The Peacemakers

by Richard Herman

  Allston extended a hand and pulled him to his feet. “Who did this?”

  The boy froze in fear. Slowly, his lips moved, forming a single word. “Jahel.”

  Beica, Ethiopia

  It was dusk when the two C-130s landed to discharge the legionnaires. Allston made his way through the cargo compartment as the legionnaires deplaned, impressed with the good order they left behind. They may have been societal misfits, but they were not slobs. His crew joined him as they walked around the aircraft, inspecting for bullet holes in the fuselage. Tech Sergeant Riley, the flight engineer beamed in relief when they only found three holes in the beavertail, the underside of the empennage beneath the vertical and horizontal stabilizers. Riley crawled inside and quickly reported that nothing critical had been hit and they had only taken superficial damage. Gauging by the size of the holes, they had taken fire from an AK-47.

  “It had to be that Janjaweed we over flew who shot at us,” Bard Green decided. “He didn’t use enough lead.”

  Vermullen overheard them. “It is very difficult to shoot from a galloping horse. My tireurs could not hit him as he cut back and forth. It was an outstanding display of horsemanship. Do not underestimate this man.” He let it sink in. “It is late. May I extend the hospitality of our mess for the night? I have a good chef.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Allston asked. The arrangements were quickly made and the four pilots and G.G. were billeted in the officers’ quarters while the two flight engineers and two loadmasters joined the NCOs.

  An hour later, Vermullen was waiting for the Americans in the officer’s mess. Like them, he was showered, but he was wearing a fresh uniform. His officers were clustered behind him and two immediately escorted Marci Jenkins and her copilot into the dining room. “Shall we join them?” Vermullen asked, playing the gracious host. As promised, the dinner was excellent and the surroundings on the elegant side. “The UN built this for the relief mission,” Vermullen explained, “but the commissioners prefer Addis. They gave it to us instead.” The big man thought for a moment. “It is not for the Legion. My men are losing their edge — too much of the good life. We need to be nearer to — what do you Americans say? — to the action.”

  “There’s always Malakal,” Allston said. “But I don’t think our masters in Addis Ababa will approve.”

  “Tactically, that would be a good move. Unfortunately, you are correct; the head of mission will not approve. I believe he wants you Americans in harm’s way.” He changed the subject. “It appears your Captain Jenkins is most popular with my officers and is enjoying her dinner.”

  “She didn’t see the village,” G.G. said.

  “Food will never taste the same,” Allston added.

  “You must learn to handle it,” Vermullen said.

  “I’ll try,” Allston replied. “But I never want to hear Il y a plus again. How do you handle it?”

  “By relying on my men. For them, it was a successful mission with no casualties. In our business, there is no better result. Perhaps, we should see how they are getting on.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Allston said. “G.G., Bard, come on and join us.” He looked around for Marci and her copilot but couldn’t find either. Vermullen led the three Americans to the NCO mess where they could hear singing. “That sounds like German.”

  “Indeed it is,” Vermullen admitted. “There are many Germans in the Legion, and they do love to sing.” He listened for a moment. “It is an old World War II Wehrmacht drinking song.” He sang in English, “Hurry, hurry to the whorehouse before the prices go up.” They listened for a moment as a new song broke out. “Ah, I like this one better. ‘Tonight We March On England.’”

  Allston laughed, liking the big Frenchman more and more. “I imagine you would.” The four entered the mess and a loud cheer echoed over them. There was no doubt that Vermullen was extremely popular with his men. Big water glasses filled with red wine were pushed into their hands and the noise grew even louder.

  “Colonel,” a legionnaire with a thick German accent called, “what are you going to do to the American who dropped you in the tree?”

  “Let him do it to you,” Vermullen shouted back. “Be sure to keep your ankles crossed to protect your Kraut balls.” More cheers deafened them. Vermullen drained his glass and banged it on the bar for attention. The room quickly quieted. “It is obvious we are growing soft here. What would your mothers think? They will never forgive me, and we must rectify the situation.” He looked out over them expectantly. “What? No suggestions?”

  “Bloody hell!” a Cockney sergeant shouted. “We’re moving to Malakal to save the Americans’ bloody ass.”

  Vermullen pulled a face. “Well, if you insist, Sergeant Abbott.” He turned to Allston. “Can you provide airlift?”

  “So sayeth my standing orders. But what about the UN?”

  A broad smile spread across the Frenchman’s face. “If we do it quick enough, they will have no say in the matter. Tomorrow is Saturday and they never work on weekends.” He laughed, enjoying the moment. “And very seldom on Mondays.”

  SIX

  E-Ring

  “Please have General Richards come right in,” Fitzgerald told his secretary. He glanced at his watch. They had less than ten minutes before his morning staff meeting. “Good morning,” he said as Richards entered. He waved her to a seat. “Is this going to be one of those Mondays?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.” She handed him a leather folder. “I received this by special courier from the State Department twenty minutes ago. We will have to respond. May I suggest we alert Public Affairs for pre-emptive damage control?”

  Fitzgerald groaned inwardly. The Secretary of State detested the military and never missed a chance to slap the Pentagon around. He accepted it as part of the give and take of power politics in Washington and never took it personally, although the Secretary of State treated the Joint Chiefs as an evil cabal. He opened the elegant leather folder that was Richards’ trademark and quickly scanned the thin document. He sat upright and slowly read it again. It was a formal complaint filed by the Government of Sudan with the United Nations charging the 4440th with using weapons of mass destruction on innocent nomads at the village of Wer Ping. “Did they specify what WMD they employed?”

  “Apparently it was some type of nerve gas.”

  “And exactly how did they do that?” It was testing time and he wanted to know if Richards had the technical and operational expertise to analyze the accusation. Thanks to the internet, any rumor, opinion, or accusation had the weight of fact. While it amused him that modern society was confused over the difference, that type of sloppy thinking was not tolerated on his staff. In this particular case, the C-130s deployed to Africa were veteran E models equipped with flares to decoy heat-seeking missiles and totally unarmed. However, the engineers at Lockheed had designed an airframe that was readily adaptable to a variety of missions that ranged from gunship to reconnaissance.

  She hit the ball out of the park. “Sir, I’m aware that the C-130s at Malakal are unarmed cargo transports. However, it wouldn’t take much for an enterprising commander to install crop-spraying equipment on the ramp at the rear of the aircraft. A concentrated insecticide could function as a degraded nerve gas. How effective that would be is questionable, but it does raise a possibility we can’t ignore.”

  “Are you suggesting we have a rogue commander on our hands?”

  “It has been known to happen. Our information is fragmentary, but given the current climate in the UN, I would not be surprised if they arrested Colonel Allston and turned him over to the International Criminal Court to be tried for war crimes. I’m recommending that we recall him immediately and place him under house arrest for his own protection.”

  Fitzgerald didn’t answer as he rapidly cycled through his waiting e-mail, looking for a message from Allston. It was number 132 in his private encrypted account with forty attached photographs. Because of a public appearance and traveling over t
he weekend, he had missed it. Fitzgerald was a realist and knew he was too involved with the 4440th and had to work out a new command structure to handle it. He scanned the message and forwarded it to Jill without opening the attachments. He checked the time. “Thank you, General Richards. Let’s see if Major Sharp has anything for us.” He stood and led the way to the conference room next door.

  Richards took her seat in the conference room and checked her personal communicator. The CIA had just confirmed that concentrated forms of agricultural insecticide were available in Malakal. It only remained for her to slam the door on Allston and replace him with a responsible commander who understood that operations were driven by policy. She smiled at the waiting major.

  Fitzgerald caught the look on Jill’s face as she concentrated on the computer screen at the podium. He waited until she looked up before nodding for her to start. “Good morning, General,” she began. “Last Friday, two C-130s under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Allston airdropped 121 legionnaires near the village of Wer Ping in South Sudan to rescue a French patrol that had been ambushed by a marauding band of Janjaweed.” She kept glancing at her computer as she recapped the operation and described how Allston had dumped fuel over the Janjaweed to simulate chemical weapons, and then directed small-caliber submachine gunfire from the rear of the aircraft onto the Janjaweed, killing five.

  “Now that’s an interesting use of jet fuel,” Fitzgerald allowed.

  Richards caught the irony in his tone. It was time for damage control. “Major, are you saying this was a deliberate pollution of the environment by Allston?” Even to her ear, it sounded trivial.

  “At the present time, we have no reports of environmental damage. But I will pursue it.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Richards said, regretting she had mentioned it.

  “Do you have anything else for us?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “These photographs,” Jill answered, “were taken at the village of Wer Ping, which was destroyed by the Janjaweed. “ She typed a command into the computer and the photos of the carnage in the village slowly cycled on the big briefing screen. It was the first time Jill had seen them and she instinctively stopped on the photo of the impaled baby. A colonel hurried from the room, his hand over his mouth.

  Richards changed her tactics. “Do you know who did this?”

  Jill kept glancing at her computer as she answered. “Yes, ma’am, we do.” She typed a command and the screen split, showing dead horses and bodies on a road. “These are the bodies of Janjaweed who attacked the legionnaires. Two of them were carrying pouches made from women’s breasts.”

  “And how do you know these pouches came from women of this village?” Fitzgerald asked. Without a word, Jill cycled back to the photos of the burned hut. The charred body of a woman filled the screen. Jill hit a button and zoomed in on the woman’s breasts. Fitzgerald closed his eyes and clamped a steel fist over his growing anger. “Thank you, Major. We’ve seen enough.”

  He turned to his staff. “I want a full-court press with the media on this one. Make sure these photos get to the right news outlets. I don’t want them buried. Stress the heroism of the legionnaires and the professionalism of the aircrews in extracting them.” He turned to Richards. “Please relay to your contacts in the UN that at the first mention of arresting Colonel Allston, I will recommend to the President that he implement the American Service-Members Protection Act of 2002. In case those clowns don’t get the message, remind them that ASPA allows the President to use all means necessary and appropriate to free any of our service personnel who are detained or imprisoned by the International Criminal Court. Tell them we call it ‘Invade the Hague Act’ for a damn good reason.” The meeting was over.

  Richards was pleased that Jill was waiting in the hall for her. “Well done, Major. I assume you had just received those photos and intelligence update.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Richards wanted to know the source of the photos but assumed that Jill was too low-level an intelligence officer to have access to that information. She paused, thinking. “We’re dealing with too many unknowns and need more information. Have you ever been to the Sudan?”

  Jill answered with the truth. “No, ma’am.”

  “I want to send you there on a fact-finding mission. Can you handle it?” Jill nodded. “Good. We need to get you there soonest. Pack your bag.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jill turned and hurried down the hall.

  Richards thought for a moment and pushed through the door into Fitzgerald’s outer office where the tall and lanky, gray-haired lieutenant general who served as the Deputy Chief of Staff for Manpower and Personnel was waiting for an appointment. They exchanged pleasantries and she asked if she might segue in for a quick word with Fitzgerald. Since she was the subject of his meeting with Fitzgerald, the three-star readily agreed. Contrary to protocol, he held the door for her and followed her in. Once inside, the three-star let Richards do the talking. She came right to the point. “Sir, we’re operating in the blind in the Sudan and getting blindsided. We must be more proactive and need our own eyes and ears on the ground reporting directly back to us. I want to send Major Sharp on a fact finding mission to Malakal.”

  Fitzgerald steepled his fingers and thought for a moment. “An excellent suggestion. Make it happen. I want a report back ASAP. After that, I want Major Sharp to stay as the Intelligence officer for the 4440th and keep the reports coming.” Richards thanked the two men and beat a hasty retreat.

  Fitzgerald tapped his fingertips. “What do you make of that?”

  “The Brigadier wants to call the shots on this one. I don’t know where she’s coming from, but she has her own agenda.”

  “I know, Brad. Unfortunately, she’s got political cover.”

  “Good luck with that one,” the three star said. “She has potential and I’d hate to lose Richards. But she thinks the Pentagon and Washington are the Air Force. She needs a reality check.”

  “Roger on the reality check,” Fitzgerald replied.

  Malakal

  The heat bore down on Jill as she walked in from the C-130 that had brought her from Addis Ababa, and the air-conditioned office in the big hangar was a welcome relief. She dropped her bag and asked the pudgy looking captain sitting behind the scheduling counter for Lieutenant Colonel Allston. She glanced at the nametag on the captain’s flightsuit. “G.G.?” she asked.

  “For Glen Gordon,” G.G. replied. He motioned her towards Allston’s office. He watched her as she walked down the hall, admiring the cut of her ABUs. An image of her lying naked in his bed flashed in front of him. Reluctantly, he focused on the moment. “Welcome to Africa.”

  Jill knocked twice on the open door. “Colonel Allston?” she asked. Allston looked up from his laptop where he was hammering away at the never-ending paperwork that went with his job. “Major Gillian Sharp reporting for duty.” She snapped a salute and he waved one back.

  “Been expecting you.” He quickly took her measure; Five-foot three with an hourglass figure, hippy and big busted, and incredibly appealing. Her short red hair was cut to frame a lovely face and her big blue eyes immediately captured him. He felt an old urge in the lower parts of his body but quickly suppressed it. Major Gillian Sharp was going to cause a stir among the troops. He had seen it before and it shouldn’t be a problem, if she understood what was going on. However, long experience indicated he would have to wait to see how she handled it. He hoped he didn’t have to explain it to her. He locked the computer in his safe and grabbed his bush hat. “Come on, let’s go.”

  She was confused. “Go where, sir?”

  “You’ve got an investigation to conduct, right?” She nodded. “Well, Colonel Vermullen and a few of his legionnaires are waiting and I’ve got a C-130 standing by to fly us to Wer Ping.” She followed him out, rushing to keep up with his long strides. “Come on, G.G.,” Allston called.

  “Never thought you would ask,” G.G. replied, reaching for his bush hat.r />
  ~~~

  Jill sat at the dinner table in the mess tent and picked at her food. She wasn’t hungry after seeing the village and knowing what had happened there. Allston and Vermullen exchanged glances. They knew what she was going through. “Sorry for the shock treatment,” Allston said. “Nothing can capture the reality of it… the smell, the dogs, the insects…” His voice trailed off.

  “The first time is always the hardest,” Vermullen said. He appreciated Jill’s no-nonsense attitude and knew his officers were going to like her. Although he enjoyed the company of intelligent and beautiful women, he would never understand why Americans totally missed a basic truth of combat. When bullets started to fly, and real danger and real death ruled the day, Mother Nature sent an overpowering urge to procreate. He listened as they talked, and, judging by her body language, sensed she was attracted to Allston, not that he was surprised.

  G.G. joined them and stood between Allston and Vermullen, shifting his weight uneasily from foot to foot. He held a new bush hat in his hands. “Colonel Vermullen, Colonel Allston, I believe we have a new Irregular.” He nervously fingered the brim of the bush hat. “Ma’am, maybe you noticed most of us wear these.” He held out the hat. “Anyone who has flown on a mission like you did today can wear one. Colonel Allston came up with the idea. We call ourselves the Irregulars. It’s strictly voluntary and you don’t have to wear it.”

  Jill took the hat. “Thank you.” She tentatively tried the hat on and tilted it at a jaunty angle. She gave the men a little smile.

  Allston sucked in his breath. She was one of those women who looked beautiful in hats. Vermullen studied the two officers. There was no doubt that Allston liked what he saw, and she was a welcome contrast to the wiry and intense maintenance officer, Susan Malaby. “Welcome to Bumfuck South,” Allston said.