“Well, Captain,” Allston said, “I’m glad you’re back. See Major Lane and get on the flying schedule soonest.”
“Will do, sir.” She threw him a salute and hurried out of the room.
He smiled at Jill. “Well, Major, welcome back — finally.” He felt better saying the last bit. Jill returned his smile and made no attempt to account for the eight days it had taken her to reach the mission, much less the time she had spent in Ethiopia. “How are things at Fort Fumble?” Allston asked.
“Normal. One third of the troops haven’t got a clue, one third don’t care, and the other third are confused.”
Allston laughed. “Some things never change.”
Jill chewed on her lower lip. “Sir, ah, there’s something we need to discuss. In private.” He motioned for her to close the door. She did and turned to face him. “Colonel, Marci’s expecting.”
Allston was at a loss for words. “Are you sure?” he finally stammered. Jill nodded in answer. “Any idea who the ‘he’ is?”
Jill gave him the look she normally reserved for the totally clueless. “G.G.”
The answer set Allston back. He blinked. “Why did she come back? She should have asked for reassignment.”
“I don’t know, sir. You’ll have to ask her.”
“I will. And I’m really glad you’re back. To say the situation here is fluid is an understatement. I’m worried about the threat, so talk to whoever you talk to and get back to me with an assessment.”
“Will do, sir.” She turned and left, leaving a trace of perfume in the air.
Allston studied the empty space where she had been standing. She does grow on a guy, he thought. He refused to follow that thought and tucked it away. Still, it kept coming back. “Damn,” he muttered. He concentrated on Marci Jenkins and G.G. How had he missed that? As a commander, it was his job to be aware of any relationship that might compromise his unit’s morale. He had been around the flagpole enough to learn that a pair bonding of any kind chipped away at unit identification and morale. However, they were both captains and had been discreet enough that he was unaware of the affair. Fraternization was never an issue and was a moot point now. Still, Mission Awana was no place for a pregnant pilot. But thanks to Toby, they had excellent medical care. Another thought came to him. How many pregnant women did he see every day working around the mission? He put it aside, called up a file on his computer, and went to work.
He was still at it that afternoon when Dick Lane burst into his office. “Sir, we got a Herk inbound with battle damage and casualties. It’s Bard Green. I’ve scrambled the mission’s fire truck and the medics.”
Allston came to his feet. “Stay here and handle the radios. I’ll be at the airfield.” He grabbed his hat and ran for his pickup. Jill was right behind him. The airfield was over a mile away and he had to drive slowly to clear the mission compound. Then he accelerated, racing for the airstrip. “There it is,” Jill said, “to the west. It looks like a long straight in approach.” Allston was driving and couldn’t twist around to see it. He took Jill’s word, impressed that she understood what Green was doing.
The truck’s radio blared at them. “Bossman, Outhouse.” It was Lane calling Allston from Operations. “Be advised there are 128 souls on board and their primary hydraulics are out.”
Allston relaxed. The C-130 had two backup hydraulic systems plus the auxiliary power unit in the right wheel well. “It’s a precautionary landing,” he told Jill. He slowed and glanced at her. “Where did you learn about approaches?”
Without turning, she said, matter-of-factly, “I pay attention.”
Indeed you do, he thought. Another stray thought intruded. She did have a lovely profile. “Damn,” he grumbled.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He lied. “I’m thinking about the threat. Any updates yet?”
“It’s complicated and I haven’t gotten the total picture yet. But it’s coming together. I’ll brief you later today, if that’s okay.”
He wheeled the pickup to a stop behind the maintenance tents and they got out. Susan Malaby was standing on the parking ramp watching the damaged C-130 come down final. “Gear’s down,” Malaby said. They waited in silence as the Hercules touched down and rolled out. Green made it look normal. “The lieutenant did good,” Malaby conceded. The aircraft taxied in and shut down. Malaby sucked in her breath. The left side of the fuselage aft of the wheel well was perforated with bullet holes and hydraulic fluid was leaking from under the left wing.
“You call that a precautionary landing?” Jill asked.
Malaby was worried. “Not good,” she said. The three walked out to the aircraft as refugees streamed off the back.
“It looks like Bard saved another 100 or so refugees,” Allston countered. “In my book, that’s good.” An inner voice told him they had to do more even though the danger was ratcheting up. The mission’s makeshift ambulance arrived and two legionnaires deplaned carrying a litter with the body of a comrade.
Finally, Bard Green got off with his flight engineer. They walked around the Hercules, surveying the damage. “A legionnaire caught a round,” Green told them. “During takeoff.”
“Where and who” Allston asked.
“Al Araish,” Green said. His face turned hard. “I think the shooters were SA, but I can’t be sure.”
“Major Sharp, your estimate?” Allston asked.
“The good news is that Al Araish is north of the river. The bad news is that Al Araish is only seventy miles away. If it was the SA, they’ll probably try to cross the Nile in force and hook up with Waleed at Malakal.”
Malaby ignored them and examined the holes in the side of the aircraft. “Small caliber machine gun,” she announced. “We got lucky on this one. A heavier weapon with high-explosive rounds would have been fatal.” She thought for a moment. “We need to pull some panels off the wing to check the damage, but we should have her back in commission by tomorrow morning.” Allston was impressed and told her so.
“Major Sharp, let’s go,” Allston said. “We got work to do.”
“Which is?” Jill asked.
“We need a base defense plan. Like soonest. Get all the players together today.” He rattled off a list of names, starting with Jerry Malone, the NCOIC of the security police. “And we need to talk to Idi.”
“He isn’t here,” Jill said. “Most of the legionnaires are training in the field.”
“He never lets up,” Allston conceded. “Let’s make something happen.” Another thought came to him. “How did you know that?”
“That’s what I get paid for,” she replied.
~~~
Jerry Malone was on top of it and had the embryo of a defense plan he had been working on since arriving at Malakal. But he had a problem; he only had eighteen cops for day-to-day security. To be effective, they had to augment their number with Irregulars. But that took them away from their normal duties. Another option was to use the legionnaires; however, they were already committed to defending the growing refugee camp and carrying out an intensive training schedule. Mission Awana also had a security force of ten men, but they were used for keeping domestic peace within the mission. They were not trained nor had the weapons for mounting an armed guard.
Allston walked over and studied the chart Malone tacked on the wall showing the minimum defensive posture for the mission. During the day, Malone calculated that six cops could effectively patrol the mission. However, at night he needed twelve cops, augmented by twelve Irregulars, to provide the mission with basic security. “Sir,” Malone concluded, “we’re asking a lot of the Irregulars to meet their normal duties and post out with us under normal conditions. As we increase our defensive posture, we will need even more help from Maintenance, and that means flying will grind to a halt. If that happens, why are we here?”
“Good question,” Allston replied. He made a mental note to talk to Vermullen the moment he got back and work out a way to integrate his legionnaires.
“Major Sharp,” he said, “we’re putting a big monkey on your back on this one.” They all knew that it fell to her to warn them of impending danger.
“Toby has a good feel for the situation,” she told them. “I’m talking to him constantly.”
“Where does he get his information?” Malone asked.
“A variety of sources,” Jill answered. “The refugees, his medical teams in the field, local authorities, the jungle telegraph.”
Lovely, Allston thought. “Okay, let’s make this happen and hope we don’t get our…” he almost said ‘tits in a wringer’ but caught himself in time, “sweet young bodies in a wringer.”
Jill laughed. “I know what you meant.”
~~~
The distinctive clatter of an AK-47 woke Allston from a sound sleep. He glanced at the bedside clock — 0407 — and rolled out of bed. He listened, only to be greeted with silence. “What is it?” Tara asked.
“Gunfire. Don’t turn the light on. Get dressed and find Jill.” He pulled on his flight suit and boots and ran, holding his web belt with its holstered .45 in his left hand. Jill was running down the hall from the other side of the guesthouse. “You stay here and get everyone to safety,” he ordered. He was out the door and running for Mission House and his operations center.
Jill took a deep breath and calmed her raging emotions. She knocked on the door of his bedroom. “Tara, you there?” A burst of submachine gunfire inside the guesthouse shattered the stillness. Jill fell to the floor and rolled against the wall as Tara burst out of the bedroom in full panic. Jill grabbed the actress and pulled her to the floor beside her. Jill drew her .45 semi-automatic and held it with both hands as she sighted into the dark. The soft sound of footsteps reached the two women. A burst of gunfire deafened them as it split the air above their heads. Jill saw a shadow and fired twice. Both slugs hit their target and the shadow collapsed to the ground. Jill came to a standing crouch and moved slowly towards the body, holding the .45 at the ready in front of her. She sensed movement and fired a single round in that direction. A loud scream and the clatter of a dropped weapon rewarded her. Again, she crouched, her back against the wall and her breath coming fast. She held the .45 with both hands in the raised position in front of her. Tara was behind her, touching her in the dark. “Follow me,” Jill said in a low voice.
“Believe me, I will,” Tara replied. The fear in her voice was palpable.
Jill came to her feet and inched forward. She reached the first body and picked up the AK-47. She handed it to Tara. “Can you use this?”
Tara took the weapon and checked it. It was ready to fire. “I fired one once on a publicity shoot.”
“This isn’t for publicity.” Running feet echoed down the hall. The sound grew louder and Tara came to her feet, firing the AK-47 from the hip Rambo style. The recoil of the assault rifle lifted the muzzle and the shots went wild. Jill methodically aimed and fired. A shriek of pain carried down the corridor. Jill was up and running. She fired as she went, putting another round into the rolling body. Again, the man screamed. Jill paused long enough to fire once more, this time into the man’s head. She grabbed his AK-47 and the two women crept down the hall towards the main room and the veranda. A light flicked on and Jill saw two more figures. She raised her .45 and started to squeeze the trigger. Just as quickly, she relaxed and lowered her weapon. One of the men was wearing a bush hat. “Turn out the light,” she ordered. She threw the AK-47 she was carrying to one of the men. “There’s another one back there in the hall,” she told the men.
“Thanks,” Bard Green said.
~~~
The loud bark of submachine guns exploded in the night as Allston ran for the Ops Center in Mission House. Most of it was coming from the outskirts of the mission compound, but it was growing louder. Gunfire drove him to cover beside a school building where he caught his breath. He started to move as a burst of submachine gun fire drove him back to his hiding place. He drew his automatic and waited. It seemed an eternity as the minutes clicked away.
~~~
Jill quickly gathered everyone she could find and ordered them to barricade the guesthouse as best they could. She keyed her communicator and called the operations center. Dick Lane answered. “Where’s Bossman?” he asked.
“He’s headed your way,” Jill replied. In the sudden quiet, she heard the beat of galloping horses passing by. “Janajweed,” she warned.
~~~
Allston knew movement was life. He had to start moving even though his hiding place seemed secure. He fought the urge to call in on his communicator. Silence is golden, he told himself. Finally, he came to his feet and darted into the night. Now he could hear the sound of pounding hooves. He ran faster. A security cop and an Irregular manning a defensive firing position saw him. “Over here!” the cop shouted. The sound of running horses grew louder. “Run!” Allston put on a burst of speed and ran toward the voice. The horses were bearing down on him. “Drop!” the cop yelled. Allston fell to the ground as the two men unlimbered their M-16s, emptying their magazines. The lead horseman veered off, disappearing into the night.
The second rider and his horse went down in the hail of gunfire and skidded into Allston. The horse kicked in pain and a flailing hoof struck Allston in his left shin. A searing pain shot up his leg. He heard a loud scream and for a moment was confused. Was he screaming? This time the scream was louder. It was the horseman. Allston came to a crouch and fired a single shot into the horse’s head, putting it out of its misery. He grabbed the rider and dragged him out from under the horse. “I got a live one!” he yelled. The rider kicked at Allston, knocking the semi-automatic out of his hand. Allston scrambled for his weapon as the rider kicked him in the side. Allston grabbed the rider’s ankle and rolled, taking the man down. He grunted in pain when he rolled over his .45. He pushed the rider away as he picked up the weapon. Now the man was scrambling away on all fours. Allston squeezed off a single round, hitting him in a leg, just as he came to his feet. The .45 ACP cartridge fires a big, low velocity bullet with tremendous stopping power, and this particular round passed cleanly through the man’s right calf. But it knocked him to the ground and sent him into shock.
The two cops ran up. One rolled the man over and patted him down. “Just a teenager,” the airman said.
“I need to get to the Ops Center,” Allston said.
“We’ll get you there,” the cop replied. He made a radio call, reporting they had found Bossman and were bringing him in. “Let’s go,” he told Allston.
Allston pointed to the Janjaweed lying on the ground. “What about him?”
The security cop thought for a moment. He fumbled with the first aid kit on his web belt and pulled out a tourniquet. He quickly looped it around the teenager’s leg, just above the wound and cinched it down. “He’s not going anywhere. He’ll be here when we get back.” The two men moved out and Allston followed. They ran through the night, always using a building or wall for cover. Finally, they reached the darkened Mission House where they were challenged. The cop responded with “Dog poop,” the code of the day.
“Thanks,” Allston told the two men. He went inside.
Dick Lane was pacing when he saw Allston. He collapsed into a chair in relief. “Thank God… I… we were worried about you.” He gulped, anxious to say more. “You’re a mess. Are you okay?” More gunfire echoed from the far side of the mission compound.
Allston took stock of himself. Other than the pulsating ache in his leg where the horse had kicked him, he was okay. “Sorry about the delay, I had a pressing engagement with a horse. So what’s going on?” He had assumed command.
“The Janjaweed hit us,” Lane replied. “Horsemen are inside the compound. Lots of confusion. I’m in contact with both Malone and the Legion. Vermullen is in the field on a training exercise with most of his men. They are inbound and should be here around daybreak. We have to hold until then.”
Allston thought for a few moments. The sound of pounding hooves pu
nctuated his worry. “Dick, get me a status on casualties.” While Lane worked the radios, Allston called Backstop, the security police command post, on a landline. “Backstop, Bossman. Say situation.”
“Unknown number of hostiles in the compound,” Malone replied. “I’ve ordered everyone to hunker down and stay put.”
“Is this a hit and run?” Allston asked.
“Unknown,” Malone answered. “I’m treating it like a softening up action for the main attack.”
“Boss,” Lane said in the background, “we got at least a dozen wounded, some bad. We need to transport ’em to the hospital.”
Allston relayed the information to Malone. “We need to move ’em soonest,” Allston added.
“Negative,” Malone replied. “The Janjaweed are hitting targets of opportunity, anyone they catch in the open. The bastards have got NVGs and are moving fast.”
The hard calculus of combat pounded at Allston. By moving his wounded, more of his people would be injured or killed. And he couldn’t afford that. Until they drove the roving Janjaweed out of the compound, the wounded would have to wait. He made a decision. “Everyone holds for now.” The sound of gunfire echoed through Mission House and over the radios. That attack was still in full force. Are the C-130s covered?” he asked.
“Per the plan,” Malone replied. “I’ve got two fire teams at the airfield and will reinforce them when I can. So far, no activity reported.”
“Keep me advised.” Allston broke the connection. He pulled into himself, trying to make sense of the raid. Why hadn’t they hit the C-130s? Outside, the two DFPs guarding Mission House opened up, driving riders off with well-aimed bursts of overlapping gunfire. Where are the French? Allston raged to himself. Rather than ask Malone, who was up to his ears in alligators, he called the French command post on the landline they had installed the day before between Mission House and the refugee camp. Mercier’s gravelly voice answered. The French major quickly explained how the twenty-four legionnaires still at the mission were deployed around the refugee camp. But he was working with Malone to expand that defensive ring to include the southern side of the mission compound. They were improvising and had to move slowly and coordinate the move to avoid a friendly fire incident. Good man, Allston thought as he rang off.
The Peacemakers Page 24
