~~~
A gentle evening breeze caressed Mission Awana and held the pillaging insects at bay. Allston and Jill sat alone on the veranda of the guesthouse and savored the night air. “My favorite time of day,” Allston said. Only the rattling chirps of an unknown bug disturbed the tranquility. “It’s amazing what Toby has done here.”
“He has made a difference,” Tara said from behind him. She pushed through the screen door carrying a tray with the same unusual crock pitcher that gleamed with condensation. She had showered and changed into another, even more beautiful wrap. This one was made of a finer material and flowed over her body, outlining every curve. For a brief moment, a light from inside outlined her figure, leaving little to the imagination about what was not underneath.
A primal urge shot through Allston and he was thankful for the dark. “I was just telling Major Sharp this is my favorite time of day.” An animal call echoed through the night. “That sounds canine.”
Jill heard a tone in his voice that sent tingles down her spine. There was nothing provocative or unusual in what he said, but it was the call of an eagle reaching out in the dark and her body responded. But she knew the call was not meant for her. With a will that surprised her, she said nothing.
“That’s a spotted hyena,” Tara answered. “They really own the night.” She sat the tray down and poured them a drink. “I love this drink,” she told them. “It’s non-alcoholic and so refreshing. In the right hands… it could be a commercial success.”
Jill bit her tongue. It was not what Tara said, but an undertone in her voice combined with the way her body moved that left little doubt the actress was responding to Allston. “That stone pitcher is most unusual,” Jill said. “The way condensation forms.”
“It is unusual,” Tara said. “Some consider it a work of art, and it definitely cools
… the drink. With the right approach… well, who knows?” She sank into a chaise lounge opposite Allston as the night captured them. Again, the call of a hyena split the night, this time farther away. “She won’t be happy until she finds her mate,” Tara explained.
“Do you think so?” Allston asked.
Tara sipped her drink, her eyes fixed on him. “Oh, yes,” she said. They sat in silence as the chirping resumed. “Hyenas run in large packs and are led by a female.”
“So that explains why they are so vocal,” Allston said.
Richards joined them and sat down. “Why who is so vocal?” she asked.
“The leaders of a hyena pack,” Tara answered.
“Who is always a female,” Allston added. “I just learned that.”
“You do have a lot to learn,” Tara said. “About females.”
Allston laughed. “Oh, I hope so.” Jill felt her face flush. There was no doubt they were engaging in verbal foreplay, sophisticated, low-keyed, and beyond anything she had experienced. She was jealous and stifled a sigh. “I’m bushed,” Allston said. “Time to hit the sack. Good night, ladies.”
The three women watched him as he disappeared through the door and turned left toward his room. Tara made conversation for twenty minutes or so and then bid them good night, claiming it had been a long day. Jill’s eyes followed her as she entered the guesthouse and turned left. “Her room is on the other side,” Richards said. “Next to ours.” Her words were clipped and hard. The echo of a faint knock on a door reached the veranda. A long silence came down. Then, “Major, don’t even think about it.” It was a clear warning that Allston and Tara were free to engage in whatever relationship they chose, but not Jill.
“Pardon, ma’am? Think about what?”
“Sleeping with Allston. Do I need to remind you of his reputation and the differences in your rank?”
“I’m well-aware of his reputation and the prohibitions on fraternization,” Jill replied. “His conduct has always been above board and proper.”
“I’m not talking about his conduct, but yours.”
“General, I have done nothing…”
Richards interrupted her. “Nothing indeed.”
~~~
Tara was on her second cup of coffee the next morning when Richards joined her. A young and very pretty Nuer took the general’s order and moved gracefully away, giving the two women a cone of privacy. “They do have a sense of style,” Tara said, admiring the way the girl dressed and carried herself.
“Have you seen Colonel Allston this morning?” Richards asked. Tara shook her head. It was not exactly the truth for Tara had left his room just before sunrise.
“Tara, I do apologize, but may I discuss a personal matter?” The actress nodded, not sure what was coming. “Colonel Allston has,” Richards continued, “shall we say, a certain reputation in regards to his personal relationships with women. Many women.” Tara arched an eyebrow but didn’t take the bait. “I just wanted to be sure you understand who you are dealing with.”
“Oh, I understand.” The two women smiled at each other. Richards was aching to know if Allston was true to his reputation, but was afraid Tara would give her an honest answer, which judging by the actress’s quiet response, she certainly didn’t want to hear. Richards had a fine-tuned ability to read an individual’s emotions that she used in her arsenal of weapons to advance her career. It had worked well with all her superiors except one, General John Fitzgerald, the Air Force Chief of Staff.
Jill burst into the room, her face flushed and damp with perspiration. “General, there’s a problem at Malakal, and Colonel Allston is flying back. He needs to speak with you before he leaves.”
“May I join you?” Tara asked.
“Certainly,” Richards answered. “Let me get my hat.” She hurried to her room and was back in seconds.
“General,” Jill said. “Colonel Allston asked that you wear this.” She handed Richards a holstered .45 automatic and belt. Richards hesitated. The weapon was an overt symbol that she was in combat. “The situation has gone critical,” Jill added. The general strapped the weapon around her narrow waist.
The women clambered into Jill’s six-pac and she drove quickly to the airfield where the mission’s Pilatus Porter was waiting on the ramp, its engine running. Allston hurried over to meet them and stuck his head in the passenger’s side window. “I got a call from Major Lane. Waleed and his goons have sealed off the airfield with roadblocks and closed the fuel dump. The UN has ordered us to turn over our C-130s, equipment, everything, and the Legion to surrender their heavy weapons, including their Stinger and Shipon missiles.” He let his anger show. “Jesus H. Christ! Our C-130s can’t defeat a Stinger and the Shipon can kill any tank in the world. The last thing we need is for those fu… “ — he caught himself in time — “is for the Janjaweed to get their hands on a Stinger.” The capability of the US-made missile was well known and the Israeli-developed, shoulder-held Shipon had a dual mode warhead that was deadly against tanks, fortifications, and personnel. “Waleed’s given us until noon tomorrow to comply and evacuate Malakal.”
Richards touched the automatic on her hip. “Did these precipitate this?”
“Waleed could care less about handguns. He wants those missiles. Our Herks can jam the hell out of any surface-to-air missile they’ve got, but not the Stinger.” He reached out and touched Tara’s hand. “Please stay here. It’s safer and you can tell the world what’s happening.” Tara nodded. “I gotta go.”
“I’ll stay here and coordinate with AFRICOM,” Richards said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Allston replied. “Major Sharp, it’s gonna get ugly and you can stay here.”
Jill shook her head. “My assignment is with the Irregulars.” She ran after him.
“Stupid woman,” Richards said under her breath.
“I’d follow him,” Tara replied.
“But you’re staying here.”
“Because he gave me a job to do,” the actress replied. Richards didn’t understand.
~~~
Toby was sitting behind the controls of the single-engine utility a
ircraft when Allston and Jill climbed on board. Allston sat in the copilot’s seat, Jill in the back. Allston jammed on a headset as Toby turned into the wind. Without bothering to take the runway, he gunned the turboprop engine and took off from the parking ramp. They were airborne in less than four hundred feet. “Twenty miles to Malakal,” Toby announced. “Less than ten minutes.” He leveled off at two hundred feet above the ground and turned to the west, flying along the Nile. “I’m guessing Waleed won’t close the runway because of commercial traffic. We should be okay.”
“And if they shoot at us?” Jill asked.
“Not to worry,” Toby answered, “we’ll be in and out before they get a clue.”
“Stalwart fellow,” Allston mumbled.
Malakal
Toby dropped down to a hundred feet above the ground and slowed as they approached the airport. “They haven’t blocked the runway,” Allston said. Toby didn’t answer and concentrated on the landing. He started the flaps down and slowed as he flew along the runway towards the C-130 ramp at the western end. Allston counted all four of his C-130s and did not see any of the familiar Sudanese Army trucks. “I can see a roadblock at the main gate,” he said. “That’s all.” Toby grunted an answer, dumped the flaps to full down and landed the taildragger in less than 300 feet. He turned onto the parking ramp, spun around, and hit the brakes. Allston unlatched the door and was out before the Porter was fully stopped. Jill was right behind him. Allston closed the cargo door and stepped back. Toby gunned the engine and took off at an angle across the ramp and the runway width. “Well done,” Allston allowed.
“That was exciting,” Jill allowed as they walked in.
Vermullen and Lane were waiting in operations. The Frenchman explained that the orders to turn over his weapons had come directly from the UN Peacekeeping mission in Addis Ababa. “In their infinite wisdom, they only ordered us to leave, not where to go.”
“What’s your government telling you?” Allston asked.
“To negotiate what I can but in the end, do as ordered. Are you going to turn over your aircraft?”
“That will be one cold day in hell,” Allston replied, his words etched in stone.
The satellite phone buzzed and Jill answered. “It’s the AFRICOM duty officer. He’s talked to Richards.” She handed the phone to Allston.
Allston quickly briefed the duty officer on the situation. His eyes went cold when the duty officer ordered the 4440th to stand down while AFRICOM coordinated with the NMCC and the State Department. “I will not turn my aircraft over to anyone under any circumstances,” Allston told him. Again, he listened as the duty officer told him not to make the situation worse. Allston sensed he was dealing with a staff officer who did not have the authority, nor the balls, to make a decision. “Thank you, sir.” He punched at the phone, hard, breaking the connection. “Fuckin’ clueless wonder.” He handed the phone to Jill. “Can you get in touch with Toby?”
She punched at the buttons, frustrated by the delays in establishing a link while Allston talked to Vermullen. Finally, she handed Allston the phone. He quickly updated Toby on the situation. “I’m not turning the Herks over and I’m going to evacuate.”
Richards came on the line. “Colonel Allston, I’m in contact with AFRICOM. You were ordered to stand down and not make the situation worse.”
“General, a commander never loses the right of self defense. As I read the situation, my only defense is to cut and run. Further, AFRICOM is not in my chain of command.”
“Not your formal chain of command,” Richards replied, not willing to concede the point. “If you insist on evacuating without clearance from AFRICOM, go to Ethiopia.”
“We need to stay in country. If I read this right, once the Legion is gone, there’s going to be a bloodbath. We need to relocate as many of the Dinka and Nuer as we can out of the oil concessions, and there is no way Ethiopia will allow us to mount a cross-border airlift.”
“We’ve got the space and a fuel dump,” Toby said.
“How about the legionnaires? Okay to bring them?”
“Knowing Waleed,” Toby said, “the Legion is the only thing that will keep him away.”
Richards interrupted. “Colonel Allston, I say again, stand down while I coordinate. You are making the situation worse by your precipitate actions.”
“Copy all,” Allston replied. “Standing by.” He broke the connection. “Precipitate action, my ass.” He drew his .45 automatic and fired a round into the satcom. “Damn, we’ve just gone com out. I guess we’re on our own.”
TWELVE
Malakal
Major Hamid Waleed woke with a jerk. It was still dark and he patted the bed beside him. The girl was gone, which was good. As his adjutant had promised, the fourteen-year-old Dinka was a virgin, but she was worthless now. He checked his watch, pleased that he had woken in time for Fajr, the first prayer of the day. He quickly dressed and stepped outside his tent to insure the three privates standing guard at the main gate leading into the American compound would see him at prayer. They would talk of his piety and add to his reputation as a faithful member of the Umma, the universal Islamic community.
His anger flared when he saw the guards were sound asleep. He drew his prized 9mm automatic and crept up on the sleeping men. For a moment, he hesitated before singling out the oldest, a twenty-year-old private from a village south of Khartoum. The private came from a family without connections or honor and was less than a man. Because he knew these things, Waleed considered himself a good officer, and, more importantly, knew what to do with guards caught sleeping on duty. He slapped the private awake and waited, ensuring the other two guards were fully conscious. He pulled the slide of his Browning back, chambered a round, and shot the private in the forehead. He pulled the trigger again.
The two guards groveled in the dirt and begged for mercy. Waleed questioned them, anxious to learn if there had been any activity among the Americans during the night. Assured that all had been quiet since the small single-engine plane had landed the previous morning, he let them live. What harm could one small aircraft do? he reasoned. He made a show of checking his expensive Rolex. “My ultimatum expires in seven hours,” he announced. “The Americans have no honor, they have no courage. They are pigs and bend to my will.” He returned to his tent and knelt in prayer, certain that letting the two guards live would add to his honor as a just and honorable man — and a warrior.
~~~
Master Sergeant Jerry Malone crouched low and held his holstered Berretta to his thigh. The security cop moved silently toward the defensive firing position, DFP for short, which served as an observation post on the main gate and used what concealment he could find. He broke radio silence and spoke low into his radio, using the single word to warn the DFP that he was coming. It was the only radio transmission he would make. Twenty feet away, a woman issued a soft challenge and he whispered the recognition code of the day. “Advance,” Staff Sergeant Louise Colvin said. The loadmaster was an augmentee posted with a security cop in the DFP. Malone slipped silently into the sandbagged foxhole.
“Sum’ bitch, Sarge,” the security cop whispered. “You got lucky they didn’t see you.”
“What was the shooting all about?” Malone asked.
Lou Colvin handed him her high-powered night vision scope. “An officer shot one of the guards when he caught them sleeping.”
Malone’s eyes adjusted as he swept the scene in front of him. The officer in question was praying in front of his tent while the two guards bundled the body in a ragged blanket and carried it to the far side of the road to wait for burial. “So they haven’t got a clue.”
“It seems that way,” Lou replied.
“Good work,” Malone said. He watched as the officer disappeared into his tent as two orderlies carried in cloth-covered trays with his breakfast. Malone handed Lou the scope and disappeared into the dark.
~~~
Jill was waiting in operations when Allston arrived. He didn’
t turn on the lights, anxious to maintain the blackout and the appearance the compound was asleep. Even in the early-morning dark, he could tell she was exhausted. “Any trouble getting through the gate?” he asked.
“A little. The guards were very upset. I bribed my way through and gave them each a Krugerrand. They do like gold.”
“An officer, I’m guessing it was Waleed, shot one of them earlier for falling asleep on duty.”
“That would explain why they were so antsy,” Jill said.
“So how did it go?”
“I found the truck driver from the Djibouti supply run. He says he can arrange for seven trucks. They should arrive around nine this morning.”
“It’s all in the timing,” Allston allowed.
“They’re on African time,” she replied.
“Cover story?” Allston asked.
“All in place. The driver says they regularly haul cargo for the Sudanese Army. I gave them the loading manifests for what they’re to pick up here, all signed by Waleed.” She gave a disgusted snort and quickly related how she had bribed a Sudanese sergeant to type the loading manifests that gave the SA the right to confiscate whatever they wanted from the Americans. “Waleed actually signed them. The bastard thinks he’s got a license to steal.”
“Which he does,” Allston replied. “But we’re going to steal it right back. I want you and the women on the first C-130. It’s gonna get ugly if we have to fight our way out.”
“No way, Colonel. I can speak for all of us. We do our job like everyone else.”
Allston heard the resolve in her voice. He wanted to tell her that he couldn’t accept the risks the women were willing to take and at the same time, give her a hug for her bravery. But an inner voice told him nothing he could say would change their minds. And a hug was out of the question. “I still need you on the first C-130. If it all falls apart here, you’ll have to play it by ear at Awana. I need some one there with a clue.” Jill nodded, understanding. “You’ve got time to take a shower and eat. Be on the aircraft before the sun comes up.”
The Peacemakers Page 16
