The Peacemakers

by Richard Herman

  This was what Fitzgerald wanted to hear. “Stakeholders,” he asked.

  She answered without missing a beat. “China holds the most concessions, Canada second. With Darfur on its western flank secure, the Sudanese government is now clearing the oil concessions of the African tribes, to reinforce their claim. They consider the Africans infidels and therefore not entitled to a single cent of the oil revenues. To that end, the Government of Sudan has again unleashed the Janjaweed, and we can expect the Sudanese Army to start operations at any time in a repeat of what we saw in Darfur. We have monitored elements of the Army moving into the states of Western Kordofan and Northern Bahr el Ghazal where the Janjaweed are active.” Annotations overlaid the map on the screen correlating the Sudanese Army’s movement with Janjaweed activity.

  “Is the 4440th in harm’s way?”

  “Not at this time.” Jill used a laser pointer to highlight Malakal. “While Malakal is in the disputed area, no oil had been discovered in the southern most concessions. However, there are currently four Chinese exploration team working in the area. If oil is discovered, we predict…”

  Fitzgerald interrupted her. “Who’s the ‘we,’ Major?”

  “Every area specialist I talk to.” She rattled off a list of names that ran from the CIA to the State Department. “If oil is discovered, we predict that the entire area will be a major objective for the Sudanese government and ripe for ethnic cleansing.”

  “What’s the UN doing?” Fitzgerald asked. “Sitting on their fat thumbs as usual?”

  “Yes and no, sir.” Every eyebrow in the room went up. It was common knowledge that Fitzgerald held the UN in deep contempt and the major was telling him something he didn’t want to hear.

  “This had better be good,” he growled.

  “The UN mission is withdrawing its relief teams from Sudan. However, the UN peacekeepers appear to have a different agenda.” A photo of Vermullen in battle dress filled the screen. “The new commander of the UN’s peacekeeping force is Colonel Pierre Lavelle Vermullen of the French Foreign Legion. He commands a company-sized peacekeeping force of 200 legionnaires.”

  “My God!” a voice at the far end of the table blurted. “He looks just like Idi Amin.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jill said. “But he’s no relation. Colonel Vermullen is 41 years old, born in Senegal and orphaned when he was three months old. A French family adopted him and took him to Paris. After graduating from St. Cyr at the head of his class, he joined the French Foreign Legion. His men nicknamed him ‘Idi’ and it stuck.” She went on to describe how he was independently wealthy and the closest thing to a renaissance man the French military had produced in over a hundred years. He was considered by many to be the army’s finest intellect and the youngest colonel since World War II. He was also a battle-hardened veteran of nine peacekeeping missions with a reputation for returning fire when fired on. “There is a rumor that al-Qaeda has placed a bounty of 50,000 euros on his head, but we cannot confirm that.”

  Richards glanced at the notes on her communicator. “He also has a reputation as a womanizer. At least he has that in common with Mad Dawg Allston.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jill replied. “Vermullen is also married with three children.” She keyed her remote and a picture of a pretty blonde Parisienne with three beautiful children flashed on the screen. It was followed by a photo of Vermullen marching at the head of the 2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment based in Corsica. “He is brave and unflinching in combat and has been wounded three times. He is the most highly decorated officer on active duty in the French Army. His men revere him and say they would follow him into hell. The French government appears to have given him wide discretionary powers to use force that far exceeds anything the UN will allow. Given his record and disposition, we expect him to use those powers regardless of what the UN Mission tells him.”

  Fitzgerald’s fingers beat a tattoo on the table. He had to make a phone call and find out what the French were up to. Fortunately, he still had a channel to the Ministry of Defense in Paris. “Thank you, Major,” he said, dismissing the intelligence officer. Richards caught Jill’s attention and glanced at the door, signifying she wanted to talk after the briefing. Jill placed the remote control on the podium and went outside to wait in the hall.

  “General Fitzgerald,” Richards said as she stood. “My office received a complaint from the United Nations Relief and Peacekeeping Mission Southern Sudan in regards to an unauthorized landing made by Lieutenant Colonel Allston on” — she checked her notes — “Thursday, January 7. He landed at Abyei, a village in the disputed border area, and in violation of the Mission’s standing directives.” She paused for effect.

  “That’s the village where we lost a C-130,” Fitzgerald said. “And?”

  “Our personnel cannot flout the UN’s established procedures, and my office will have to respond.”

  “Respond to what?”

  Richards’ mental warnings were in full alarm. She had pushed the wrong button, and while Fitzgerald had never fired a flag ranked officer before, at least six had found themselves looking at career-ending assignments when their tour at the Pentagon ended. She quickly consulted her notes and went into a recovery mode. “It happened on the day he arrived at Malakal and was on a local area checkout flight. The aircraft experienced an unsafe door warning light and he landed to check it out.”

  “It’s too bad your UN compatriots have no clue as to what constitutes flight safety,” Fitzgerald replied.

  “However,” Richards said, “he just happened to have the accident investigation team on board, which had not received permission from the UN to examine the crash site. Once on the ground, Colonel Allston arranged for the team to survey the crash site, again, without clearance from the UN.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?” Fitzgerald asked. In his world, the information gained was critical to continuing operations and Allston was protecting his aircrews.

  “In itself, no,” she answered. “However, the incident may prove to be counterproductive in the long run to our mission in the Sudan.”

  “Do you think so?” Fitzgerald replied.

  “Of course, that remains to be seen,” she said, conceding the argument.

  Fitzgerald wasn’t finished. “In your response, remind your UN counterparts that we lost five personnel and one aircraft supporting their mission, and that flying safety must remain paramount if we are to continue operations.”

  “Yes, sir.” She sat down, careful to conceal her anger and frustration. Seven minutes later, the meeting was over and she hurried out of the conference room. Jill was waiting for her. “Walk with me, Major,” Richards said. “You did very well in there today. Unfortunately, I didn’t. But I think I made my point. Your prediction about the discovery of oil was brilliant, but I would appreciate a heads up in the future.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I will if I can.” They walked in silence for a few moments.

  “I hope you will forgive me,” Richards said, “but there is, ah, a personal matter we need to discuss. A few of my counterparts in there are, well, lecherous old bastards. They couldn’t take their eyes off your breasts.”

  Jill blushed. She was very sensitive about her breast size. “Sorry, ma’am. This is what Mother Nature gave me.”

  Richards nodded in sympathy. “I do understand. But career-wise, you may want to think about a breast reduction.” Richards stopped outside her office. “Jill, you are a most unique and gifted officer with a future. I’d like to help, but it may require that you step out of your traditional role.”

  Jill carefully masked her reactions and gave Richards the serious and concerned look she had practiced and refined over the years. “Thank you, ma’am. I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

  ~~~

  Fitzgerald hit the intercom button to his secretary. “Mary, if there’s nothing pressing on my schedule, can you clear an hour?” She told him there was nothing that couldn’t be slipped. He gave her a number to call. “Call me when you
get through,” he added, wondering how he could do the job without her. He kicked back in his chair and folded his hands across his chest. His eyes never closed as he processed Jill’s briefing and what Richards had said about Allston’s unauthorized landing at Abyei being counterproductive to their mission in the Sudan. In Fitzgerald’s world, Allston’s job was to carry out the mission, and Fitzgerald’s job was to provide the support Allston needed to do it. He typed a brief message into his computer, but hesitated before hitting the send button. He humphed, the decision made, and hit the button. Exactly eight minutes later, Mary buzzed him. The spook he had summoned was waiting outside. “Please show him in,” Fitzgerald said. The civilian who came through the door moved with an easy motion that belied his bulk. He was a ‘gray man,’ perfect for his profession and nondescript to the point of invisibility. “How are things in the basement these days?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “Holding tight.” The spook headed The Boys in the Basement, the elite band of covert intelligence operators who hid in the Pentagon’s basement. On paper, they were part of the military and escaped the scrutiny of the congressional committees on intelligence oversight. More importantly, they escaped the constant leaks that bedevil all congressional committees. In the world of heads-on head intelligence, hard experience had taught the Boys that no secret was safe with a politician. As long as the Boys were ‘holding tight’ they were safe from politicians and could do their job. But they could never drop their guard.

  Fitzgerald came right to the point. “The 4440th is operating in the blind in the Sudan and I suspect the UN is hanging them out to dry. We’ve got the big picture and know what the Sudanese are up to, but we need to fill in the details on the ground or the 4440th will be blindsided before I can get them out. In short, we need better operational intelligence, which we don’t have at this time.”

  The spook had worked with Fitzgerald before and trusted him to follow the unique rules of his trade. Everything was highly compartmentalized and access to the product, and how it was gathered, was based on a strict need-to-know. “We’ve got a few gremlins who speak the lingo.”

  “Yours or mine?” Fitzgerald knew that the Boys recruited and used Air Force personnel, but the spook would never reveal their identity.

  The spook laughed and didn’t answer the question. “Fitz, you haven’t changed. Always worried about your folks.” He thought for a moment, calculating how much he could reveal. Part of his job was to give Fitzgerald credible deniability, but at the same time, the general had to be told enough to keep him in the loop. “We have a few sources in Addis Ababa we can exploit. The bad news is that the best source in the Sudan, Dr. Tobias Person at Mission Awana, won’t talk to us. He can’t risk compromising his neutrality.” He gave Fitzgerald his good old boy grin. “But we can always backdoor that one.”

  “Do it,” Fitzgerald said.

  “We’ll get on it.”

  The intercom buzzed. “General,” Mary said, “your call to France is on the secure line.”

  “I need to take this,” Fitzgerald said. The spook smiled and excused himself.

  Malakal

  Allston walked through the hangar that was packed with maintenance equipment and cargo pallets ready to be loaded on relief missions. He stopped and stared at the engine dolly holding an Allison T-56 turboprop engine parked at the end of a neat row. Where did that come from? he wondered. Outside, he heard a C-130 taxi in. He glanced at his watch. It was the last mission of the day and all his aircrews and aircraft were safely recovered. The unyielding tension that bound him tight yielded a notch and he breathed easier. But it would all repeat itself the next day, and every day after that as long as he commanded the 4440th and sent his aircrews into harm’s way. It was a burden few sane men or women chose to carry, and fewer yet who could do it successfully. He walked into operations.

  Inside, G.G. was sitting behind the counter monitoring the radio, his feet up on the desk, the microphone in his left hand. He keyed the mike. “That’s it for the day, Marci.” He noted the C-130’s landing time on the big tracking board and turned to his commander. “All five birds back, OR, and good to go.”

  “G.G., did you have anything to do with that engine out there?”

  “Guilty. Me and Loni, er, Sergeant Williams, convinced a few misguided souls they didn’t really want it.”

  “How did you do that?” Allston asked. He wasn’t really sure he wanted to know.

  “Magic, sir, pure magic.” G.G. laughed. “I did a few slight-of-hand tricks and then offered to not tell their futures.” He flicked his fingers and produced a big coin from nowhere. “No Muslim wants to know the day he will die.” Now Allston was sure he didn’t want to know any more.

  The office rapidly filled as a sergeant and four airmen filed in. They threw their blue berets on the counter and stood there, big grins on their faces. “We flew with Captain Jenkins today,” the sergeant announced. They had come for their bush hats. G.G. rummaged in a nearby cardboard box.

  “Learn anything?” Allston asked.

  “Yes, sir,” a young airman answered. She looked all of sixteen. “The Dinka are hurting.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve never seen starving children before.” G.G. handed her a hat and she held it, caressing the brim. “I gotta do something.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Allston said.

  She slung the hat over her head, and let it hang on her back. The others quickly fitted theirs and did the same. The sergeant stood tall. “Irregulars, a-ten-HUT!” The five came to attention and threw Allston a salute.

  “Welcome aboard,” Allston said, returning their salutes. They quickly filed out, eager to wear their hats outside.

  “The hats are working, Boss,” G.G. said.

  “It’s not the hats,” Allston told him. “It’s about unit identification and having a mission.” He walked into his office and opened the safe to get his laptop computer. He sat down to answer the mail. As usual, he had over a hundred messages. He scanned them, looking for the important ones. Richards in the office of Military-Political Affairs had sent six pages of detailed and revised Rules of Operations he was to adhere to. However, the important message was a one-liner from Fitzgerald.

  Coordinate with and support Col Vermullen to max extent possible.

  “What the hell is going on?” he wondered to no one. He warned himself to quit thinking out loud. He returned his computer to the safe and went to the mess tent for dinner.

  ~~~

  The knock on Allston’s trailer door came after midnight. “Colonel,” G.G. called. “You’re needed in Ops.” Allston came awake with a rush and sat on the edge of his bed. He turned on the light and checked the time - 0135 hours. He pulled on a flightsuit and staggered to the door. G.G. was waiting anxiously outside. “The French peacekeepers have got their ass in a crack,” G.G. explained, “and a Colonel Vermullen is here talking to Major Lane. They need to talk to you.” The two men hurried for the big hangar. “Vermullen is one big mean-looking dude and his driver is some old Kraut who looks like he was left over from World War II.”

  “They’re French Foreign Legion. Sort of like a cross between our Rangers and Special Forces.”

  “I wouldn’t want to mess with them.”

  The Vermullen waiting for Allston was far different from the uniformed dandy he had met in Addis Ababa. He was dressed for combat and carried a stubby FAMAS G2 assault rifle that had been modified with a day/night optical sight and a laser range finder. A Browning 9mm automatic hung from his webbed equipment belt and two cords led from his helmet, one to a radio/GPS on his belt and the other to the optical sight on his assault rifle. The way he stood and his quiet manner left no doubt that he was a warrior. His driver and constant shadow, Private Hans Beck, stood at his back. “I understand you’ve got a problem, Colonel,” Allston said.

  Vermullen pulled a map out of a thigh pocket and spread it out. He pointed to a village. “This is Wer Ping, 305 kilometers to the west of here. I sent a patrol, twe
lve men and three trucks, to investigate a report the Janjaweed had tortured and murdered the villagers. The patrol was ambushed and are trapped on a road outside the village.” Vermullen drew a small square on the east side of the village. “According to their GPS, they are here.”

  Allston automatically converted the 305 kilometers to 190 miles, less than an hour’s flying time from Malakal. The threat was getting closer. “Is Wer Ping a Dinka village?” Vermullen confirmed it was. Allston studied the map for a few moments. “Not much to go on.”

  G.G. typed a command into his computer and a high-resolution satellite photograph flashed on the screen. He turned it towards the two men. “Based on those coordinates, it looks like they’re caught on this north/south section of road next to the river.” An expectant look crossed his round face. “Airdrop? If the legionnaires secure the area, we can land on the road to extract them.”

  It was obvious Vermullen was thinking the same thing. “All my men are parachutistes and are preparing now.”

  Allston made a decision. “Let’s do it. How many troops are we talking about and where are they?”

  “I’ll have 120 ready in an hour. They are at our base in Beica.”

  Allston was shocked. “In Ethiopia? A hell of a lot of good you’re doin’ there.” He was angry. By positioning Vermullen’s peacekeeping force 200 miles away to the east, the UN had left his small contingent of Americans totally exposed to the threat coming from the west.

  “That’s where the UN placed us,” Vermullen replied. “I am aware that you are uncovered here. But then, our UN masters are not concerned with the tactical situation on the ground.”

  Allston made a decision. He turned to his Ops Officer, Major Lane. “Dick, lay on two Herks to bring the paratroopers here ASAP. While that’s happening, I want two crews to start briefing for the airdrop.” He ran a mental list of his pilots. “I’ll lead in number one with Bard Green in the right seat. G.G. gets to earn his money and does the airdrop. The aircraft commander for number two is Marci Jenkins. You pick the rest of the crews and hold things together here. If we hustle, we can drop at first light.”