“I got ’em in sight!” Williams shouted.
Allston leveled off but continued the pylon turn to the right. They were on the outside of the turn, away from the burning hangar and over the parking ramp when Williams fired a short burst through the smoke over the hangar. Nothing. “We’re too low,” Williams told him. “I’m hitting the berm around the bladders. Gimme another fifty feet.” Allston continued the turn, again flying through the smoke from the hangar. The rising air currents lifted the Porter. Again, Allston coughed from the smoke. Why wasn’t Williams coughing? Allston chanced a quick look into the rear. Williams had tied a water-soaked red bandana over his mouth and nose. They came out of the smoke and Allston checked their altitude — 280 feet. He held the turn as Williams fired another short burst. One of the big bladders erupted, sending a pillar of fire shooting into the sky. Allston pulled the throttle to flight idle and tightened up the turn as he dove for the ground. Something heavy rolled across the deck of the cargo bay and bounced against the back of his seat. The second fuel bladder erupted like a huge Roman candle.
Allston dumped the flaps and flew a curvilinear approach to land on the runway. But he landed across it and used the taxi path leading to the parking area to roll out. He spun the taildragger around and pointed the Porter’s nose back towards the runway. The security cops broke from their DFPs and converged on the Porter, shedding their equipment as they ran. Allston turned to his right and looked into the cargo area. He couldn’t see Williams. “Damn, Colonel,” Williams said, “that hurt.” He was crumpled up behind the pilot’s seat.
Staff Sergeant Lou Colvin was the first to reach the Porter. She dropped her heavy web equipment suspenders, but held onto her M-16 as she dived through the cargo door. She scrambled into the copilot’s seat. Eight security cops were right behind her, each dropping their equipment and ammo belts, but holding onto their weapons as they climbed in. Lou reached around and pulled a cop onto her lap. Six more cops squeezed in behind them. “We’re full, Boss!” Williams shouted.
“We got six more to go,” Allston replied. “Stack ’em in like cord wood.” The Porter rocked on its landing gear as five more cops piled in. Finally, only Malone was left. Malone shook his head, indicating there was no room, and motioned for them to leave. Allston turned to the mashed-in bodies behind him. “Troops, we’re gonna sit here until you drag Malone on board. So get with the program.” Again, the Porter rocked as the cops rearranged themselves in three layers. Two pair of hands reached out to pull Malone in. The sergeant’s legs were still dangling outside as Allston ran the engine up and taxied onto the runway. He released the brakes.
They were airborne in less than a thousand feet.
Mission Awana
A very angry Brigadier General Richards paced back and forth as Allston taxied the Porter in. He deliberately parked on the far side of the ramp to make her walk before he cut power and climbed out the small pilot’s door. He walked around the long nose to wait for the general while willing hands pulled security cops out of the cargo bay. The four-bladed prop was still spinning down when Richards reached the aircraft. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she said, her voice low and threatening.
Allston ignored her and did a quick head count. Lou Colvin was there with twenty security cops. Williams was the last to climb out of the Porter, the wet bandana still around his neck. “Any water left?” Allston asked. He couldn’t believe how thirsty he was.
Williams laughed and tossed Allston a hip flask with brandy. “I soaked it in this. Seemed like a good idea at the time.” Allston took a swig and tossed it back.
“Answer my question,” Richards demanded. “What were you doing?”
“Getting my people out of harm’s way, General.”
“You disobeyed a direct order to turn your aircraft over to the UN.”
Allston looked at her calmly. “I never got that order.”
“I gave it to you!”
“General, for the record, we are under the operational control of the UN Relief and Peacekeeping Mission Southern Sudan. You are not in that chain of command. I did not have the time, much less the communications, to verify any such order with the UN.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Colonel, don’t play the barracks lawyer with me. You violated a direct order, and I’m relieving you of command.”
“Again, ma’am, you are not in my chain of command,” Allston replied. He fell silent as Toby drove up in his battered Land Rover.
“We’ll see about that,” Richards snapped. “Who’s the senior security cop here?”
“That would be Master Sergeant Jerry Malone.” Allston pointed to the group huddled around Malone. “He’s over there.” He watched as Richards stormed across the ramp, her rage building.
“That is one angry lady,” Toby said from behind him.
“Indeed she is. Can I catch a lift to the guesthouse?” He climbed in and didn’t look back.
~~~
Jill was waiting on the veranda of the guesthouse when Allston and Toby arrived. The large house was alive with activity. “Your new headquarters,” Toby said. Allston climbed out of the Land Rover and Toby drove away. Jill ran down the steps to meet him. For a fraction of second, Allston thought she would throw her arms around him, but the major skidded to a halt and saluted.
“We were worried,” Jill said. He returned the salute, and she handed him a new satellite phone. “I thought you might need this.”
“Thanks. I will now. Any word on the trucks and the Legion?”
“Colonel Vermullen radioed in. They ran into a roadblock that had also stopped the supply trucks. Luckily, the Legion arrived in time or the trucks would have been hijacked. He convinced the guards it wasn’t a good idea.” Allston laughed, imagining Vermullen in a cold rage. “The Legion is escorting the trucks in,” Jill continued, “and should arrive in thirty or forty minutes.” She paused. “Your staff is all here.”
Allston nodded. He couldn’t ask for four better officers to serve on his staff, and that included the irascible Malaby. “Super. We need to sort things out and settle in.”
“Settle in?” Malaby asked. “Aren’t we pulling out? Everyone seems to think we are.”
“Not at this time,” Allston replied. “We’re going to set up operations right here. We’re back in business.”
Jill finally understood. “So that’s why you needed the supply trucks. What about the Legion? Will they stay?” They both knew the presence of the Legion was the only thing that would keep the Sudanese at bay.
“I believe so. Idi wants to settle some outstanding debts. Speaking of which, send some one to pick up General Richards and Sergeant Malone at the airstrip, then join us.”
E-Ring
The colonel giving the briefing was enjoying himself as the high-definition image appeared on the big computer-driven screen. He was the project officer for the latest version of Eagle Eye, an unmanned aerial vehicle developed for reconnaissance, and it had performed beyond all expectations. “Eagle Eye had been on station above Malakal for thirty-six hours when these images were captured” — he checked his watch — “sixty-four minutes ago.”
“Altitude?” Fitzgerald asked.
“Ten thousand feet,” the colonel answered. Fitzgerald stared at him, waiting for an explanation. The colonel caught the unasked question. “We’re testing Eagle Eye’s daylight stealth capability, as well as its communications monitoring capability. The Sudanese Army talks incessantly over the radios, and at no time did we detect a transmission indicating they had detected Eagle Eye’s presence. Based on that result, we believe we can operate as low as five thousand feet at night.” Again, the colonel keyed on Fitzgerald’s look and quickly added, “But only in that environment, sir.” He cycled through the images. “We believe the man you see here setting the fires is Master Sergeant Malone.” The images cycled and stopped. “The Pilatus Porter you see here circling in and out of the smoke belongs to Mission Awana, and was piloted by Lieutenant Colonel Allston.�
� He hit the advance button. “In this frame, you can see rounds being fired from the Porter and striking the earthen berm surrounding the fuel dump. In this sequence, the Porter is climbing and again firing into the fuel bladders. The results were quite spectacular.” The image of the fuel dump fireballing lit up the room.
The image changed to the Porter landing on the ramp. “Colonel Allston used the burning fuel dump as cover to land and extract the remaining security police, one of whom was a woman. Her identity is unknown at this time. The aircraft recovered safely at Mission Awana, twenty miles from Malakal.”
“Twenty-one bodies in a Porter?” Fitzgerald asked.
“Actually, twenty-three counting the pilot and gunner. We think it may have set a record for the Porter.”
Now Fitzgerald was enjoying himself. “Please inform the Guinness Book of Records. Colonel, why did the 4440th relocate so close to Malakal?”
The colonel knew better than to wing it. “I cannot answer that question, sir, nor could anyone I talked to when I asked the same question. We’re working it.”
Fitzgerald considered his options. “Recall General Richards and Major Sharp. Get them here ASAP, no later than twenty-four hours.” He thanked the colonel, giving him high marks for the briefing, and stood to leave. The Secretary of Defense had summoned him and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to his office. It was not a meeting he was going to enjoy.
Mission Awana
Allston huddled with his staff in a corner of the guesthouse’s lounge. The major in charge of Facilities was talking. “The Reverend Person said we can use the mission’s communication center in Mission House for flight ops. I’ve got a team there now, setting up our radios and plugging into their net. The guesthouse has a large kitchen we can use and enough room for a dining hall, plus ten bedrooms.” He unrolled a large-scale chart of the mission. “We brought in enough tents on the trucks to billet everyone else behind the guesthouse. But it is going to be crowded, and we’re going to have to build latrines to handle the overload.”
It was Susan Malaby’s turn. “Maintenance can use the two small hangars at the airstrip, but I’ll need a couple of tents.” She looked at Allston. “Colonel, we’re down to four airframes and I have more people than I need. Can I send some of them home?”
“The same is true for the aircrews,” Dick Lane said.
“Good idea,” Allston said. “Everyone, identify your essential personnel and they stay. Everyone else can go.” He thought for a moment. “We’re on the frontline, folks. Make sure everyone gets the word that it may get very sporting around here.”
“Sporting?” the major in charge of logistics asked.
“Like in real bullets and real danger,” Allston told him.
“Oh, that kind of sporting,” the major replied, totally unfazed.
Lane’s personal communicator buzzed. He glanced at the message. “The com center has a message for General Richards and Major Sharp. They’ve been ordered to report to the Pentagon ASAP. A C-17 has been diverted into Addis Ababa to pick them up.”
“Dick, lay on a Herk to get them there,” Allston said. “Okay, folks, let’s go to work.” He stood and walked out to the veranda to wait for the Legion to arrive. So where are we? he thought, re-evaluating the situation. The Herks made the mission a target for the Sudanese and Toby knew it. So why did he invite the 4440th to use the mission as its base? Was the missionary simply acknowledging the inevitable and fighting for time? Vermullen and his legionnaires were a deterrent, but they had surrendered their heavy weapons to the Sudanese. If they could rearm the Legion, that would make the mission a very hard nut to crack. So how did they do that? He collapsed into a wicker chaise lounge and closed his eyes. Jill’s image emerged from his subconscious and he dozed.
~~~
Richard’s voice was there, hard and sharp-edged. “Colonel, stand up when I’m talking to you.” Allston’s eyes snapped open and he came to his feet. Richards was standing in front of him with Jill and Malone immediately behind her. “I’m formally relieving you of your command.” She motioned at Malone. “Take Colonel Allston into custody.”
Malone didn’t hesitate. “Without authorization from AFRICOM, I don’t have the authority to do that.”
“Then get it,” she replied.
“The mission’s communications center is in contact with AFRICOM,” Allston said. He couldn’t help himself. “There’s a message waiting for you, ma’am. Sergeant Malone, please drive General Richards over. It’s too hot to walk.” He motioned for Jill to join him as Malone escorted Richards to the waiting six-pac truck. He waited until Richards was sitting in the truck and out of earshot. “We need to talk. When Waleed confiscated the weapons on that supply truck that brought you back from Djibouti, you mentioned a Sudanese Army supply dump. Where was that?”
“Bentiu.” Like a good Intel officer, she was ready with the details. Bentiu was a large town located 153 miles west of the mission and under Khartoum’s control. It was also in the heart of an oil field and was a combination of an oil boomtown replete with bars and prostitutes, a shantytown filled with refugees, and a Sudanese Army garrison. It also housed a large concentration of Chinese soldiers masquerading as private security guards and pipeline construction workers.”
“Any chance that’s where the Legion’s heavy weapons will end up?”
“I’d say there’s a good possibility they will. The Stingers and Shipons are high-value weapons, and Bentiu is the most secure facility the Sudanese have in the area. Why the interest?”
“Just curious.” He changed the subject. “You need to pack your bag. I imagine the General is reading the message recalling you and her to the Pentagon as we speak.” He sensed she needed some encouragement. “Not to worry, Merlin’s on top of it.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“It’s not like you’ve got a choice. Hurry back.”
“There’s the Legion,” she said, pointing to the first of a long line of trucks rolling into the mission.
E-Ring
The Secretary of Defense motioned the two four-star generals to the leather couch in the far corner of his huge office overlooking the Potomac and let them stew for a few moments while he signed paperwork and memos. Satisfied the delay had made it clear just how angry he was, he joined them and sat in a big overstuffed chair opposite the couch. He puffed on his cigar, enjoying the aroma, but not what he had to do. “Hal, Fitz, I assume you know what’s got me pissed off.” Although protocol dictated that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Harold Misner, United States Army, answer, Misner hesitated and nodded at Fitzgerald to answer.
“Mr. Secretary, I assume you’re concerned with recent developments in the Sudan,” Fitzgerald said, stepping up to take the heat. The Secretary nodded and Fitzgerald continued to talk. “Specifically, I assume you are concerned by the landing of a NSA high-value reconnaissance asset at Malakal.” He had assumed correctly and the Secretary asked how Admiral Chester A. Bellows, the brilliant and irritable head of the National Security Agency, got involved without his knowledge. Bellows was famous for his short fuse and total inability to put up with fools, bureaucrats, and politicians. His temper was legendary, as well as the results his agency achieved. “We’re field testing Eagle Eye,” Fitzgerald replied, “and I asked Chester if he could have one of his platforms monitor the same activities to see if we are missing anything. He happened to have an An-12 in the area and obliged.”
The Secretary puffed on his cigar, laying a smoke screen between him and the two generals. “So why did it land at Malakal just in time to create a diversion for the 4440th to evacuate?”
“I imagine it was maintaining its cover,” Fitzgerald replied. “Did you ask Chester?”
“I did. He gave me the same load of crap. Talk about perfect timing. Just how much coincidence do you expect me, or for that matter, the President to believe?”
The two generals tried to look innocent. “Coincidence does happen,” Misner allowe
d. He had mentioned the situation at Malakal to the vice admiral over lunch, certain that the crusty old salt’s fangs would come out. Misner then dropped the subject, for what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Like many flag rank officers, he was very adept at playing CYA — cover your ass — with politicians. He didn’t like it but it went with the job.
The Secretary puffed harder on the cigar. “Apparently, that clown you appointed to run the show at Malakal doesn’t understand the tightrope the President is walking with world opinion, the UN, and the Government of Sudan.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Allston,” Fitzgerald replied, “is delivering more relief in the Sudan than all the NGOs” — NGOs were nongovernmental organizations — “and UN agencies combined. In my book, that counts. Because he is effective, his aircraft are being shot at.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I certainly hope the President still allows his commanders the right of self defense.”
“There’s a pack of lawyers at the DOJ nipping at my heels,” the Secretary replied, “who believe self defense is another form of aggression and want Allston’s hide nailed to a wall.”
“That would be a mistake,” Fitzgerald replied. He clasped his hands and leaned forward. “Sir, we’ve conditioned our officers to avoid aggressive action for fear of retroactive punishment dished out by those same lawyers. Those lawyers couldn’t lead a pack of Boy Scouts to a latrine and have never been on the receiving end of an AK-47 or a surface-to-air missile. They’ve never seen the atrocities that Colonel Allston’s people deal with everyday, nor do they intend to. I gave Allston a job to do and he’s doing it. He’s one of the few commanders I have who isn’t afraid to act out of fear for their careers. A fear, I might add, that is well justified. Just what message would we be sending if we fired him now?” He administered the coup de grace. “Especially considering the media attention he’s getting.”
The Peacemakers Page 18
