The Peacemakers

by Richard Herman

  A cool voice answered. “Copy all, Awana. Arriving passengers advised of situation. Min time on the ground.”

  Automatically, Allston scanned the big bird, checking the landing gear. “Gear down,” he transmitted. “Cleared to land.” The pilot answered with two clicks. “Must be an old fighter jock,” Allston said. The two men watched as the plane touched down and rolled out. It turned off the runway onto the parking apron as its rear door came up and ramp lowered. Two crew chiefs guided the bird as it turned on the small ramp, using every inch. “Jesus H. Christ,” Allston swore. “That’s Williams. What in hell is he doing here?” The big Globemaster stopped briefly as a self-propelled howitzer clanked down the ramp and onto the tarmac.

  “Ah, very good,” Vermullen said. “That’s your Paladin, with a 155mm howitzer. He stomped a foot. “That rotating antenna bar on top is a counter-battery radar.”

  The C-17 swung onto the runway as its engines spun up. The Paladin came towards them as the shriek of an incoming artillery round split the air. The C-17 was moving as the Paladin’s long barrel swung to the north. It fired a single round without stopping. Vermullen and Allison sprinted for a slit trench and piled in as the incoming round hit the ramp. The Paladin fired again as another incoming round screamed its arrival. Allston’s head darted up for a quick glance. The C-17 lifted off as the Paladin fired a third time. Allston buried his head as the round hit the runway. Silence ruled as the smoke and dust cleared. The Paladin’s anti-battery radar had tracked the trajectory of the incoming artillery shells and backtracked them to their location. The Paladin’s computers had slewed the big cannon and the crew had fired three rounds, taking out both artillery pieces shelling the airfield.

  Allston stood and scanned the sky. The C-17 was safely climbing out.

  The Paladin spun around on its track and clanked to a stop beside Allston. The commander’s hatch flipped opened and a tall and lanky young man stood, the upper half of his body well clear of the turret. He was dressed in civvies but his haircut and bearing were US Marine. He snapped a sharp salute. “Corporal Rickert… ah… ah… sorry, sir. Richie Rickert reporting for duty.” He lifted himself out of the hatch and waited. Jill’s head popped up and she climbed out. The marine helped her down the side of the turret and onto the ground. “My apologies ma’am,” he said. “It is cramped inside.”

  “And very noisy,” Jill added.

  “Where did you find them?” Allston asked her.

  “Djibouti.” She lowered her voice as the gunner, loader, and driver climbed out. Like Rickert, they were wearing jeans and T-shirts. “They’re Marines, but think of them as temporary civilians.”

  “How did you make that happen?” Allston asked. Jill didn’t answer. He didn’t need to know that the Boys in the Basement were involved and pulling strings. She introduced the four young men.

  “Welcome to Mission Awana,” Allston said. “You could not have arrived at a better time.” He introduced Vermullen and asked what was on the pallet.

  “Glad to be here, sir,” Rickert said, still uncomfortable in his new role. He pointed to the pallet. “Those are spare parts for the Paladin and forty rounds, a mix of high explosive and anti-tank.” A wicked grin played across his mouth and quickly disappeared. “We got two Copperheads on board.” The Copperhead was a smart artillery projectile that guided itself to a laser designated target, and was bad news for any tank that came within its range.

  “We’ll make good use of those,” Vermullen promised. “For now, stay and operate from the airfield.” The Paladin was a great deterrent but it was also a target that he wanted as far from the mission as possible.

  “What do you need?” Allston asked.

  “Diesel fuel,” Rickert replied. “We got our field gear on the bustle.” The bustle was the equipment rack welded on the back of the turret. He shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Sir, we… ah… were wondering… if you might still have some of those hats.”

  “You bet we do,” Allston said. He looked around the ramp. “Williams! Get your young body over here.” But the sergeant had disappeared.

  The Capitol

  The Speaker was hunched forward, his hands folded in front of him on the committee bench, as Richards finished her opening statement. He leaned into the microphone. “General Richards, I’m not sure I understand your point.” He was giving her a chance to change her testimony.

  “My apologies, Mr. Speaker. I’ll try to clarify. When I was investigating the 4440th, I discovered they were in an untenable situation. Their commander was determined to carry out their mission of supporting the UN relief and peacekeeping operation, yet the UN commissioners running the operation are hopelessly compromised and corrupt. For example, they ordered the peacekeepers to turn over their heavy weapons and aircraft to the Sudanese Army, which is engaged in genocide operations against the Nuer and Dinka tribes. That would have been a grave dereliction of duty if Colonel Allston had complied with that order and surrendered his Hercules C-130s. It would have been a moral failure if Colonel Allston had ceased relief operations. As to the alleged charge of torturing a prisoner, the only direct evidence I discovered was the testimony of the alleged victim.”

  “Then how do you explain the video?” the Speaker asked.

  “The video I saw was taken at a great distance without audio. While conducting my investigation, I repeatedly heard a rumor that the prisoner had hidden a knife in his bandages and was attempting to use it. But I could not confirm that rumor.”

  “But it was at your direction the prisoner was turned over to the UN. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Mr. Speaker, that is correct. The prisoner was worried the Dinka and Nuer at the mission would kill him. I believed that fear was well founded and moved him for his own safety. I never suspected that the UN would immediately release him.”

  The Speaker was furious. “If there are no more questions, this committee is in recess.” He didn’t wait for the committee members to reply and banged the gavel.

  Mission Awana

  It was midnight when the small group gathered in Mission House. Jill spread out eight satellite photos on the table as Allston, Vermullen, Toby, and Malone crowded around. “We’re facing a reinforced regiment of over two thousand infantry,” she explained, “along with twenty tanks, and at least fifty APCs and armored cars. The good news is that they only had one battery of artillery with two pieces, which, I suspect, the Paladin made short work of. The bad news is that they still have mortars they can use as they come in range. Mortars will be much harder for the Paladin to take out.”

  “Your source for all this?” Allston asked.

  “The Air and Army Attaches at Addis.”

  “And they arranged for the Paladin?” He was still fishing for an answer.

  “Another agency, sir. The marines at Djibouti held a raffle to see who would come. It got pretty hot and heavy.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know the source of the jamming?” Vermullen asked.

  Jill shuffled through the photos and found the one she wanted. “It’s a mobile unit, Russian made.” She pointed to a big truck with a canvas-covered bed and a tall mast holding multiple antenna arrays. “They have to stop to erect the mast. It takes about five minutes and they can’t move with the mast erected. That’s when they stop jamming.”

  Vermullen studied the vehicle. “It is very distinctive.”

  Allston knew what he was thinking. “It should be easy to identify.”

  “Especially with the mast up,” Vermullen added.

  The radio at the Ops desk squawked. “Outhouse, Outhouse, Gizmo One inbound. Fifteen minutes out.” It was Dick Lane in a C-130. Before they could answer, the frequency was drowned out by a loud squelch.

  “Well, they’re not moving now,” Allston said. “We need to take that puppy out.” He looked around the table. “Let’s go move some people.” Another thought came to him. “Toby, let’s air evac out as many of the wounded as we can.”

  E-Ring<
br />
  Fitzgerald’s intercom buzzed. It was his secretary. General Richards was on the line requesting a personal meeting. Fitzgerald savored the thought of ignoring her and letting her stew but he owed her another chance. “In thirty minutes. She’s got five minutes.” His fingers danced over his keyboard as he called up the link to the NMCC. The image in front of him flickered and stabilized as the encryption circuits did their magic.

  The duty officer’s image appeared on the screen. “Good evening, General. How may I help you?”

  “What’s the latest on the 4440th in the Sudan?” He waited while the duty officer made the handoff.

  A young-looking Army lieutenant colonel appeared. He came right to the point. “All contact with the 4440th is lost but we have satellite imagery of the four C-130s and numerous personnel at Juba. Fighting was reported at Mission Awana but has stopped, and the airfield is open.” He checked a computer screen. “We’ll have a Keyhole overhead in twelve hours and will have an update then.” The Keyhole series of reconnaissance satellites had a high-resolution camera that could breakout individuals on the ground. “The Boys In The Basement inserted a Paladin at Awana, and Special Ops will have personnel on the ground to support the peacekeepers in the next thirty-six hours. The situation appears to have stabilized.”

  Fitzgerald breathed easier and broke the connection. With a little luck, he’d have the 4440th out of the Sudan by Monday. He called up a file on the quadrennial defense review and shifted his attention to the future of the Air Force. He worked that problem until his intercom buzzed. It was Richards. He took her measure as she entered his office and reported in. “You’re here late for a Friday.”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered. “I’m looking for a new assignment.”

  “There’s not much going for flag-rank military-political affairs officers.”

  “There’s a position in Brussels with NATO that’s opening up.”

  “That’s an intelligence function.”

  “Yes, sir. I started out as an intelligence officer.”

  “But got sidetracked,” he said. He sensed that he was talking to a different person. It was testing time. “I don’t trust you but I did hear your testimony in front of the committee. What you did took guts. You made a powerful enemy today and you can kiss any thoughts of promotion goodbye.”

  “I am aware of that. But I need to make a difference, accomplish something worthwhile before I retire. This is my last chance.”

  “Why the sudden change?”

  She knew it was a fair question. “I saw what Allston did in the Sudan. I totally misjudged him.” Fitzgerald didn’t respond and waited. “All I saw was arrogance and disrespect. He’s profane and crude, and, well, a womanizer, but he saved lives.”

  “And he’s aggressive.” Fitzgerald waited, almost convinced. “And?”

  Richards had to make the general understand. “I’ve never met anyone like him. I can’t stand him… he’s everything I disapprove of… but the way the Irregulars follow him…” her voice trailed off.

  “It’s called leadership.” He made a decision. “Don’t disappoint me in Brussels.”

  “Thank you, sir. I won’t.”

  Fitzgerald watched her leave, struck by the irony of it all. Because of Allston, she had been challenged and emerged a better officer. An inner voice told him she had changed. But would she revert to type? He didn’t know but the same voice told him it was a chance worth taking. He spun around in his chair and switched on the TV. He settled back to watch Tara’s special on his peacekeepers.

  An announcer read a news flash. “This just in from the Hague in the Netherlands. The International Criminal Court has issued arrest warrants for the three UN commissioners in charge of the Relief and Peacekeeping Mission of Southern Sudan. The United Nations has pledged to fully cooperate in any investigation and end the corruption that has marked the relief operation in Addis Ababa.”

  “Yeah, right,” Fitzgerald mumbled to himself.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mission Awana

  D’Na walked down the ramp of Lane’s C-130 closely followed by twenty-two rebel soldiers. She hurried over to her husband and stood close. They talked for a few moments as forty-five walking wounded boarded the aircraft. Stretcher-bearers were next as they carried twelve critically wounded up the ramp. Allston keyed his handheld radio but the frequency was immediately jammed. He ran up the crew entrance steps and climbed onto the flight deck. “What’s happening at Juba?” he asked Lane.

  Lane turned around in his seat. “D’Na bribed the right folks and got the field open.” He looked at his watch. “Another Herk is inbound in about forty minutes. There should be one arriving about every forty to fifty minutes.”

  “Any more reinforcements coming?”

  Lane shook his head. “That’s it. I’ll keep the Herks coming as long as the field is open.”

  The loadmaster stood on the flight deck’s ladder. “We’re loaded and good to go,” he shouted over the engine noise.

  Lane gave the sergeant a thumbs-up and extended his hand to Allston. “Thanks, Boss.”

  Allston was puzzled. “For getting your ass shot off?”

  “Naw. That goes with the job. You’re the best man I’ve ever worked for and I’ve done things here I never knew I could do.” They shook hands.

  Allston bolted down the ladder and out the crew entrance door. He ran for the battered Land Rover where Williams was waiting. “You should be in the hospital,” Allston told him.

  “I’m okay. I just got a gash in the love handle on my left side and lost a lot of blood. They gave me a transfusion. No way I’m gonna hang around a hospital when I can walk.” He drove slowly through the night towards the mission. “Are we gonna make it, sir?”

  Allston caught the ‘sir,’ which was not like Williams at all. The sergeant had to be very worried and Allston went with the truth. “I don’t know. Look, you should be in a hospital, not here. I’ll get you out on the next bird.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll go when you go.”

  Allston didn’t have a reply.

  ~~~

  Daybreak was less than an hour away when the third C-130 landed, lights out. Williams and a crew chief used lighted wands to guide the pilot through the turn. The aircraft’s ramp was already down and refugees streamed on board. Allston ran on board to speak to the pilot. “Where’s Jenkins?” Allston asked.

  “She’s flying the next bird,” the pilot replied, “with Bard Green. We’re taking gunfire on final and the jamming is getting pretty damn bad. We could sure use radios to

  warn the next Herk.” Williams was still standing in front of the Hercules and gave the pilot a thumbs up. Another 145 refugees were on board. Allston clambered off the Hercules and ran clear as the pilot released the brakes and taxied out.

  The rattletrap Land Rover drove up and Jill motioned to him from the driver’s seat. “The listening posts are reporting tanks in the water. Idi is on Charlie Ring running the show from there.”

  “Are we still in contact?” Allston asked.

  Jill shook her head. “Jamming and the landlines are cut. We’ll probably be in mortar range in a few minutes.” She was very worried. “Colonel, this could be a final effort.”

  “If it’s a do-or-die, they’ll be doing the dying. Williams! Get your body over here.” He ran for the shed where the Porter was parked.

  Williams moved slowly, unable to catch Allston. “Get in,” Jill ordered. He did and she drove after Allston.

  “I’m not going to like this,” Williams complained.

  Allston was pushing the doors of the shed back when they arrived. He checked the Porter’s cargo compartment as Williams crawled out of the Land Rover. “We need Shipons and weapons,” Allston yelled. Jill gunned the Land Rover and headed for the mission. The rumble of explosions echoed in the distance and the two men hit the ground when the Paladin’s cannon roared. Before they could move, another mortar round hit the ramp. The Paladin fired ag
ain and it was quiet.

  “Damn,” Williams cursed. “Now we gotta fill in the hole.”

  Allston was worried. “Right where the C-130 stopped. They’ve got the range.” They pushed the Porter out of the shed and Allston did a careful preflight, checking if there was any major damage. Other than numerous bullet holes in the left side of the fuselage, the aircraft was undamaged. He turned to Williams. “You good to go?”

  “Boss, do I really have a choice?”

  “Sure you do. I can always get Major Sharp.”

  “Yeah, right,” Williams groused. “She’s back.”

  The Land Rover slammed to halt beside the Porter and Jill motioned to the Shipon and Stinger in the rear seat. “You’ve got two rounds for each one. That’s all I could find,” she told them. She crawled out and handed an M-16 and two clips to Allston.

  “Well done,” Allston said. He handed her the flare pistol from the Porter. “A Herk is inbound. Stay here and don’t let it land. They’ve got a spotter directing mortar fire on the air patch. We gotta take out the bastard to get the field open.” He climbed into the pilot’s seat and hit the starter button, spinning the turboprop to life.

  ~~~

  Vermullen peered into the early morning dark, trying to make sense out of the attack coming at him. Judging by the gunfire and mortar rounds the Sudanese were throwing at them, they were softening up the left for a flanking maneuver. Jamming had made the Legion’s tactical radios useless but he knew where his men were posted and could rely on them to operate independently. He mentally calculated how long the sixty legionnaires he had deployed on that section of Charlie Ring could hold out. He had trained them and knew what they could do, and Claymores and Shipons did make a big difference. The Sudanese might break through, if they were willing to pay the price. Beck piled into the DFP beside him, and loudly sucked air, catching his breath.

  “Getting too old for this, Hans?” The private didn’t answer. “Everyone is briefed?” A nod answered him. Each fire team had been briefed on how Vermullen expected the attack to develop. He was certain the Sudanese would concentrate their attack on one part of Charlie Ring rather than a broad frontal assault. His plan called for that section to pull back and let the Sudanese move forward to present a flank to the other legionnaires.