“They’re all operational,” Richards sneered. “Do you have any other excuses?”
“I’ve got one damn good reason. I only have two flight crews available to fly. All the rest, me included, are beyond our crew duty day and have to go into crew rest. Hopefully, those two crews will each fly four or five sorties in the next twelve hours. If we’re lucky, they can rescue another twelve to fifteen hundred Dinka and Nuer before it gets dark and we have to knock off. Unless you literally have a life or death reason for going to Addis Ababa, I’ll have a crew available twelve hours from now to fly you there.”
Richards was shouting. “You know damn good and well why we need to go to Addis!”
Allston deliberately pitched his voice to sound reasonable, egging on her anger. “No, I don’t.”
Richards lost it. “You expect me to believe that bitch didn’t tell you!”
“Which bitch tell me what?”
“General,” Sutherland counseled, “we need to discuss this, outside, in private.” Richards stalked out. Sutherland turned to Allston. “Do you have any idea why we need airlift?”
“Not a clue,” Allston told him.
Sutherland wasn’t upset in the least. “A flight this evening will be fine. I can use the time to make some phone calls and send a few e-mails. By the way, Colonel, that was one fine piece of work last night. Thanks for letting me go along. “
“You’re more than welcome,” Allston said. “Major Lane here will make sure you get everything you need. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna hit the sack.”
“Not to worry, Boss,” Lane said. “I got it here.”
~~~
Dick Lane looked up from the report he was working on when Allston walked into the Ops Center after lunch. “Six hours, Boss? You need more rest than that.”
“I don’t plan on flying,” Allston said. In order to fly, he had to have twelve hours of uninterrupted crew rest. It was a lesson the Air Force had learned the hard way. Tired pilots got killed. “Go hit the sack. I’ve got it here.”
Lane cleared his desk and stood. “I got a problem, Boss. Can you speak to Captain Jenkins. She doesn’t want to leave.”
“Will do. By the way, there’s something else. I’m working on your performance evaluation. I’m going to recommend you transfer to C-17s.”
“You remembered,” Lane said, very impressed. He had mentioned that he wanted to fly C-17s when Allston had first arrived. He tried to remember how long that had been. It came to him — two months ago. It seemed a lifetime. “I changed my mind. I’m going to stay in Herks.” He gave Allston his best grin. “I’m just a trash hauler at heart.”
“Hey, aren’t we all. Send Marci in if you see her.” He checked his message file and went to work.
Marci reported in fifteen minutes later. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Right.” He motioned her to a seat and came right to the point. “Major Lane tells me you don’t want to leave. May I ask why?”
She had been expecting this conversation and was ready. “Because my friends are here. Besides, I’m the best pilot you’ve got.”
“Indeed you are.” He tried to reason with her. “But right now, you have a higher priority than being a pilot. You need to have a fine, healthy baby.”
“There’s plenty of time for that,” she replied. “I’m not even showing yet and feel great.”
“That’s not the point. You owe this to G.G., his family, and most importantly, to yourself.”
“It’s more important to me that I stay here and do my job.”
He sensed he was spinning his wheels. “Captain, none of us are going to be here much longer. You won’t miss much.”
“I don’t want to leave, Colonel.”
Allston did the one thing he had never done, and had hoped that we would never have to. He gave a direct order. “Captain Jenkins, you will be on the next airplane out of here that is going to Addis Ababa. Is that understood?”
Marci stood. “Yes, sir.” She stood and snapped a salute. “Will that be all, sir?”
“That’s all,” he replied. He watched her march out. “Ah, shit,” he moaned. He firmly believed that a commander diminished his authority whenever he gave a direct order. In his experience, it was much better to let authority hover in the background, and remain unused because everyone understood what had to be done and did it.
“Problems, Colonel?” Hank Sutherland asked.
How much had the lawyer overheard? “It’s the Air Force. We have to deal with problems that weren’t problems when I was a newly minted brown bar.”
“Women in the service?”
“Nope. Women in combat.”
Sutherland made a mental note to explore the difference. But that would have to wait for now. “Colonel, if you’ve got a moment, I’d like to go over the Article 32 investigation that brought me here.”
“Please shut the door and have a seat,” Allston said, wondering what the lawyer was doing. Normally, the commander ordering an Article 32 investigation was the first to see the results. The report was only released if the commander decided to press charges and convene a court-marital.
Sutherland came right to the point. “Colonel, we don’t have a case because General Richards gave our prime witness to the UN Peacekeeping Mission.”
“So you need to get the little bastard back.” Allston leaned forward in his chair. “Why didn’t you say so? I’m not trying to cover up anything here.” He glanced at the scheduling board. “I’ve got a C-130 inbound. I’ll have the crew fly you to Addis Ababa ASAP.”
Sutherland shook his head. “Don’t bother. Two reasons. First, that would mean four or five less rescue sorties. Second, it wouldn’t do any good.” He paused to let it sink in. “I made a phone call to the air attachè at our embassy in Addis and called in a favor. He made some phone calls. It seems the Peacekeeping Mission turned one BermaNur loose within an hour after he was turned over. You ready for this? They even gave him an airline ticket to Khartoum.”
“Fuckin’ lovely,” Allston muttered.
“Indeed it is,” Sutherland agreed. “Like the man said, my work here is done. Colonel, this was a wasted trip but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” He extended his hand in friendship. The two men shook hands. There is one thing I’ve been wondering about. How much time did you buy by getting Waleed out of Malakal?”
“Good question,” Allston said. “Maybe a week, two weeks at best.”
“I hope I can get out of here before then.” He chuckled at the look on Allston’s face. “Lawyers aren’t fighters. We’re great Monday morning quarterbacks as long as we don’t have any skin in the game.”
“We’ll get you out,” Allston promised. “But do me a favor. Take Richards with you. She’s worse than herpes the way she keeps coming back.”
TWENTY-THREE
E-Ring
Admiral Chester Bellows came right to the point. “Get ’em out. Now.” Fitzgerald wanted to ask the irascible admiral the source of his information but knew better. Bellows had not made the trip from the headquarters of the National Security Agency at Fort Meade in Maryland out of courtesy, and Fitzgerald suspected that NSA was engaged in humint, short for human intelligence, which was outside of its charter to monitor foreign communications and gather signals intelligence.
“How bad is it?” Fitzgerald asked.
“The Sudanese Army is deploying as we speak. By morning, they’ll be on the northern banks of the White Nile, less than ten miles from Mission Awana, and in control of the only ford across the river within a hundred miles that can support mechanized operations. My weather prophet claims the Nile will start to flood early, within five days max.”
“So they attack now or wait until the next dry season,” Fitzgerald added.
“That’s the way we read it,” Bellows said. “Second, over a thousand Janjaweed have crossed the Nile on horseback and are operating south of the mission.”
“That’s new,” Fitzgerald said, now c
onvinced that NSA was definitely operating outside its charter. He never suspected that NSA was simply monitoring the CIA’s communications.
“My analysts don’t expect them to directly attack the mission,” Bellows said, “not after the mauling they received the last time. We think they will try to seal off the mission to the south.” He stood to leave. “You’ve had a damn good run. How many have you rescued?”
Fitzgerald knew the numbers by heart. “As of yesterday, 25,324. Hopefully, they’ll get another thousand or so out today.”
“Your unit strength at the Mission?” Bellows asked.
Again, the numbers were seared into Fitzgerald’s consciousness. “We’ve got 127 men and women on station and four C-130s, all operational.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem getting them out,” Bellows allowed. For the first time since Fitzgerald had known the admiral, he softened. “They did good. You can’t ask them to do any more.” Given Bellow’s nature, there was no higher praise. “You want me to brief the Chairman?”
“No thanks,” Fitzgerald said. “I’ll brief him.” Bellows grunted and left. Fitzgerald immediately turned to his computer and composed an email.
The intercom buzzed. It was his secretary. “General Richards has requested a meeting soonest. The House Select Committee to Study Governmental Operations with Respect to UN Peacekeeping Activities has subpoenaed her to testify tomorrow morning. It’s a closed session.”
“That’s a new committee. I never heard of it.”
“The Speaker of the House created it and is the chairman.”
Fitzgerald treated it like a tactical problem. Richards was firmly in the Speaker’s camp and the new committee was his personal bailiwick. By holding closed hearings, the Speaker could control the leaks and drive its findings. Images of chopping blocks and headhunters played in his imagination. Better to stay totally out of it, he thought. He didn’t need any allegations that he had tried to influence her testimony. “Tell her we’ll talk after she testifies,” Fitzgerald replied.
He reread the message, made a few corrections, and hit the send button. Ten minutes later, he received a subpoena.
Mission Awana
The sun was setting and the last C-130 was inbound for the day when Allston read the message from Fitzgerald. He was sitting at his desk in the Ops Center and Jill was standing at the big boards marking in the latest numbers. Allston read the total; the four Herks had flown nine sorties and airlifted another 1013 Dinka and Nuer to safety for a grand total of 26,337. It was all they were going to get. “Major Sharp,” he called. She turned and he spun his laptop around for her to read the message. “It doesn’t get much more specific,” Allston told her. “Judging by the language, this one is for the record.” Without a word, she read the message.
Consider this an order to immediately evacuate Mission Awana. Sudanese Army is moving into position on the north side of the White Nile opposite Mission Awana. Expect an attack at anytime. Janjaweed are maneuvering in force south of Mission Awana. Estimated strength approximately one thousand (1000). Reply immediately upon receiving and state intentions. John M. Fitzgerald, General, USAF Chief of Staff, USAF
“Have you replied?” she asked. He shook his head. “Play it straight,” she counseled. “The bureaucrats in the Pentagon and the crowd across the River will Monday morning quarterback it to death.” He spun the laptop around and typed a reply. He showed it to her before hitting the send key.
Your message received and understood. Will commence evacuation as required immediately after coordinating with Col Pierre Vermullen, La Legion Etrangere, UN Peacekeeping forces, and Reverend Tobias Person, Mission Awana. David O. Allston, Lt. Col. USAF Commander, 4440th Special Airlift Detachment
She fixed him with the steadfast look he had come to expect. “Keeping your options open?” He gave her his best fighter-pilot grin as he hit the send button. “I always considered an order as a point of discussion. We need to talk to Toby and Idi.” He printed out the order.
“They’re at the hospital,” Jill said.
~~~
Nothing on Vermullen’s face betrayed his thoughts as he read Fitzgerald’s order. He passed it to Toby who read it twice. “You don’t have much of a choice,” Toby said.
“Actually, I do,” Allston replied. “I will evacuate as many folks out of here as we can. So what are we looking at?” Toby ran the numbers. There were just under two thousand men, women, and children at the mission, and approximately three thousand more in the refugee camp. “Plus two hundred legionnaires,” Allston added.
“We’re not leaving,” Toby said, his voice quiet but sure and unwavering.
“The Legion is also staying,” Vermullen announced.
“That’s crazy,” Allston protested. “It’s going to be a bloodbath.” But he knew neither man would budge. “At least, evacuate everyone who wants out.”
“Certainly,” Toby agreed. “But I don’t think you have much time.”
“What about arming convoys?” Jill asked. “We can move a lot of people in the next twenty-four hours.”
Toby shook his head. “Even if we had the trucks and busses it would be too dangerous. A convoy returning from Juba was due in this afternoon and there’s been no word. The jungle telegraph says the Janjaweed have cut us off to the south, the same as your message.”
Allston made a decision. “Okay, here’s the drill. I’m flying the 4440th to Juba tonight. I’ll keep a small contingent here and start a shuttle; evacuees out and fly in whatever support the South will give us. The birds can refuel at Juba, and we’ll keep at it as long as the runway here is open.” The details were quickly arranged. “Major Lane will take the Irregulars to Juba and run the operation from there. I’ll stay here and keep the shuttle going from this end.” He turned to Jill. “Let’s go do it.” The two hurried to the Ops Center to set the evacuation in motion.
An hour later, the advance party of crew chiefs and mechanics, along with their baggage, tools, and spare parts, started to load the first Hercules. Lieutenant Colonel Susan Malaby counted heads and sorted out who would shuttle out and who would stay at the mission. She was not surprised when Loni Williams and four crew chiefs volunteered to stay. The two majors who ran Logistics and Facilities conferred and decided which of their troops would stay behind to keep the shuttle going. Like Maintenance they had plenty of volunteers. Master Sergeant Jerry Malone clumped into the Ops Center in full battle gear and caught Allston’s attention. “Like Malakal?” he asked.
“Just like Malakal,” Allston confirmed. The security cops would be the very last to leave — on board a C-130 if they were lucky.
“Got it,” Malone replied. He snapped a salute and left.
Major Dick Lane was next and told Allston that the aircrews were all gathered and ready to go. Did he want to say anything? Allston did. He went into the big room where his pilots, flight engineers, and loadmasters were waiting. For a moment, he couldn’t find the right words. Supposedly, these men and women were not the elite, the fighter pilots or the bomber crews, but were trash haulers who moved cargo. They had flown day after day with skill and determination, at the risk of their lives, and had done everything he asked of them.
Now he was going to ask for more and there was no doubt they would give all they could. “You all know the situation,” he began, “so I won’t try to blow smoke up your backside. The next few days are going to be tough, and most of you are going to get shot at and some are going to be hit. But we’ve got a job to do and with every sortie you fly, you save innocent men, women, and children from certain death.
“I seriously doubt that the generals and politicians back home give a damn or care about the Dinka or Nuer. But I’ve seen way too many starving babies, shattered men and women without hope, and mutilated and desecrated bodies not to care.”
“That’s why we’re the Irregulars, Colonel,” a voice from the back called. A rumble of approval swept the room and kept growing, and Allston knew, without doubt, that he was in
the company of heroes.
“Okay,” Allston said, “forget about the twelve hour crew duty day. This is a max effort and fly as long, and as safe as you can. I’m not asking you to fall on your sword and self-destruct, just give it your best shot. Show the world what the Irregulars are all about.” He looked around the room, taking them in. Jill stood by the door, her eyes shining. “That’s it, folks. Let’s make it happen.” The Irregulars came to their feet and trailed out the door. He caught a glimpse of Marci Jenkins as she tried to blend in and sneak out.
“Captain Jenkins,” he called. “Wait up.” He walked towards her, his anger growing with each step. “Didn’t I order you to leave?”
“You did, sir.”
He pushed his face close to hers, their noses an inch apart. “Then why are you still here?”
“Sir,” Jill called, “I have it on the best of authority that a direct order is a point of discussion.”
He whirled around and glared at her. She cocked her head and smiled sweetly at him and, for a moment, he was speechless. Then, the irony hit him. Marci Jenkins was doing exactly what he would have done. He turned back to the pilot. “Report to Major Lane and tell him I said to fly your pregnant ass off.”
“Yes, sir,” Marci said.
“And you,” he said to Jill, “be on the first shuttle to Juba.”
~~~
Allston kept looking at his watch as he stood on the ramp with Toby. “Any time now,” he said. The C-130s had been gone for three hours. The flight time was one hour each way, and with one hour on the ground to turn around at Juba, they should be back at any moment. That meant all four could be turned and launched with a full load of refugees well before first light. He fought the urge to get on the radio and break radio silence, but the SA had to be monitoring their frequencies. “Come on,” he urged.
“Did you get all your folks out?” Toby asked.
“We evacuated a hundred,” Allston answered. “We got all the spare parts and equipment for the birds and enough tents and MREs to set up shop at Juba.” He scanned the dark sky, looking for a telltale shadow moving against the moonlit clouds. He had to talk, anything to break the rising tension. “We got twenty-six folks still here; eight ground crew to turn the birds and eighteen security cops.”
The Peacemakers Page 29
