The Peacemakers

by Richard Herman

  Jill pushed the hat back and let it hang between her shoulder blades like she had seen others do. She stood. “Thank you, gentlemen. Please excuse me, but I have a report to write.” She walked out, leaving a wake of silence.

  ~~~

  Allston hit the ‘page down’ button as he read Jill’s preliminary report on the incident at Wer Ping. It was amazingly concise and complete. She had gotten the operation absolutely right, and, as she was not an aviator, that impressed him. “I wish I could write half as good,” he told her.

  “Thank you, sir. I had a lot of practice in Afghanistan debriefing missions.”

  “I appreciate you showing me this,” he said. He knew that she was under no obligation to show him the report of investigation. “Will you go final with this?”

  “I need to interview the UN relief mission in Addis Ababa before I do that.”

  “I’ll lay on a C-130 to take you there ASAP. Don’t wear ABUs.”

  “I don’t have a Class-A uniform,” she said. “My other bag hasn’t caught up with me.”

  “Well, good luck with that one.” He smiled at her perplexed look. “Our masters in Addis Abba are not used to seeing a working uniform.” He changed the subject. “I hope you don’t mind sharing a trailer with Colonel Malaby and Captain Jenkins.” They were the only other female officers in the detachment.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “The other girls are all sharing one of the smaller tents.”

  “Well, there is safety in numbers.” Psychologists have different names for the problem of fraternization on isolated assignments, which Allston preferred to think of as ‘the only available woman syndrome.’ Most women officers had no trouble handling the attention that came their way, but young girls on their first enlistment often fell victim to the situation and got into trouble, pregnancy being the most common result. He wasn’t running a Club Med and knew the havoc a bikini could cause.

  Jill sensed what was bothering him. “Not to worry, sir. The studs have all been identified.” She was honest with herself and admitted that under different circumstances, and in a different place, she would be interested in the tall and lanky lieutenant colonel. Very interested. But their differences in rank and position were insurmountable barriers, and she had heard of his reputation. “Besides, I’ve seen what pair bonding can do to a unit.”

  Allston was even more impressed. Like the Marines, she understood it was loyalty to your buddies and your outfit that mattered in combat, and that a pair bonding of any kind weakened that loyalty, usually with one result — increased casualties. “Good luck in Addis and hurry back. We can use an Intel officer around here.”

  SEVEN

  Wer Ping

  BermaNur reined in his horse and joined the other recruits at the rear when the large band of Janjaweed entered the village. He was resigned to the dust and the biting jabs at his manhood the veterans flung at him because he was certain that Allah’s wrath would descend on his tormentors and he would be raised high above them. The teenager made a show of it and imitated Jahel’s laughing manner and the way he rode his horse. Unfortunately, BermaNur’s mount sensed the teenager’s exhilaration and responded, prancing and kicking in excitement, making it hard to control the animal. BermaNur sawed viciously at the reins as the other recruits laughed, adding to his chagrin. He ignored them for, regardless, he was riding with the Fursan, the cavaliers of the Baggara. Nothing else mattered and he was where he belonged. His honor had been restored. In his euphoric state, he didn’t understand that Jahel had changed his tactics and was massing the Janjaweed to challenge the Americans and the French peacekeepers. In Jahel’s scheme of things, the recruits were cannon fodder.

  Jahel stopped at an open area and pointed out the nineteen patches of dark, blood-stained earth that stretched out in a neat row. Many of the stakes that bound the men were still in the ground. He laughed when he described how the men had begged for mercy and then shrieked in pain when they had been emasculated and left to bleed out. Each pool of blood marked where a man had died. “We found a way to stop their screaming,” Jahel said, relishing the memory.

  “Who buried the vermin?” a rider asked.

  “The French pigs,” Jahel replied. “They buried everything, even the animals. But we will not bury them.” He laughed. “We will leave them for the jackals.” He nudged his horse and cantered deeper into the destroyed village, finally stopping at the charred remains of a hut. He spoke in the boring voice of a teacher as he described how two girls and their mother had been raped and then burned alive in their home. “It was a tiring day proving our manhood.” He laughed. “BermaNur, be patient. You will have your chance.” He moved on. BermaNur ignored the patronizing jibe and paused as he rode by the hut. He had never had a woman and he breathed heavily in anticipation. His brow furrowed as his eyes swept the blackened remains of the hut. It looked vaguely familiar, but he never made the connection that his mother and sister lived in one just like it. He moved on, following the others.

  Jahel shouted in jubilation when a white C-130 flew past the village as it descended. “It will lead us to the Dinka!” He spurred his horse into a gallop and led the Janjaweed out of the village, following the aircraft.

  Near Wer Ping

  Bard Green turned two miles short of the village and rolled the Hercules out on a heading of 125 degrees. It was his first solo mission as an aircraft commander and he was worried. He couldn’t find the relief camp. “They said it was ten miles southeast of Wer Ping,” the copilot said. “It should be on the nose.”

  The flight engineer unbuckled his seatbelt and stood with his head against the overhead panel to get a better view of the terrain. A hot wind was driving dust into billowing, rolling ripples along the ground. “Eleven o’clock,” he said. “North of the river. Two clearings shaped like a dumbbell.”

  “Tallyho,” Green said. He gave a thumbs-down gesture indicating they were going to land, and called for the before landing checklist. Green entered a tight orbit around the clearings. Now he could make out an area that had been cleared of brush and rocks for a landing strip. It was short and narrow but he could land. “Damn, where did all the people come from?” Tribesmen were streaming out of the bush and blocking the landing strip. “Where do they expect us to land?”

  “Fly a low approach,” the copilot said. “They’ll get the idea.”

  “Flaps fifty percent,” Green called, slowing the Hercules to approach speed. He turned final and descended to 200 feet as he flew over the startled tribesmen. Their upturned faces were a blur, but the flight crew had all experienced the look of hunger and despair that haunted their existence. “On the go,” Green called, fire walling the throttles. He circled to the left so he could see. “I think they got the idea.”

  “I don’t know,” the copilot said. “Do we have enough room?”

  Green studied the makeshift landing strip. “Yeah, I think so.” The copilot rechecked the landing gear and placed his left hand over Green’s right hand on the throttle quadrant. Green flew the Hercules onto the exact spot where he wanted to land and planted the big aircraft in a controlled crash. The main gear absorbed the landing shock as he slammed the nose down. He jerked the throttles aft and lifted them over the detent, throwing the props into reverse to drag the big cargo aircraft to a stop.

  Suddenly, the Hercules jerked and skidded to the right, running off the packed dirt landing strip. “Differential thrust!” the flight engineer shouted over the intercom. One of the propellers on the left had not gone into reverse, which let the two propellers on the right create more drag, flinging them to the right. Both pilot’s hands bounced off the throttles, and before Green could regain control, they hit a large boulder, shearing off the nose gear.

  Green managed to grab the throttles and throw all props out of reverse as they skidded into the fleeing tribesmen. They felt a quick series of bumps before running over a four-foot deep depression in the ground. The left wing dipped down and the outboard propeller hit the ground. The
recoil of the impact rocked the plane to the right and the right wing went down causing that outboard propeller to strike the ground. But this time a prop blade shattered and ricocheted into the wing, puncturing the fuel tank. Fuel streamed out as the Hercules rocked back to the left. The right wing lifted high into the air as the fuel ignited and the left wing crumpled under the impact. The aircraft came down again as the nose plowed into a deep gully. Now the tail came up and stood the Hercules on its nose. For a fraction of a second it stood there, poised on the verge of going over. Then it fell back on its belly, still right side up as flames engulfed the right wing.

  Staff Sergeant Loni Williams was strapped into a parachute jump seat on the cargo deck and the first to react. The moment the aircraft stopped moving, he was out of his seat and checked on the loadmaster, Louise Colvin. She was stunned but conscious. Williams grabbed her by the arms and dragged her over the cargo pallets to the crew entrance door aft of the flight deck. He pulled the emergency handle and jettisoned the door. He pushed her out and crawled onto the flight deck as smoke filled the aircraft. The two pilots and the flight engineer were slumped forward, bloody and unconscious. Williams pulled the flight engineer back, released his straps, and heaved him towards the ladder leading to the crew entrance door. “Lou!” he bellowed. “Gimme a hand!” Williams was all motion as he did the same with the copilot. Now he was coughing and couldn’t see as he fumbled for Green who was still strapped into the left seat. He managed to drag him out of his seat and over the flight engineer and copilot who were lying on the deck.

  Williams scrambled down the ladder still holding onto Green and threw him out the open crew entrance. He turned and reached into the smoke that had engulfed the flight deck. He grabbed both men and pulled for all he was worth. He stumbled out the hatch backwards dragging the two men and tripped over the inert Green who was still lying on the ground. “Lou! Get your ass over here!” He dragged the copilot and flight engineer clear of the smoke billowing out of the aircraft as the loadmaster came running back. “About fuckin’ time!”

  Williams fell to his knees coughing and retching from smoke inhalation. He looked up as the loadmaster disappeared into the crew entrance door. A moment later, she emerged out of the smoke carrying a first aid kit and her survival vest. Together, they carried the two pilots and flight engineer to safety.

  ~~~

  BermaNur bent over the saddle’s pommel, his cheek against his horse’s neck. It had been a long run and he had carefully husbanded his mount, varying the gait, yet always urging it on. He sensed the horse still had more to give, and he was determined to outdistance the others. Even Jahel had waved him past, shouting his approval. Now only Jahel’s second in command, a superb horseman, was in front of him. Ahead, he saw the burning wreckage of a Hercules and his spirits soared. Allah was most great and his justice certain. The rider in front slowed to a canter and then to a walk. BermaNur slowed and rode beside him, wise enough to know the race was over and not to shame a superior.

  The rider stopped when he saw two Americans standing over their comrades lying on the ground. He leaned forward, his arms resting on the pommel, as a cunning look spread across his face. One of the Americans was a woman and the other a short African. “A kafir,” the rider snorted. He turned and ordered BermaNur to stop. “This is not for you.” He waved his AK-47 at the teenager, making his point. BermaNur reined his horse around and trotted away. He had made a mark and that was enough for now. He turned to watch — and to learn.

  Alone, the rider cantered up to the Americans, still waving his AK-47. He smiled wickedly as he circled the Americans. Then he reined his horse into the kafir, pushing him away from the woman.

  Malakal

  G.G. sat at the scheduling desk in his normal position, chair rocked back, feet up on the desk, and practicing a card trick that required a difficult sleight-of-hand movement when a loud wail came over the radio’s loudspeaker. He bolted upright, dumping the cards on the floor, and hit the mute button. Automatically, he copied the numbers on the readout as he hit the transmit button to call Allston and his staff. “Boss, the emergency locator beacon on Bard Green’s Herk has activated.”

  “Be there in three,” Allston replied. “Call Lane and Malaby. And notify Colonel Vermullen.”

  Near Wer Ping

  The Janjaweed grabbed Lou by the collar and dragged her backwards while still waving his AK-47 at Williams on the other side of his horse. But Louise Colvin was not another hapless victim of rape by the marauding Janjaweed. She twisted and dug in her heels just as the horseman squeezed off a short burst at Williams. The three shots went wild, high above Williams’ head, as she grabbed the Janjaweed’s arm and pulled him out of the saddle. The horse reared as Williams pulled a combat knife out of his right boot. He scampered under the rearing horse, going directly for the Janjaweed. “Let him go!” he shouted. Lou released her grip, allowing the man to regain his balance and come to his feet. The Janjaweed spun around, bringing his AK-47 to bear. But Williams was on him and grabbed the back of the man’s neck as he brought his knife up in a hard thrusting motion, cutting deep into the Janjaweed’s chest below the sternum. Williams pulled the Janjaweed onto the knife, driving the tip into his heart. Lou grabbed the reins of the rearing horse as the Janjaweed died.

  BermaNur saw his comrade go down and fired a long burst from the saddle. “Hit the dirt!” Williams roared as he dropped to the ground. Lou released the horse’s reins as she fell. It was the first time BermaNur had ever fired an AK-47 and the barrel lifted, sending the rounds high over the Americans’ heads. BermaNur dismounted and fired again. This time, two slugs cut into the horse. It bucked in terrible pain as Williams rolled clear and scooped up the dead Janjaweed’s AK-47. He squeezed off a short burst. He missed, but it drove the teenager back, who was now more concerned with saving his horse than avenging his fellow Fursan. Williams selected single-shot on the AK-47 and carefully aimed at the retreating teenager. He squeezed the trigger. He missed again and roared in frustration.

  “You can’t hit squat with an AK-47 at this range,” Lou told him. She grabbed the weapon and shot the dying horse, putting it out of its misery. “Gimme an M-16 any day of the week.” She had been raised on a ranch in Oregon and grew up with horses and guns. Williams methodically stripped the dead Janjaweed and horse of weapons and ammunition. He deliberately focused on the task, ignoring the tears streaking Lou’s cheeks. “Damn,” she muttered over and over, stroking the dead horse’s ears.

  Williams stood and looked around. The Dinka had all disappeared and they were alone. “We need to find better cover. The bastard will be back. With his buddies.”

  Malakal

  G.G. spread the chart out for Allston and Vermullen and quickly plotted the coordinates. “This is the location of the crash. It’s accurate to three meters.” He typed a command into his computer and showed the men a detailed satellite photograph of the area. “But we don’t know the status of the crew.”

  “We assume they are alive until we know otherwise,” Allston said.

  “Weapons?” Vermullen asked.

  “The UN doesn’t allow us to carry weapons,” Dick Lane, the ops officer, said.

  Vermullen was stunned that the Americans could be so stupid. “An order from the UN is only a point of discussion,” he told them. “Time is of the essence. We have two or three hours at the most. The clock is running.”

  “How many men do you have and when?” Allston asked.

  “I have eighty preparing now.” He checked his watch. “They should be ready to board in twenty minutes.”

  “Paratroops?” Allston asked.

  “All of them.”

  Allston was impressed. He knew what it took for a paratrooper to suit up for a combat jump. He turned to Malaby. “The birds?”

  “We got two on station. Both are OR and good to go. Sir, I must protest. We need to coordinate this with Addis Abba.”

  “That will take a couple of days,” Allston told her. “Configure t
he birds for a personnel drop.” Malaby jammed her blue beret on and disappeared out the door. Allston watched her go. She was a good maintenance officer, but inflexible and short on imagination, two traits essential for success in any emergency. “I’ll lead in number one. G.G. you’re with me.” He thought for a moment and turned to Lane. “Dick, I want you in the left seat of number two. You fill in the crews. We brief at the aircraft and in the air. We’re like Gumby on this one — max flexibility.”

  “Marci Jenkins in your right seat,” Lane said. “She’ll give me a ration of shit I don’t need if she gets left out.” He rattled off a list of names, filling in the other crew positions. “Boss, we’re pushing this one.”

  “Tell me.”

  Near Wer Ping

  Allston throttled back and the C-130 descended, trading altitude for airspeed. “Go Guard,” he told Marci. The copilot punched at a button on the UHF radio, selecting the emergency radio channel. Allston hit the transmit button under his left thumb. “Any Irregular, this is Gizmo One on Guard. How copy?”

  Williams’s faint voice came over the radio. “Read you five by, Gizmo One. Is that you, Boss?”

  The worry that bound Allston yielded a notch. At least one of the crew was alive and transmitting on a handheld emergency radio. “Affirm. Is that you, Loni?”

  “That’s a roger, Boss. Me and Lou are okay, the pilots and engineer are messed up a little, but conscious. No broken bones and we got the bleeding stopped.”

  Allston allowed a satisfied grunt. “Say location.” On cue, a bright flash on the ground flickered at them. An old-fashioned survival mirror from Lou Colvin’s survival vest had worked its magic. “Got it.”

  “Boss, there’s over a hundred Janjaweed in the area. I morted one and they’re pissed.”

  “Help is on the way,” Allston told him. He keyed the intercom. “Loadmaster, please have Colonel Vermullen come to the flight deck. Marci, go common.” Again, she punched at the radio and switched to the UHF frequency the C-130s used to communicate between themselves. He keyed the radio. “Gizmo Two, how copy?” Lane confirmed the radio transmissions were loud and clear. “Roger,” Allston replied. “Hold clear of the area, above the cloud deck. I don’t want the Janjaweed to know you’re here.” Less than a minute later, the big Frenchman climbed onto the flight deck. He had shed his parachute and most of his gear in order to move around. Allston quickly briefed him on the number of Janjaweed Williams had seen. “We may have to fight our way in.”