hat.

  The pudgy navigator snapped a salute. “Welcome to the Irregulars, sir.”

  The name surprised Allston as he returned the salute. He handed over his blue beret and donned the hat. “Carry on,” he said. G.G. and Williams passed down the ranks and the UN berets were quickly exchanged for bush hats. Only Malaby hesitated. Finally, she shook her head, keeping her blue beret.

  Allston faced the seventy-four men and women standing in the rear and still wearing a blue beret. “You’re more than welcome to join the Irregulars. Fly a mission and see for yourself why we are here. Then trade in your beret with Captain Libby or Sergeant Williams.”

  Williams came to attention. “Ih-reg-u-LARS! Let’s hear it. Ooh-Rah!”

  On cue, the Irregulars bellowed “OOH-RAH!” It echoed over the ramp and the compound.

  “Okay,” Allston said. “Let’s go to work. Dismissed.” The hangar rapidly emptied but Malaby stood there, shaking her head.

  “Rather juvenile and stupid,” she told Allston.

  “Hey, if it’s stupid but works, it ain’t stupid.” He couldn’t remember where he had heard it, but he hoped it was true.

  E-Ring

  Major Jill Sharp stood at the front of the conference room nervously fin
gering the remote control. Briefing General John Fitzgerald every morning was not an easy task, and most mornings she felt like a fish trapped in a barrel as he blasted her with questions. A few of his staff filtered into the room and talked easily as they waited. Brigadier Yvonne Richards swept in majestically and silenced all conversation. Jill gave a silent sigh of regret. Richards was absolutely gorgeous in the new uniform, which looked like it had been specifically designed for her. Jill knew she could never look half as good. At exactly 0700 hours, Fitzgerald entered and sat down. “Please be seated,” he said. He gave Jill his friendly look, which meant it was testing time. She bit the bullet and went to work.

  “Good morning, General.”

  “Good morning, Major. Tomorrow morning, I’d like to hear about oil and South Sudan. Okay?”

  “Sir, that’s my area of expertise, and I have a briefing that I updated two days ago.”

  Fitzgerald nodded. That was exactly the response he wanted from his staff. “Let’s hear it.”

  Jill’s fingers danced on the keyboard at the podium and a map of southern Sudan flashed on the screen. “By 2007, the ethnic cleansing of Darfur was mostly complete. The government of Sudan has now turned its attention eastward.” An overlay of rectangles and squares appeared on the screen and overlaid large sections of southern Sudan, all to the east of Darfur. “The prize is oil. These are the oil concessions that the Sudanese have parceled out to foreign consortiums.” She pointed to the two most southern oil concessions. “However, the border between Sudan and the Republic of South Sudan is under dispute and both governments are fighting for control of the area and the concessions.”