The Peacemakers

by Richard Herman

  “What was he locked up for?” Lane asked.

  “Barroom brawl. The Air Force dropped the charges and we released him. A few days later, the Dover police produced a warrant for his arrest for striking a cop. But he was over here by then. We’re still scratching our heads over how he did that.”

  “Well, Sergeant Malone,” Allston said, “I’d like to keep him here for awhile.” Malone didn’t understand. “He’s useful,” Allston explained.

  “We got a couple of more just like him on ice back at Dover.”

  “I can use ’em,” Allston replied. As a commander, he had learned a very inconvenient truth. When things got rough, the best men for the job were often in the slammer.

  “Can I take Williams along?” Lane asked.

  “You got him,” Allston said. He turned to Malone. “Is there anything else, Sergeant?”

  “I need someone to sign for two-hundred side arms.”

  “Sign for what?” Malaby blurted.

  “For two-hundred Colt .45 semi-automatic pistols with holsters, belts, and ammunition,” Malone replied. “As requested.”

  “Is that the Colt they call the Peacemaker?” Lane asked.

  “No, sir,” Malone answered. “That was the old Colt .45 six-shooter, sometimes called the Single Action Army. These are the Colt 1911A, forty-five caliber, semi–automatics. These puppies may be old but they’ve got stopping power. You either love ’em or hate ’em, depending on which end of the barrel you’re looking down.”

  “Better to be the peacemaker than the target,” Allston added. “Sergeant Malone, get everyone trained and issue them a weapon.”

  “Colonel,” Malaby protested, “someone will shoot their foot off.”

  “Not after I train them,” Malone promised.

  Abyei

  BermaNur reined his horse to a halt slightly behind Jahel at the top of a low ridge overlooking the village a mile to the west. The teenager imitated Jahel as he leaned on his saddle’s pommel to wait. A few minutes later, Jahel straightened up and pointed to the north. “There.” Three helicopters hugged the ground as they over flew the horsemen and converged on the village. The Janjaweed tensed as the three Russian-built MI-24 attack helicopters bore down on their target in a vee formation. Jahel turned to BermaNur. “Is your family still there?”

  “No, sire. They left with most of the others.” He failed to mention that his mother and sister had flown out on a C-130 with the UN refugee workers the day before. A trail of smoke reached out from the helicopters as they emptied their rocket pods into the village. A series of explosions echoed over the horsemen as the rocket barrage tore the huts apart, killing and maiming the tribesmen who had not escaped.

  The helicopters circled to reposition for a strafing run. Jahel sneered at the ugly machines as the burring sound of their 12.7mm Gatling guns split the morning air. “They have no honor, but we are no match for their guns and rockets.”

  “But sire,” BermaNur protested, “they are only killing vermin.”

  “To have honor, you must face your enemy and look him in the eye when you kill him. There is no honor in this.” He watched dispassionately as the helicopters made repeated passes over the big village, leveling it with high explosive rounds. When there was nothing left to shoot at, they circled over the empty refugee camp and raked it with gunfire. On command, they disengaged and settled to the ground. Jahel reined his horse around and cantered towards the waiting machines. BermaNur followed behind.

  Major Hamid Waleed climbed out of the lead helicopter and shoved his thumbs in his web pistol belt as he struck a pose. Rivulets of sweat coursed down his cheeks from under his aviator sunglasses and sweat strains spread across his tight uniform shirt. He stared at two Baggara as they approached. Jahel reined to a halt, but did not dismount. It was the first time the two men had met and they stared at each other, each taking the others measure. Jahel leaned across his pommel. “Salem.”

  “And you are?” Waleed demanded in Arabic.

  Jahel came erect with a dignity beyond Waleed. “I am Sheikh Amal Jahel of the Rizeigat. I am a cavalier of the Fursan and lead the Janjaweed.” He smiled as if he couldn’t be bothered with Waleed’s credentials. “How may I be of service?”

  Waleed caught the implied insult. “And I am Major Hamid Waleed of the Army of the Sudan” — his right hand swept the helicopters — “and commander of these falcons. We finish what you cannot.”

  Jahel’s Arabic was not good enough to continue the verbal sparring. “We are not armed to fight the French legionnaires, and we cannot move as swiftly as the Americans.”

  “What is your problem?” Waleed replied.

  “Because of the Americans, the legionnaires ride the wind. If we are to be your sword and cleanse this land, you must control these infidels.”

  Waleed smiled. “The Americans will be punished. Their leaders have no stomach for a fight and they will leave. Without their airplanes, the French will not be able to reach out to harm you.”

  “Insh’ Allah,” Jahel replied.

  Waleed pulled a folded chart out of his hip pocket. “It is truly as God wills,” he said, unfolding the chart. He pointed to a village one hundred miles to the south. “Can you be there in two days?” Jahel nodded and Waleed smiled. “We will be waiting for you.”

  “Insh’ Allah,” Jahel said. “Be careful, commander of falcons. These infidels know how to fight.” He reined his horse around and headed to the south.

  Malakal

  A volley of small-arms fire echoed from the makeshift firing range the security cops had built on the far side of the compound and woke Allston. He turned over and tried to go back to sleep. Another volley echoed outside his tent-trailer. Automatically, he checked his watch. It was 6:30 Sunday morning and he had slept in. He sat on the edge of his bunk and slowly came to life. What was he going to do about Jill Sharp? Dick Lane had returned empty-handed, and she was still missing after ten days. As best Lane could learn, Jill had interviewed the UN Head of Mission in Addis Ababa about the rescue of the Legionnaires at Wer Ping, and then taken off for Djibouti where she had contacted the US Air Force detachment operating from the airfield. From there, she had disappeared. Where the hell are you? Allston raged to himself.

  A knock at his door brought him to his feet. “Colonel!” it was G.G. “A UN supply truck just rolled in with Major Sharp.”

  That particular problem went up in smoke only to be replaced with a simmering anger. “Where is she?”

  “Waiting in Ops.”

  “On my way.” He quickly dressed and pulled on his boots as his anger flared. G.G. was waiting for him outside. Together, they headed for the hangar offices as another volley echoed from the firing range. He noticed that G.G. was wearing a web belt with a holstered .45 automatic and an ammunition pouch. “I see you qualified.”

  G.G. shifted the weight of the .45 further back on his hip. “Yep” was all he said as he tilted his bush hat forward. He wore the hat and sidearm with pride.

  The woman waiting for him was a far cry from the neat and impeccably uniformed officer he had last seen. Her ABUs and boots were filthy, her hair grimy and matted down, her fingernails broken, knuckles scraped, and a vicious bruise on her right cheek. Only her face and hands were clean. She drew herself to attention and braced for a reprimand. “You’ve been through the wringer,” Allston said, fighting the urge to shout. “What in hell happened?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, “I need five hundred dollars.”

  Allston exhaled, his relief obvious. “My second wife always opened a conversation like that.”

  “I need to pay off the truck driver. I had to bribe him to get here.”

  “You really need a bath, Major. You’re way past your expiration date.” She didn’t reply. “One question. You came in on a UN truck, right?” She nodded. “So why do you have to bribe the driver?”

  “Because his load was never meant to get here.” She smiled at the confused look on Allston’s face. “Corrupti
on. By the way, that was two questions. Bath time. Please take care of my driver.”

  Allston watched her leave. “Please take care of my driver,” he groused. But for some reason, he didn’t really mind. “G.G. go hit up the APO for five hundred, my account.” The postal clerk was also the unit’s paymaster and informal bank.

  ~~~

  “Colonel,” Jill said, “I need to get my report off soonest. It’s way overdue.” A much different Jill stood in front of Allston and Vermullen. She was dead tired but squeaky clean and fresh in a clean set of ABUs. Her hair glowed, framing her face, and her blue eyes were clear. Allston was stunned, for in her own unique way, she was beautiful. He got a grip and chalked his reaction up to the ‘only woman available’ syndrome. Jill plugged her computer into the detachment’s system and the report was on the wires within seconds. “That’s going to stir up a hornet’s nest,” she said. An explanation was in order. She typed a command into her computer and spun it around for Allston to read the report.

  “Ah, shit,” he moaned. “Idi, you need to read this.” The big Frenchman read the report without comment. Allston motioned her to a chair. She sat down gracefully, her wide hips almost filling the seat. He stifled an inward groan and looked away. She was too full-figured to meet the beauty standards demanded by Hollywood and fashion magazines, but she was incredibly alluring and he was suddenly aware of an aching void in his life. He forced himself to concentrate. “Okay, what happened?”

  Jill related how she had interviewed the UN head of mission and his two cohorts, the Zulu chief and Nigerian general, who she called the three stooges. They had talked around her in French and Swahili, assuming that she was a typical American and only spoke English. Fortunately, she was fluent in both languages. Based on what she heard, she filled in the gaps and was certain the three men were selling UN supplies to the highest bidder on the black market. Her problem was proving it. “From Addis,” she continued, “I went to Djibouti where all UN supplies arriving by ship are offloaded. The Air Force detachment there is a study in frustration and the UN won’t allow them to airlift even a toothpick into the Sudan. It’s all got to go by truck, so I bribed my way onto a UN truck convoy that was destined for Malakal. That’s when it got interesting.”

  She recounted how the fourteen-truck convoy was never meant to reach its destination and had lost five trucks in the first two hundred miles. By the time they reached the Sudan border, they were down to three trucks. Two of the trucks disappeared that night and the only way she was able to continue was by paying more bribes. But she ran out of money and had to promise the driver she would pay him even more when they reached Malakal. It had been touch and go and at one point she was certain he was going to abandon her. “It got a little physical, but I convinced him otherwise. Based on what I overheard from the drivers, about one truck in ten reaches its destination. I don’t know how much the three stooges are skimming off the top, but it’s substantial. You should see their homes and cars in Addis.”

  “Not to mention their women,” Allston grumbled. “It sounds like the African version of the Iraqi ‘Oil for Food’ scam is alive and well.”

  “That’s the good part,” Jill said. “Apparently, the three stooges promised the Sudanese government that the UN peacekeepers would not react to any incident by the Janjaweed as long as they get their kickbacks.”

  “Well, we certainly have been reacting lately,” Allston said. “Which is contrary to their game plan.”

  Jill nodded. “According to the jungle telegraph, the three stooges popped a few hemorrhoids when you rescued the crew that crashed at the refugee camp.”

  “So you heard about that even when traveling in the outback,” Vermullen said.

  “The jungle telegraph,” Jill replied, “is very efficient.” She didn’t mention the rumor of a deal cut between the UN commissioners and the Sudanese government over oil.

  G.G. knocked at the door. “They’re back,” he sang. “The honorable Major Hamid Waleed and crew.”

  “What the hell does he want now?” Allston groused, still angry from the last time they had met.

  “The supply truck Major Sharp came in on,” G.G. answered.

  Allston jammed on his hat and ran out of his office. “No fucking way.” Vermullen, Jill, and G.G. were right behind him.

  “We’re due for re-supply,” Vermullen said.

  “If what’s on the truck is yours, you’ll get it,” Allston promised. He slowed when he saw Waleed. “G.G., translate for me. Tell him to get the fuck off my base.”

  G.G. spoke in Arabic and greeted the Sudanese major, carefully following the established rituals. After a lengthy reply from Waleed, the two men babbled on for a few minutes. It was enough for Allston to cool down. They finally reached an end and G.G. turned to Allston. “He says he must confiscate the truck as it is smuggling contraband.”

  “What contraband?” Allston demanded.

  “Weapons,” Waleed answered in English.

  Vermullen headed for the loaded truck, which was still parked in front of the hangar. He ripped off the tarpaulin covering the load. Over half of the crates were clearly marked for the Legion. Vermullen fixed Waleed with a hard stare. For a moment, it was a contest of wills. Then the Frenchman relaxed and looked away. “Let him have it.”

  “Why?” Allston demanded. Vermullen jutted his chin towards the hangar. Over a hundred Sudanese soldiers were scattered around the perimeter, their weapons at the ready. In his anger, Allston had lost situational awareness. It was a mistake he would not make again. Waleed shot a look of contempt at Allston and Vermullen, turned and barked a command. Within moments, the loaded truck was moving away as the soldiers followed on foot. Allston burned with anger. Slowly, he regained control and forced himself to calm down. “How are you doing on munitions?” he asked Vermullen.

  “We’re getting low,” Vermullen admitted.

  “They’re probably taking it to the Sudanese Army dump at Bentiu,” Jill said.

  “How do you know that?” Allston asked.

  She shrugged. “The truck driver. Some men can’t keep their mouth shut around women.”

  Allston pulled a face. “And I thought that only applied to American males.”

  “It’s a universal affliction,” Vermullen added. “Leave it for now.” He wasn’t ready to take on Waleed and the Sudanese Army.

  NINE

  Malakal

  Allston stood in the operations office attached to the big hangar and wondered how long the creaky air conditioner in the window had to live. It still managed to keep the temperature down to a relatively reasonable eighty-four degrees but was making ominous sounds. He made a mental note to requisition a new one before the machine’s demise, which was long overdue. A man’s voice crackled over the UHF radio behind the scheduling counter. “UN Flight Ops, this is Dumbo One.” Since he was alone in the office, Alston stretched his arm across the waist-high counter for the remote mike, but couldn’t reach it. “UN Flight Ops,” the voice repeated, now more insistent, “I say again, this is Dumbo One.”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a bunch,” Allston muttered. He did an easy arm lift and swung his legs over the counter, landing on the other side.

  “You’ll break your neck, Colonel,” Jill called from the doorway. Her voice was cool and reserved as always, the dispassionate observer.

  Allston wished he could read her better. He smiled as his slightly misshapen jaw offset to the right and his hazel eyes flashed with amusement. “Piece of cake,” he told her, playing to his fighter pilot image. It normally impressed the ladies, but not Jill Sharp. He scooped up the mike as Captain G.G. Libby finally returned from the latrine. Allston mashed the transmit button. “Dumbo One, UN Flight Ops, go ahead.”

  “Roger, UN Flight Ops. Dumbo One is inbound, fifteen minutes out, with a code three. Request priority handling.” A code three was a distinguished visitor equivalent to a four star general or admiral, a cardinal, or a special assistant to the President, someone le
ss than God but much more than a regular passenger.

  Allston shot G.G. a look. “Sorry, Colonel,” G.G. replied, “no Dumbos are on the schedule.” Allston tossed the mike to Libby, an unspoken command to deal with it. Since Malakal didn’t have a control tower, Libby checked the meteorological display and keyed the mike. “Dumbo One be advised the wind is calm, altimeter 30.10. Recommend Runway Two-three for landing, no other reported traffic.”

  A relieved pilot answered. “Roger, Flight Ops. Request minimum time on the ground for offload and transportation for five passengers.”

  “Well,” Jill said, “no code three travels alone.”

  Allston gave her chain a little tug. “I think I knew that, Major.” Jill never blinked. “I suppose we should go howdy those folks,” he said. “They won’t appreciate walking in, not in this heat.”

  “I’ll get the two six-pacs,” Jill replied. “Their air conditioners are still working and they’ve got room to haul any baggage.” She picked up the phone, spoke a few words in Dinka, and listened to the reply before hanging up. “They’ll be here in five minutes.” For reasons beyond Allston’s understanding, when Jill was involved the locals who worked for the Americans were not on African time, which otherwise meant jacking up the time required by a factor of five. True to her word, the two four-wheel drive pickups with their big crew cabs were waiting outside the hangar in four minutes. Allston and Jill walked out and climbed inside for the short drive to the parking apron. She told the drivers to keep the engines running and the air conditioners on.

  The two Air Force officers watched in silence as the C-17 entered the pattern and turned onto the base leg. Allston’s eyes narrowed as the big airlifter came down final and he gauged the approach and landing. “Not bad,” he allowed, paying the pilot a rare compliment.

  Libby’s voice came over Allston’s handheld UHF radio. “Dumbo, roll out long and taxi to the parking area at the far end. Transportation is waiting for your code three.” Again, they waited in silence while the C-17 taxied in and a ground crew turned and marshaled it to a stop next to a C-130. The engines spun down and the crew door flopped down. A lone figure deplaned, looked around, and walked towards them.