“I’ll be sure to catch it.” Richards moved down the line and looked for a table. Allston was eating alone in a corner. She decided it was an opportune time to switch tactics and walked over. “May I join you?”
Allston looked up from the manual he was reading and came to his feet. “Please do, General.” He waited while she sat and then joined her.
Richards tasted the food. “This is excellent,” she said. He smiled an answer. “It has been years since I went through a chow line.”
“A lot has changed,” Allston said. He raised a hand, gesturing at the big tent. “This is very much part of the way we do business these days. So we try to get it right.”
“There’s something we must discuss.” His look seemed receptive so she pressed ahead. “I’ve interviewed twenty-four of your officers, NCOs, and enlisted over the last three days, and talked to numerous others informally. The high level of morale I’ve seen is outstanding. I have heard a few complaints, but that’s to be expected.”
“Ah, the dreaded ten percent,” Allston said. “One of General Fitzgerald’s favorite warnings is that if everyone who works for you is happy, you aren’t doing your job and he’ll fire you.”
“After what happened Tuesday, I thought you should take a down day for counseling to deal with the trauma your people experienced.” Allston explained that he didn’t have the trained counselors available. “At least it would give everyone a chance to call home,” she added. He assured her that was not a problem and they were in constant contact via satellite communications. In fact, he talked to his kids two or three times a week. She switched topics. “Those hats everyone wears are in violation of Air Force directives.”
“General, I learned a long time ago that morale and mission identification go hand-in-hand. That’s what those hats are all about.”
“I am also very worried about the pistols everyone carries.”
“We carry side arms for a reason, ma’am. We were able to rescue those refugees because Riley and MacRay were armed and shot the two goons who stormed the flight deck.”
“But they will be misused, and because a weapon is present and available, a suicide attempt will be successful or an argument will turn deadly.”
Allston didn’t answer immediately. “I’ll deal with that if, and when it happens. But for now, they’ll carry weapons.”
“I understand being armed when you fly, but on the ground? How can you justify that?”
“This is not a peacetime base. General. We’re on the front line in a very nasty little war with real bullets. Earlier, you mentioned standing down for counseling. This is the military, ma’am. We handle the hurt and stress of losing our comrades by honoring them, getting on with the job, and never forgetting who we are and why we’re here.”
“It looks like you’re playing cowboys and… “ She cut her words off in mid sentence.
Allston gave her his lopsided grin. “And Indians,” he said, completing her thought. “It’s okay to be politically incorrect here. In fact, I rather encourage it.”
The General’s head snapped up, her eyes filled with disapproval. “And why is that?”
“Because the last thing any politically correct asshole wants to do is fly the mission and get their politically-correct ass shot off. The Irregulars are committed to the mission because they believe in what we’re doing, and they are willing to put their lives on the line every day. That gives them the right to be as politically incorrect as they want.” He gave her his lopsided grin. “Besides, it’s good for morale.”
“And if I should tell you that I believe we can accomplish the mission and still be politically correct?”
“Tell me that after you’ve flown with us, after you’ve seen starving children, babies impaled on stakes, women raped and mutilated.” He stared at her, waiting for her to take him up on the offer. Her reply surprised him.
“You are a passionate man, Colonel Allston, and it seems you have filled your people with the same passion.”
What is she up to? he wondered. He glanced at his watch. “It’s time for that TV special. Want to see it?” She nodded and he escorted her to the end of the tent that held a large LED TV screen and a huge set of loudspeakers. They sat in the front row as Jill walked to the front and stood beside the screen.
She held a microphone to her lips. “This news story made every major network in the States yesterday. The Armed Forces Network is re-broadcasting it, commercials and all. Please remember we have a very important guest with us tonight, Brigadier General Richards.” A polite round of applause broke out as the screen came to life.
The program opened with a commercial promoting a hemorrhoid cream. “Yep,” a voice at the rear called, “it’s all about us.” Laughter rippled through the Irregulars. They fell silent as an aerial view of the Sahara filled the screen and Tara Scott’s voice explained she was aboard a C-17 inbound to an American airbase in the Sudan. “I love you,” another voice called. The audience quieted as Malakal came into view and Tara explained this was her eleventh visit to Africa. The scene shifted to the cockpit as the C-17 landed and taxied in.
“Lieutenant Colonel Allston and Major Gillian Sharp met us on landing,” Tara said as the camera zoomed in on Jill. Loud whistles and cheers filled the tent as Allston came alert. Jill was extremely photogenic. He glanced at her standing to the side of the TV, her face bright red. She gave him a helpless shrug. Her mouth formed a silent ‘I didn’t know.’
“Within hours of our arrival,” Tara continued, “all hell broke loose.” The scene transitioned to the Nuer hostages huddled on the tarmac. Urgency filled Tara’s voice as carefully-edited and blurred images recorded G.G.’s death and Allston’s reaction. Silence ruled the tent as the camera documented the killing and fighting. The scene transitioned to Tara standing in the hangar filled with the wounded and dying and the tone of her voice changed again, now soft and caring, as she led the camera through the aftermath and to Jill who was examining the weapons and equipment of the gunmen killed in the fighting. “Who were they?” Tara asked.
“It appears they were a suicide squad,” Jill answered. “Fortunately, the French peacekeepers arrived in time, or it would have been a total massacre.”
The scene shifted to the ramp as the Irregulars lined up under the tail of the C-17. “Captain G.G. Libby was the only American killed,” Tara explained, “and the 4440th honored their fallen comrade.” Only Allston’s voice could be heard as he called the Irregulars to attention. The camera focused on Loni Williams as he followed the coffin, saluted Allston, and then presented G.G.’s bush hat to Tara. The scene cut to Tara wearing G.G.’s hat. In the background, a C-130 was taxiing out. “For the men and women of the 4440th, it was business as usual the next day, delivering food and medicine to thousands of starving Africans. They are often called ‘trash haulers’ by the more glamorous fighter pilots, but they call themselves ‘the Irregulars.’
“They are led by an unusual man they call ‘the Boss.’ It would be a mistake to think they are like your neighbors next door. They are not. They are warriors who wear this hat with pride, and they want nothing more than to bring peace to this troubled land, and I am honored to wear their hat.”
The TV screen went dark, and for a moment the tent was silent. Then it exploded in applause, whistles, and cheers. Jill waited patiently for it to subside. Her eyes glistened as she looked directly at Allston. He gave a little nod in return. Slowly the pandemonium died away. “Well, that’s it,” Jill finally said. “I hope your loved ones at home see it.”
Richards caught it all and ran her mental abacus, adding it all up. She stood and walked back to her sleeping quarters, deep in thought. A note was slipped under the door.
Yvonne,
We moved the refugees to Mission Awana, about twenty miles east of here. We’re going to stay at Awana and build a camp that really works and is safe. Thanks for all the help and come see us if you get a chance.
Tara
“We’ll just ha
ve to do that,” Richards said in a low voice. She hummed a tuneless melody and went to bed. But she couldn’t sleep as she scripted a new scenario.
ELEVEN
Mission Awana, Republic of South Sudan
Tara was waiting on the wide veranda that surrounded the mission’s guesthouse when Jill wheeled the big six-pac pickup around the corner and coasted to a stop. She jumped out and held the rear door open for her passengers. Richards was the first out, closely followed by Allston. He sucked in his breath as Tara came down the steps, dressed in a wrap-around modeled after the sarongs the local women wore. The cloth seemed to take on a magic of its own and shimmered and changed color when she came into the full sunlight. The effect was stunning. “Welcome to Mission Awana,” Tara said, extending her hand. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
They exchanged greetings, and Jill followed the three onto the cooler veranda, feeling very much out of place. The two women were beautiful by any standard and complemented by Allston’s rugged looks. As usual, Tara’s cameraman was recording the event. Jill was about to mention it when Tara motioned at the camera and said, “It’s all about publicity and promotion. Our special was number four in the ratings, and the network wants a follow-up. There’s a rumor that Sixty Minutes is interested.”
“We saw it,” Richards said. “You were very complimentary.”
Allston grinned “No joke. You should see my e-mail. So far, I’ve gotten three marriage proposals.” He pulled a face, as if he were considering it. “One’s very pretty, one says she’s wealthy, and the other I can’t repeat the offer.” He laughed. “And my kids had to change their cell phone numbers.”
Tara guided them to comfortable chairs on the veranda, and poured them a cool drink from an unusual ceramic pitcher. “I didn’t know you were married.”
“Divorced. But I’ve got two great kids.” The three women were very attentive, all for different reasons, as he told them about Lynne, his tall and beautiful twenty-one-year-old daughter, and Ben his gangly sixteen-year-old stepson. “Lynne’s in college and Ben is currently with his mother in Los Angeles. But he prefers to live with me.” The loud drone of a single-engine airplane caught their attention as it flew low over the mission compound. Automatically, Allston looked up and searched for the aircraft. He quickly found the plane, a high-wing, single-engine turbo prop Pilatus Porter. Tara and Jill studied his face as he took the measure of the pilot, looking for the telltale clues that marked an eagle.
Tara never took her eyes off Allston, sensing something was very different about the man. Then it came to her. He was a raptor, only truly at home in the sky, hunting on the wing. “That’s Dr. Tobias Person,” she said, breaking the spell.
“Toby Person?” Allston asked, suddenly alert. “Short, red-hair, pudgy, early forties, nice guy. He used to be in the Air Force.”
“He’s not pudgy,” Tara said, “but that does sound like him.”
Allston watched as the light plane circled to land at the airstrip located a half-mile to the east of the mission. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured. From the looks on the women’s faces, an explanation was in order. “Toby was the best Weapons Systems Officer that ever strapped on an F-15 Strike Eagle. He was teamed with Gus Tyler, one of the finest officers and pilots in the Air Force. Talk about putting bombs on target.”
Tara couldn’t believe it. “Dr. Person? He’s the most gentle soul I’ve ever met.” She checked her watch. “Why don’t we go meet him?”
“I’ll drive,” Jill said, feeling marginally useful. She wheeled the six-pac through the compound that radiated out in spokes from Mission House at the hub. “Mission Awana,” she explained, “is one of the oldest and most successful missions in Africa, all thanks to Dr. Person. Unfortunately, it is located in the disputed border area. So far, Khartoum has ignored it, but how much longer that will happen is anyone’s guess.”
“It certainly looks prosperous,” Allston said. Within minutes they were at the airstrip where three men were pushing the tail dragger into a hangar. A short, wiry man with red hair waved and walked towards them. Allston got out to meet him. “Toby Person,” he said. “It’s been a long time.” The two men shook hands. Person’s hands were gnarled and calloused, his grip strong.
A big smile split Toby’s leathery features. “Mad Dawg Allston, I heard you were in country. Upsetting any apple carts?”
“No more than usual.” The two men laughed, sharing the memories of when they were young.
“Reverend Person has invited us to lunch,” Tara said, interrupting the two old friends.
“Reverend Person?” Allston said.
Toby laughed. “Well, it sounds better than Parson Person.”
“I thought you were a doctor, like in M.D.”
“That too. Let’s go to lunch. We can talk and get caught up.”
~~~
After a light lunch, they took refuge in a large open room inside Mission House, sheltered from the cresting heat of the day. “Reverend Person,” Richards asked, “exactly how stable is the political situation here?” Jill mentally shifted gears into the intelligence mode. She gave the general high marks for probing the area where they were the most vulnerable.
“Not very, General,” Toby replied. “We’re caught in a civil war between the Arab north and Africans in the south. It’s been going on over fifty years and I don’t see it ending soon.”
“I thought that ended when the South Sudan gained its independence and made
Juba the capital.” Richards said.
Toby shook his head. “They may have signed a so-called treaty of independence, but they never agreed on the border.” He unfolded a map and spread it out on the table. He pointed to the mission. “We’re here, on the south bank of the Al Bahr Al Abyad, the White Nile, which Juba claims is its northern border. The Sudanese Army is operating on the north side of the river, and along with the Janjaweed, consolidating its hold.”
“Which is in our area of operations,” Allston added.
“And the prize is oil,” Jill said, leading the conversation in the direction she wanted.
Toby gave her a long look before answering. “Exactly. And the Sudanese want it all.” He used a pencil as a pointer to indicate large areas of land blocked in with squares and rectangles, all in Allston’s area of operations. “These are the oil concessions where oil has been discovered. The reserves are not huge like the Middle East but they’re nothing to sneeze at — about the size of Columbia and Venezuela. The government in Khartoum parceled the concessions out to foreign consortiums, mostly Chinese, and takes eighty percent of the gross. We never see a bit of it down here, and as far as the government is concerned, the Africans are kafirs — unbelievers — and not entitled to a cent. To solidify their position, they’ve used the Janjaweed and the Army to systematically drive the Africans out of the concessions and created an African Diaspora.”
“Enter the United Nations Relief and Peacekeeping Mission, Southern Sudan,” Jill added. “A testimonial to corruption, greed, and sheer incompetence.” Richards shot her a warning look. Jill was to be seen and not heard.
“But the Army and the Janjaweed have left you alone,” Richards said, again asking the very questions Jill wanted to ask.
“So far,” Toby replied. “There’s been some trouble around Malakal, thanks to Major Hamid Waleed. He’s the only Sudanese Army outpost on the southern side of the White Nile. For the most part, he just bullies the Africans, otherwise Juba might get involved, and they know how to fight.”
“I met him twice,” Allston grumbled. “That was twice too many.”
“Unfortunately,” Toby continued, “a Canadian exploration team discovered a large oil reserve in block five, here.” He tapped an odd-shaped, penciled-in area on the map located a hundred miles south of the mission. “Khartoum wants it but Juba has served notice it belongs to them, which is why Khartoum called for jihad against the Africans. Juba” — he pointed to the large town 300 miles south of the mission — “wants
to make the White Nile the de facto boundary and Juba their capital.” He pointed to the large town 300 miles to the south of the mission. “The good news is that we’re on the south side of the river, on Juba’s side. The bad news is that we’re caught between the Army and the new oil discoveries.”
Jill put it all together. “Which is why you invited Tara to the mission.”
Although Toby lived in central Africa far removed from the main currents of world opinion, he was a realist. “Publicity works every time.”
“I want to be here,” Tara added. “We’ve got to make a stand somewhere, and I can’t think of a more worthwhile place.”
“I’ll give you the tour,” Toby said.
“I’ll drive,” Jill said, hoping to learn more.
Toby sat in the front seat as Jill drove slowly through the compound, following Toby’s directions. “The mission is really a plantation,” he explained, “but a very modern one. Thanks to the Nile, we’ve over 4000 acres under irrigation and export food, mostly a type of disease-resistant sorghum. We also have some cottage industries that could be commercially successful. But more important, we have the best schools and the largest medical station in sub Sahara Africa. Our hospital has six doctors, two operating rooms, a hundred beds, and a training school for nurses and midwives. Our medical teams vaccinate over 10,000 children a year. It’s taken five generations to create the mission and I’m just the current caretaker.”
Near the end of the tour, Jill asked a key question. “Why doesn’t the United Nations stop the fighting?”
Again, Toby gave her a long look, considering his answer. He shook his head and there was no doubt the missionary knew she was probing for operable intelligence. “And violate Sudanese sovereignty? If the UN got involved simply because the Sudanese were engaged in a little genocide in their own country, what country would be next?”
Allston changed the subject. “How long is your airstrip?”
“We’ve got 4000 feet of macadam and a 1000 feet of hard-pack at the western end and 1500 on the eastern end. An Airbus made an emergency landing once. No problem.” Allston slumped in his seat, deep in thought. It was more than enough for C-130 operations.
The Peacemakers Page 15
