The Peacemakers

by Richard Herman

  Vermullen snorted. “What is this ‘we,’ Yank?” He hunched over the navigator’s table with G.G. and studied the chart. “I’ll parachute in with my team to secure the area and evaluate the situation on the ground. Hold the other aircraft in reserve.” They were on the same wavelength.

  “May I make a suggestion?” Marci said. “It would be nice to have some firepower on board when we land to extract you.”

  “What are you thinking?” Vermullen asked.

  “Leave a few shooters on board.” She pointed to the emergency escape hatch above their heads. “We can put one in the top hatch, sort of like a nose gunner, and have a couple more on the ramp, like last time.”

  Allston reevaluated the young woman. She was definitely showing fangs, which he liked, and was much more aggressive than many of her male counterparts. Allston turned to Vermullen. “We can do that. Colonel, what do you think?”

  Vermullen studied the overhead hatch. “How will he get up there?”

  “The loadmaster can rig a ladder,” Allston told him.

  “I’ll detail three shooters to stay behind,” Vermullen said.

  “No volunteers?” Allston asked.

  Vermullen snorted. “No parachutiste trusts a pilot to safely land. It is much safer to bail out.”

  “Tell them not to shoot off a prop,” Allston replied.

  Williams voice came over the Guard channel. “Gizmo One! We’re taking fire from the brush and tree line north of our position.”

  Vermullen studied the terrain below. “Where exactly are they located?”

  Allston keyed the Guard channel. “Loni, give us a flash.” Again, Williams used the survival mirror.

  Vermullen pinpointed his location. The Americans were in an open area with a clear field of fire between them and the Janjaweed. The legionnaires would have been sitting ducks if they had parachuted in as planned, but Vermullen was a master tactician and quickly worked the problem, his eyes darting from the chart to the terrain below. It was time for Plan B. “The wooded area behind the Janjaweed blocks their field of fire.” He pointed to an open area. “Captain G.G., can you insert us in that small clearing behind the Janjaweed?” G.G. assured him he could. “C’est bon. We will attack them from the rear. Once we have their undivided attention, Major Lane can insert Major Mercier and his parachutistes to secure the Americans and the landing area. If our luck holds, we can drive the Janjaweed towards Mercier.”

  “The old hammer and anvil works every time,” Allston said. He relayed the plan to Lane who was orbiting fifteen miles to the south. “Gizmo Two, you’re cleared to ingress the area. Drop on Williams when I clear you.”

  “Turning inbound now,” Lane replied.

  G.G. stood behind the copilot as Allston maneuvered the big aircraft, lining up on an open area north of the brush where the Janjaweed were hiding. When G.G. had his bearings, he jumped into his seat and drove the crosshairs on the radar display over the small clearing where Vermullen wanted to be inserted. “Sandwich time,” the navigator said. At exactly four nautical miles out, G.G. called, “Two minutes.” The loadmaster, Staff Sergeant James MacRay, reported that Vermullen was standing in the jump door and the legionnaires were ready to go. Allston dropped the Hercules to 800 feet above the ground. “One minute,” G.G. called.

  “We’re taking ground fire,” Marci said.

  “Colonel Allston,” MacRay said, “the jumpmaster said to descend to 600 feet. They want minimum time in the chutes.”

  Allston descended 200 feet, and was flying straight and level as G.G. counted down. “Green light,” the navigator said. The C-130 shifted as the forty paratroopers marched swiftly out the two jump doors, twenty to a side. Allston jinked the bird hard to avoid ground fire as he climbed.

  “Merde!” the French jumpmaster in the rear shouted over the intercom. “MacRay fell out the door! I see his parachute.”

  “Fuckin’ lovely!” Allston roared. “I thought he was tethered in.”

  Vermullen’s paratroopers were out of their harnesses and advancing on the Janjaweed in small groups within seconds after hitting the ground. It wasn’t the glamorous, shoot from the hip, Hollywood portrayal of combat but a methodical and purposeful clearing action. The legionnaires directed their fire in mutual support, rapidly reloading, and always moving forward.

  Lane’s voice came over the radio. “Two minutes out. Got you in sight.”

  “You’re cleared to drop,” Allston radioed. “Get as close to Williams as you can.”

  “I’ve got a bright flash from the ground,” Lane replied.

  “That’s your target,” Allston told him. He was well clear of the Janjaweed and orbited to the north as Lane’s C-130 ran in, also at 600 feet and 120 knots.

  G.G. watched Lane’s C-130 as it over flew Williams’ position. “He’s not dropping.” A parachute popped open in the Hercules’ wake. “No! No!” the navigator shouted as more parachutes deployed. “They blew it,” he moaned. “They’re gonna land a half-mile long.”

  Unaware the Americans were uncovered, Vermullen and his legionnaires drove the Janjaweed out of the brush. “Vermullen’s driving ’em towards Williams,” Marci warned.

  “Got ’em,” Allston replied. His eyes narrowed as he calculated the distances. The Janjaweed would overrun the survivors before Mercier’s legionnaires could reach them. “We’re landing,” he announced. “Jumpmaster, I need a shooter on the flight deck and two on the ramp.”

  “I’ll rig the ladder.” G.G said. He disappeared onto the cargo deck as the French jumpmaster climbed onto the flight deck with his snub-nosed FAMAS G2 assault rifle and two bandoliers of ammunition. G.G. shoved a ladder onto the flight deck and worked to erect it as Allston turned short final, the aircraft’s nose high in the air. G.G. reached up and opened the top hatch.

  “Hold on!” Allston ordered. He planted the C-130 hard and reversed the props with the aircraft’s nose still in the air. A cloud of dust roared out in front of them as Allston stomped on the brakes. They were still moving when he turned the nose toward the approaching Janjaweed. “Shooter in the top hatch.” The jumpmaster scrambled up the ladder and braced himself as he fired in short bursts. “Cease fire!” Allston shouted as he played the throttles and brakes to pivot the aircraft around. The C-130’s tail swung towards the Janjaweed and the shooters on the ramp under the tail opened up as Vermullen’s legionnaires reached the brush line and joined in, catching the Janjaweed in a deadly crossfire.

  However, the Beggara were skilled fighters and returned fire as they mounted their horses and ran for safety. Two horses and their riders went down. One horse was up without its rider and bolted clear. Its tall rider stood up, unhurt, and looked calmly around.

  ~~~

  BermaNur saw Jahel’s horse in full gallop with no rider, and without thinking, chased after it. He saw Jahel stand and veered to his right, racing for the tall sheik. Bullets zipped over his head and one ripped across his shoulders, barely breaking his skin. Jahel saw him and stood rock still, not moving as round after round missed their mark. He casually extended his right arm as BermaNur closed the distance. At the last possible moment, BermaNur slowed his horse and grabbed Jahel’s hand. The sheikh swung up in an easy motion and straddled the horse behind the saddle as BermaNur dug his heels into the horse. They raced for safety. “From today,” Jahel said, “you will join my bodyguard and ride beside me.”

  ~~~

  Allston was on the radio. “Williams, get on board ASAP. Jumpmaster, tell everyone to get on board.” The Frenchman sat in the top hatch and keyed his handheld radio to relay Allston’s order. The two groups of legionnaires converged on the Hercules.

  “Colonel Allston,” the jumpmaster said. “Colonel Vermullen wants to destroy the wrecked Hercules.”

  From her side of the flight deck, Marci could see the wrecked C-130 and scanned it with her binoculars. “It’s pretty much burned out,” she told Allston.

  Allston made a decision. “Leave it. We need to get the hell o
ut of Dodge, like now.” He was worried the Janjaweed might circle back and catch them when they were taking off and at their most vulnerable. Again, the jumpmaster relayed the order to Vermullen. Loni Williams scrambled onto the flight deck, a very relieved man. “Got all your crew aboard, Williams?”

  “Yes, sir,” Williams replied. Now they had to wait for the legionnaires to board. In the lull, Williams handed Allston a cell phone. “I got this off the bastard I morted.”

  Allston examined the cell phone as the first of the legionnaires piled on board. “What the hell?” Allston wondered. “It won’t work out here.”

  “Check the antenna,” G.G. said. “I’m guessing it’s for satellite communications. I’ve never seen a satcom that small. Pretty damn sophisticated.” Allston handed the satcom back to Williams.

  The loadmaster’s very shaken voice came over the intercom. “Everybody is on board except Colonel Vermullen and four legionnaires holding the perimeter.”

  “MacRay, are you back to stay?” The sergeant said that he was. “Good decision,” Allston replied. “Do another headcount while we turn around.” He played the throttles and turned the Hercules, aligning it on the narrow dirt path. Then he slowly backed it into position. “MacRay, get Vermullen and his shooters on board. Before takeoff checklist,” he told Marci. They quickly ran the checklist as the last of the legionnaires boarded.

  “All accounted for,” MacRay said.

  “Strap in,” Allston ordered. “We’re going home.” He pushed the throttles up and they were rolling. The big aircraft bounced over the rough terrain as they accelerated and the main gear thumped loudly in protest. The nose gear came unstuck and they were airborne. “Gear up.” He turned out to the east. “Marci, you got it.” He slumped into his seat and took a long pull at a water bottle as they climbed out and Marci cleaned up the Hercules. “Damn,” he muttered to himself.

  “What’s the matter?” Marci asked.

  “We’re down to four birds.”

  “But we didn’t lose anyone,” she replied.

  Not this time, Allston thought. How much longer would their luck hold?

  EIGHT

  E-Ring

  The sharp click of Yvonne Richards’ heels echoed down the deserted halls of the Pentagon. It was early Saturday morning and she made a mental note to make sure her staff was at work. She pushed through the doors that led into Fitzgerald’s office. “The General is expecting you,” Mary said. “Go right on in.”

  “Is he in a good mood this morning?”

  “Yes ma’am.” The secretary beamed. “I heard him laugh.” Fitzgerald had coached her on how to react if Richards asked that question.

  Richards didn’t want to be the person who spoiled the General’s day and re-evaluated her strategy. She gave the secretary the knowing smile that they were sharing an inner secret. “Thanks for the heads up.” She knocked on the general’s door and entered.

  Fitzgerald waved Richards to a seat and kicked back in his chair. The Boys were starting to deliver and he knew what was on her mind. “What’s so urgent?”

  “NSA intercepted a secure telephone call between the head of the peacekeeping mission in Addis Ababa and the Secretary General of the UN early this morning.” Both generals knew the National Security Agency had the UN wired for sound. “The Secretary General appears to be very upset.” She tried to read Fitzgerald’s body language, but there was nothing there and that bothered her. The way he concealed his reactions made it difficult for her to control the conversation. “It seems that Colonel Allston armed a C-130 and used it as a gunship.” She opened her leather folder and handed Fitzgerald a small-scale chart of the Sudan. “It happened at a makeshift refugee camp for Dinkas. It’s circled in red. The camp is located 180 miles west of Malakal, where the 4440th is based.” Fitzgerald’s left eyebrow twitched. The distance from Malakal was important, but he didn’t need to be told where the 4440th was based. She missed the twitch and plunged ahead. “The UN head of mission in Addis Ababa wants the 4440th withdrawn. He claims Allston’s aggressive actions have put the entire operation in jeopardy, and it is an incident the Government of the Sudan cannot, and will not, tolerate.”

  “Are you aware the 4440th lost a C-130 at the same refugee camp yesterday?”

  Richard’s eyes opened wide. “I hadn’t heard. Did we lose anyone?”

  It was the right response. “No one was killed or seriously injured, but two Janjaweed almost took the loadmaster, Staff Sergeant Louise Colvin, hostage. One of the Janjaweed was killed and the other driven off. Later, over a hundred Janjaweed showed up.” He paused to let that sink in. “That number indicates they are now operating in force and growing. Luckily, Allston and a company of legionnaires arrived in time to drive them off. From this end, it appears that Colonel Allston’s ‘aggressive actions’ saved a few lives.” He didn’t remind her that a commander never loses the right of self-defense.

  “Sir, this may be a chance to get our people out of there.”

  “Not if the President wants to maintain a presence in the Sudan, which he does. Tell your contacts in the UN that if they want our support in the future, not to withdraw the 4440th.”

  “Sir, we’re receiving too many contrary signals to make a commitment one way or the other. The UN wants us there but doesn’t like what we’re doing. The President wants to maintain a presence there but can’t tolerate casualties. And Allston seems to be a trigger-happy cowboy shooting up the place. We need stability if we’re going to support the UN in the Sudan.”

  “Which is exactly why I’m sending you over there to evaluate the situation and report back with recommendations.”

  Richards fought to control the panic that ripped at her. It was one thing to move in command circles and be a player in creating policy, but it was an entirely different matter to be caught up in actual operations where bullets were flying. The first stroked the ego and got you promoted, the second got you killed. “Sir, I know we haven’t heard from Major Sharp, but let me touch base with my contacts and find out what’s happening.”

  “By all means. But I want you over there ASAP.”

  Richards fought to keep her voice from shaking. She hadn’t joined the Air Force for this, but she knew there was only one answer. “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.” She fought for time. “I’ll need clearance from Khartoum, and that might take a few days.” A name came to her and she calmed.

  “Make it happen,” Fitzgerald replied, “but get over there.” He watched her as she rushed out of his office. “Welcome to the real Air Force.” He opened a folder and went back to work. It was an unsigned authorization to provide the 4440th with side arms. He ground his teeth in exasperation. He had down-channeled Allston’s request almost three weeks before and not one officer in logistics had the balls to authorize it. He scribbled his signature in bold letters and wrote ‘Action today. Delivery within 72 hours.’ He crossed out the seventy-two and wrote ‘36.’

  Malakal

  “It’s unusually cool this morning,” Allston said as he joined Dick Lane and Susan Malaby on the ramp as a C-17 taxied in.

  “Right,” Lane agreed. “It must be all of eighty. Down right tolerable. Won’t even break a sweat today.” The two men laughed.

  Malaby didn’t join in and was all business. “The C-17 wasn’t on the schedule.”

  “Indeed,” Allston replied. I’m hoping Major Sharp is on board.” They hadn’t heard from the Intelligence officer in four days and he was worried. The thought of what could happen to a pretty redhead running around Africa alone was very disturbing. The C-17 swung around and came to a halt, its nose to the runway. The engines did not stop as a loadmaster jumped off the ramp under the tail. He motioned and twelve Security Policemen deplaned as a loader arrived from the hangar. Six pallets quickly rolled off the C-17 as an Irregular signed the manifest. The loadmaster climbed back on board and the ramp came up. Within moments, the big cargo aircraft taxied out and turned onto the runway. The three officers watched as it took
off. “That was quick,” Allston said. The big airlifter had been on the ground less than ten minutes.

  “And no Major Sharp,” Lane said. “We’re gonna have to go find her, Boss.”

  “I was afraid of that. Any suggestions who we send?”

  “G.G. speaks Arabic,” Lane said. “He talks to the locals all the time. We could always use a little muscle. Maybe Colonel Vermullen could lend us some of his.”

  “I’ll ask him,” Allston replied. He turned to Malaby. “Lay on a C-130, ASAP.” She spoke into her personal communicator, making it happen. “Dick,” Allston continued, “I’d like you to honcho it. Bard Green in your right seat.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Lane replied. Allston liked what he heard and he was getting the responses he wanted.

  One of the passengers from the C-17 marched up. He was a big and young-looking security cop. He snapped a sharp salute and introduced himself — Master Sergeant Jerry Malone from Dover Air Force Base, Delaware. Allston returned the salute. “Welcome to Bumfuck South,” Allston said. “Please tell your men we don’t salute in the open. Don’t want someone taking pot shots.”

  “Will do, sir. You don’t happen to have a Staff Sergeant Loni Williams here?”

  “We do. You know him?”

  “In a manner of speaking. We babysat him when he was in our confinement facility.”