The Peacemakers

by Richard Herman

  Her face was a mask. “They were my buddies.” She handed the dog tags back to the colonel.

  “Any idea what caused the crash?” Allston asked.

  “The site has been looted and even with a full-blown investigation, we’ll never know for certain now. But it wasn’t a surface-to-air missile.”

  “That means pilot error,” Allston said, “or mechanical failure.”

  “It wasn’t pilot error,” Marci said, conviction in her voice. “Anne was too damn good a pilot.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel McKenzie?” Allston asked, a little surprised by the familiarity. Marci nodded. Allston thought for a moment. He nodded. “Okay, lets go.” He shook hands with the boys who still surrounded them and led the way onto the C-130. The loadmaster pulled up the stairs and locked the hatch.

  ~~~

  Apprehension swept over BermaNur when a propeller started to turn. By the time all four engines were on line, he was on his feet and filled with worry. When the big aircraft reversed thrust and backed down the road for takeoff, he panicked. He keyed his communicator, “Jahel! They are leaving!”

  “We’re almost there,” came the answer. “Stop them!”

  The teenager didn’t know what to do but the aircraft had stopped at the far end of the road. The nose lowered as the engines spun up and the props bit into the air. The aircraft started to roll. In the distance, far behind the aircraft, he saw a cloud of dust that had to be Jahel and his band of Fursan. Now the Hercules was roaring down the dirt road, coming directly at him and away from the charging horsemen. BermaNur ran out into the road and held up his arms, willing the plane to stop.

  ~~~

  “Colonel!” Marci shouted. “There’s a kid on the road!”

  “Got him,” Allston replied. He had a problem. There was not enough room to stop or to swerve. Luckily, the aircraft was lightweight and they were accelerating smartly. But could they come unglued from the dirt road in the distance remaining? Allston pulled back on the yoke and willed the Hercules to break free of the shackles that bound it to the earth. It did. “Gear up,” he ordered. Marci’s left hand flashed and snapped the gear lever on the instrument panel to the retract position.

  BermaNur wanted the aircraft to hit him. He firmly believed Allah would honor his sacrifice and wreak vengeance on the Americans. But the plane passed safely overhead. He turned to the north and saw the band of horsemen charging towards him. It was Jahel. He faced the riders and steeled his will to resist any blame for not stopping the Americans from leaving.

  On board the Hercules, the gear was moving. Allston leveled off at 200 feet above the ground and turned out to the east, avoiding the village. He looked back and saw the boy standing in the road, unhurt. The gear clunked into place. “Who were the guys on the horses?” he wondered.

  Malakal

  The C-130 turned off the runway and Allston taxied slowly into the compound. “Sweet Jesus,” Riley, the flight engineer, said. “I was certain we were gonna hit that kid.”

  “It was close,” Allston said. He gave them his crooked grin. “No harm, no foul. Feather the outboards.” Riley shut down engines one and four. “Check that out,” Allston said. The area was a beehive of activity. The four Hercules were marshaled into rows, two on each side of the ramp, their noses pointed inward. A fire truck was washing the last one down and the Herks gleamed in the sun, their white paint clean and radiant. A smiling Loni Williams threw them a sharp salute when they taxied past. A crew chief and two wing walkers ran out to meet them and backed them into an open spot on the left. The fire truck drove up, closely followed by a fuel browser.

  “I’ll be damned,” Riley muttered. “The place looks like military.”

  A white pickup slammed to a stop in front of the nose and a bird-like woman dressed in the same style ABU that Allston wore got out. Her UN blue beret was perched jauntily on her short and curly brown hair and she wore big sunglasses, reminding Allston of a chipmunk. She stood five foot two and paced nervously back and forth. “Is that our Colonel Malaby?” Allston mused.

  “The one and only,” Riley replied.

  They shut the engines down. “Loadmaster,” Allston said over the intercom, “stay on board and help the crew chiefs sweep out all the crap on the cargo deck. Then clean the bird up, make it shine.” He got out of the seat and deplaned to meet Malaby.

  She was more than ready for him. “Lieutenant Colonel Susan Malaby,” she snapped, introducing herself. She charged ahead. “Colonel, you’ve managed to drive whatever morale that was still hiding around here into the dirt, and are now the most hated man south of the Pentagon. And you did all that within twenty minutes after getting here. That’s got to be a record.”

  Allston cocked his head and thought for a moment, sizing her up. “Tell you what, Colonel. You worry about getting the planes flying and I’ll worry about morale. And that’s south of Bumfuck Egypt, not the Pentagon.”

  “Bumfuck Egypt? I never heard of it.”

  “According to legend, Bumfuck was the worst assignment in the whole fucking Air Farce.” He looked around. “In fact, that’s what we’re gonna call this place, Bumfuck South. See if you can get a sign painted.”

  “My job is fixing aircraft, not painting signs. Get me the parts we need and I’ll get ’em flying.”

  “Will do. For now, cannibalize like hell.” She looked at him in shock. Removing parts from a downed aircraft to keep others flying took special permission that required reams of paperwork. Getting a Papal Dispensation was easier and faster. Before she could answer, the colonel in charge of the accident investigation team joined them.

  “Colonel Allston, a word. I’ve talked to my team and we’re going to report the most probable cause of the accident as structural failure, not pilot error or hostile action. We’re going to recommend your aircraft be grounded pending inspection.”

  “Well,” Malaby said, “that ends this discussion.”

  “Not hardly,” Allston said. “Get ’em fixed and make ’em shine. And I still want that sign. That’s all, Colonel.”

  He headed for the air-conditioned offices attached to the side of the big hangar to meet the rest of his staff. Major Dick Lane, his Ops Officer, and two other majors were waiting for him. One was his Logistics Officer who managed supplies and moved cargo, and the other was the Facilities Commander who took care of everything else. They escorted him on a quick tour as they briefed him on his detachment: five C-130s and 162 personnel, counting Allston. Thirty-four were aircrew, eighty-two were maintenance, twenty-two were logistics, and sixteen were facilities who took care of the mess hall, billeting, communications, administration, and the buildings. Finally, there were eight security police. The big hangar was shared by maintenance and logistics for handling relief supplies. Behind the hangar, twenty air-conditioned personnel tents along with four sleeping trailers and three huge white tents were scattered haphazardly around the area. The personnel tents were used for billeting, and two of the big tents were for warehousing relief supplies. The last white tent served as the mess hall and recreation center. The fuel dump was set well back from the hangar and near the main gate and the road that led into town. The two black, and very big fuel bladders made Allston think of giant amoebas poised to mate.

  They were back in the offices within thirty minutes where an e-mail was waiting on his laptop. His United Nations masters in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, demanded his immediate presence. He checked the time. It had been a long day and the hour was late. He replied that he would be there as soon as airlift permitted. Next, he called up his secure line and sent an e-mail to Fitzgerald.

  Some magic is needed here. Three Herks non-operational for parts. Need to X-ray the wing spars ASAP or will ground the fleet. Request an airdrop-qualified navigator.

  Allston hit the send button and went to dinner in the big mess tent. He had to turn morale around and the best place to start was with the working troops.

  THREE

  African Union Headquarters, Ethiopia
<
br />   The driver spoke English non-stop on the four-mile drive from Addis Abba’s Bole International Airport. “We are here, Mr. Colonel. This is the headquarters for the African Union. The United Nations stays here.” He pointed down Menelik II, the broad avenue with a wide tree-lined median, “and there, at the Hilton hotel.”

  “Why the Hilton?” Allston asked.

  The driver laughed as he pulled to a stop in front of the steps leading to a modern office high-rise. “For lunch and afternoon activities when there is no work. Which is every day. Follow the signs to the UN Economic Commission for Africa in the third building.” He turned around in his seat and gave Allston a serious look. “Hey, mon, they are not going to like seeing you in that uniform.” Laughing at his own wisdom, the driver gunned the engine and shot into the heavy traffic. Allston trotted up the steps and into the main foyer. He immediately felt out of place as well-dressed men and women hurried past, all holding folders or briefcases and wearing looks of purposeful resolve.

  The beautiful woman at the information desk frowned when he signed in. She gave him a visitor’s badge. “Follow the signs,” was all she said.

  The marbled-floored halls were well marked, and he had no trouble following the brass plaques that guided him to the UN Economic Commission for Africa. He noticed a distinct pattern to the people. The men were all middle-aged or older, all African, and dressed in expensive suits. The women were more racially mixed and approximately three-fourths were young, beautiful, and dressed in high fashion. His ABUs were totally out of place. Judging by the looks he received, he assumed they had never seen a warrior in the building. The public elevator in the third building was out of order and a security guard denied him access to the elevator reserved for VIPs. He trotted up three flights of stairs and found another brass plaque that announced he had found the offices of the United Nations Relief and Peacekeeping Mission Southern Sudan. He pushed through the door and into an opulent reception area. This receptionist was even more beautiful than the first, which led to some mild speculation about the UN’s hiring policies on his part. “The commissioners are expecting you.” She motioned at a massive hardwood door. He shoved his blue UN beret into a pocket and pushed through.

  Three civilians were sitting in easy chairs around a low circular table, drinking coffee. Reports and memos littered the table. The distinguished-looking man in the center, the head of mission, set his coffee cup down and fixed Allston with a long look, his dark face impassive. “We do not allow that type of uniform, especially when worn by a European or American,” he finally said.

  “My apologies, sir. I wasn’t told and only directed to report here as soon as possible.”

  “Common sense should have told you to not wear a combat uniform. It is a reminder of our colonial history and past oppressions.” The other two men nodded in agreement.

  Why does everyone have a hang-up on uniforms these days? Allston wondered. “So noted,” he said, sitting down.

  “You were not invited to sit in our presence,” the man on the left said. Allston gauged him to be a Zulu. “Please stand until you are invited to sit.”

  “Certainly,” Allston said, coming to his feet. “Forgive me for asking, but is this why I was summoned here? For a lesson in UN protocol?”

  “Your attitude is counterproductive,” the Zulu said.

  “May I ask counterproductive to what?” Allston replied. “My job is to fly relief for you, not look pretty.”

  “Counterproductive to good order and discipline,” a voice from behind said. Allston turned to see a man standing against the back wall and sucked in his breath. The speaker’s resemblance to the long-dead Idi Amin, the monstrous Uganda dictator, was startling. He stood well over six feet tall and wore the immaculate service dress uniform of the French Foreign Legion. The gold braid on his cuffs announced he was a colonel. He held his white kepi in his huge left hand and large medals decorated his broad chest. A double fourragère encircled his left shoulder.

  “May I introduce Colonel Pierre Vermullen, La Lègion Ètrangère,” the head of mission said. “Colonel Vermullen is the new commander of our peacekeeping forces.”

  “The side with the simplest uniform always wins,” Allston said under his breath.

  “Do you believe that?” Vermullen asked.

  “It’s a lesson of history,” Allston answered. It was one of his favorite maxims.

  The head of mission shook his head in disgust and moved ahead. “First, we called you here so there would no misunderstanding about your duties and obligations while serving in the Sudan.” He handed Allston a folder. “These are your standing operational orders. You are to deliver supplies to refugee camps we designate and to support Colonel Vermullen in his peacekeeping mission. You will consider a request from Colonel Vermullen for support as an order from this Mission.” He waited while Allston scanned the single page. “Second, we are very concerned with your unauthorized landing yesterday at the village of” — he fumbled through his notes — “Abyei.”

  “I had just arrived in-country and was receiving an area check out when the unsafe door warning light flashed at us. As that is a safety of flight item, I landed at the nearest suitable place to check it out, which just happened to be Abyei.”

  “Which caused incalculable political harm,” the third man at the table said. He reminded Allston of a Nigerian general he had once met who was charming, educated, well spoken, and totally corrupt. This man was also a Nigerian but lacked the charming and civilized exterior.

  “And you just happened to have an accident investigation team on board,” the head of mission said.

  “Since we had not received clearance to land the team for an on-site investigation, I intended to do an aerial survey. Once on the ground, it seemed logical to take advantage of the opportunity.”

  “It would have been much wiser,” the Nigerian said, “to have continued your flight rather than land. Once on the ground, the investigation team should have never left the airplane. Discipline is critical as we withdraw our relief workers and peacekeepers to safer areas.”

  Allston was stunned by the news the UN was pulling back. The three men at the table stared at Allston and his anger flared. What the hell is going on here? he wondered. He forced himself to calm down and looked at the Frenchman for clues. Unfortunately, Vermullen’s face was a blank. A hard silence ruled the room. The Zulu finally spoke in a low voice. “I find your attitude both arrogant and unbearable. I must recommend that you be immediately replaced.”

  “Fine by me,” Allston said returning their stares. “I’ll contact my superiors and recommend that the United States immediately withdraw all support, personnel, aircraft, and funding, for your mission. I’ll be a civilian the day I get back and I’ll go public with my recommendation. Given the current sentiment in the States about the UN…”

  The head of mission interrupted him, suddenly wanting to compromise. “Lieutenant Colonel Allston, you don’t understand how delicate our situation is. We are here to keep the two warring factions apart. By landing without prior permission, you appeared to be showing any favoritism to the Dinka, and violated the sovereignty of the Sudan, thereby adding to an already volatile situation.”

  “And exactly who holds sovereignty over that area?” Allston asked mildly.

  The head of mission ignored him and checked his notes again. “The governor of Western Kordofan has filed a complaint.”

  “Was the governor appointed by Khartoum?” Allston asked.

  “Of course. Please remember that as long as you are at Malakal, you must not show favoritism to the Government of Sudan, to any tribe, or the Republic of South Sudan. It is our presence and neutrality that keeps them apart and at peace.”

  Allston almost said that what he had seen did not look like neutrality or peace. An inner voice warned him to caution and he remained silent. “Thank you for coming so promptly,” the head of mission said. Allston was dismissed and he quickly left, glad to escape. Outside, he asked the gorg
eous secretary to please call for a staff car. He waited while she made the call in case she forgot the moment he was out of sight. Vermullen came out of the office and they walked in silence until they were out of the building and on the steps.

  “You must learn to handle our UN masters,” Vermullen cautioned, seemingly undisturbed by the peacekeeping mission’s abandoning the southern tribes to the Sudanese. “As for the standing operational orders you were issued, I view our relationship as collegial and not as a commander and subordinate. We must work together to be effective.”

  “Sir, have you been out in the field?” Allston asked.

  “In the Sudan? Not yet. Like you, I just arrived, but I have been on peace keeping missions in other parts of Africa many times.” A staff car pulled up and a much older legionnaire hustled to open the door. “Ah, there’s Hans. On the spot, as always. By the way, you were right about the uniforms.” The private held the door and snapped a sharp open-handed salute as the colonel squeezed his bulk inside. The car drove off and another staff car arrived, this one a black Mercedes flying a UN flag. The head of the peacekeeping mission came down the steps with the gorgeous secretary from his office on his arm. They ignored him and got inside.

  “Over here, Mr. Colonel,” a voice said. It was Allston’s driver.

  “Any idea where they’re going?” Allston asked.

  “The Hilton, where else?” the driver replied. “For lunch and afternoon activities.” He led the way to their car. “Where to, Mr. Colonel? The Hilton?” He laughed uproariously, enjoying his own humor.

  Allston never considered it. “Where do they sell hats?” The driver pulled out into the traffic, and, within minutes, they were inching their way past crowded stalls in an open-air market. Allston saw what he wanted. “Over there.” The driver stopped and Allston pointed to a stall with hats. “The stall with the tan Australian bush hats. Can you negotiate for me?” He pointed to the rugged, wide-brimmed hats with a leather chinstrap and the right side of the brim folded up and snapped to the side of the low crown.