The Peacemakers

by Richard Herman

  Allston ran his hand through his short dark hair in frustration. “That’s not the code three. That’s Brigadier General Yvonne Richards.”

  Jill was surprised. “You know her?”

  “Oh, yeah. She hates my guts and wants my head bad enough to fly sixty-five hundred miles to serve it up.”

  Jill was fully aware of his reputation and that Richards was an extremely attractive woman. She gave him the look he couldn’t read. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  “Make a strafing run on her? I only met her once, eight weeks ago in the Pentagon. I’m not suicidal, Major.”

  “Sorry, sir.” She sat up straight, her eyes wide when she saw the other four passengers step off the C-17. “Is that who I think it is?”

  The Dinka driver immediately recognized the actress. “Yes, mum. She comes here many times. She is loved in Africa.”

  “So that’s our code three.” Allston shook his head and groaned. “We got better things to do than baby-sit a Hollywood star with White House connections and a clueless one-star. Why would anyone in their right mind come to Malakal?”

  Jill opened her door to get out. “It may have something to do with why we’re here.” She paused. “Or maybe it’s about Abyei.”

  Allston climbed out of the six-pac to greet Richards as she walked in from the C-17. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the beautiful actress following the general. “Don’t get distracted,” Jill warned. “Richards is all business. Let me handle her as much as I can.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Allston replied. He raked his bush hat to the right angle and walked with measured stride towards Richards. He stopped six feet short and threw her a sharp salute. “Welcome to the 4440th and Malakal,” he said. She returned the salute as Jill joined them. Jill snapped a salute, which the general returned with a little smile.

  Richards turned to the actress. “Tara, may I introduce Colonel Allston, the commander of the detachment, and Major Sharp, the detachment’s Intelligence officer.”

  Tara Scott was one of those celebrities who truly needed no introduction. She had won two Academy Awards and spent the majority of her fortune on African relief. She was a petite five foot four with dark blonde hair, startling green eyes, and a magnificent figure. She extended her right hand to Allston, instantly captivating him as her ever-present cameraman recorded the scene. “General Richards has told me all about you,” she purred. She introduced the four men with her. Only the cameraman was unarmed and the other three were bodyguards.

  Allston gestured at the waiting pickups. “Why don’t we get out of the sun? It’s cooler inside.” Tara smiled at him as she took his hand and climbed into the crew cab. He turned in time to see Richards staring at him. What is she up to? he thought. He held the door for her. “General?” She climbed in for the short drive to the hangar.

  The Irregulars were a tight-knit group and word of the actress’s arrival spread like wildfire. Within minutes, everyone who could think of an excuse was gathered in the hangar and craning their necks to get a glimpse of Tara Scott. Vermullen arrived in his battered Panhard utility truck and pushed through the crowd with Hans in tow. Even the old German wanted to meet her.

  Richards sucked in her breath when she saw Vermullen. Nothing had prepared her for the shear physical presence of the man. Allston made the introductions and Vermullen snatched off his blue beret. “Mademoiselle Scott, this is indeed a rare privilege. My wife and I were enchanted by your last movie, ‘Flying Blind,’ and your work in African relief has made a difference.”

  Tara keyed on his French accent and replied in that language, thanking him for his kind words. Unexpectedly, she turned to G.G. and read his nametag. “Do you go by Gigi?”

  The portly captain managed a very lame “Yes, ma’am” and became an instant fan.

  “Well, folks, we need to get organized,” Allston said, taking charge. He turned to Richards. “General, I assume we need to talk.” She nodded in answer. “Major Sharp, Captain Libby, please escort our guests to the mess tent and find them billets. The ladies can use my quarters and I can move in with Major Lane.” Within moments, the office had cleared out and he was alone with Richards. He cocked an eyebrow. “How may I help you, General?”

  “General Fitzgerald sent me here to evaluate the situation on the ground and report back with recommendations as to our continued involvement. Needless to say, your conduct of operations has raised quite a few concerns.”

  “I can live with that. I’ll detail Major Sharp to escort you and run interference. She’s very good at that. But I do have a concern. Why is Scott here? This is a very dangerous part of the world.”

  “Colonel, the world has changed and image is everything. We are here in a humanitarian role and Tara reinforces that image. She wants to visit the refugee camp at Abyei.”

  “General, Hollywood stars with bullet holes in them are as dead as anyone else.” It was obvious Richards hadn’t heard the news. “The Army of the Sudan wiped Abyei off the face of the earth two days ago. Luckily, we got most of the refugees out the day before.” He waited as the reality of where she was finally registered. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve got to see a very good pilot about a flight. I’ll have someone escort you to the mess tent.”

  Wun Kwel, Warab, Sudan

  Marci Jenkins tried hard not to think about her copilot, but it was like trying to ignore a five-hundred-pound gorilla sleeping in your bed. Allston was sitting in the right-hand seat and seemed content to be the perfect copilot even as he marked every word and move she made. Her fellow pilots joked how Allston often walked out to a C-130 that was about to start engines, kicked the copilot off, and settled into the still warm seat. It was a very informal test of the pilot’s ability to command a C-130 and carry out their mission, and she accepted it as something a good commander did. There was none of the paperwork that went with a formal evaluation and only a verbal “Good job,” or the dreaded “Ah shit,” which was the last thing the pilots wanted to hear. Marci was brutally honest with herself and admitted she was having an “ah shit” moment. The village where they were scheduled to land and drop off five pallets of food and supplies simply wasn’t there.

  “Check the GPS coordinates,” she told Allston, working to keep her voice matter-of fact and calm. Allston gave her a plus mark and double-checked the coordinates loaded into the GPS. He gave her a thumbs up and waited to see what she would do next. “Then we’re here,” she said as she entered a racetrack pattern anchored on the GPS coordinates Allston had just verified. She flew one orbit and disengaged the autopilot to descend to a thousand feet above the terrain. She leveled off and smoothly transitioned into a right pylon turn so Allston could see the ground out his side of the C-130. “It’s the burned-out area next to the road,” she told him. The road was little more than a dirt track and nothing was standing in the blackened area.

  “Not much left down there but hot hair, teeth, and eyeballs,” Allston replied. It was one of his expressions that many of the younger pilots had picked up, imitating their commander. Marci chalked it up to a male thing and running with the pack.

  “RTB?” Riley, the flight engineer, asked.

  “Too soon to go home,” Marci replied. “We got fuel, let’s look around before we head for home plate.” Allston gave her another plus. That was exactly what he would have done. “There’s a rest house about fifteen miles north,” Marci explained. “It’s next to a watering hole along the road. It should be easy to find.” Allston gave her high marks for doing her homework before they flew the mission. “What do you think happened to the village?” she asked.

  “Janjaweed,” Allston replied. She smoothly rolled the Hercules out of the turn and climbed to 2000 feet above the ground. She reengaged the autopilot and the flight deck fell silent as they headed north. A few minutes later, Allston saw it. “On the nose. Lots of folks around the watering hole.”

  “I got ’em,” Marci said. “I don’t see any huts or animals. How many do you think there are?�
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  “Couple of hundred,” Allston replied.

  “Let’s go howdy the folks,” Marci said. Riley smiled. That was definitely an Allstonism. Marci hand flew the plane as they slowed and descended to a thousand feet above the people clustered around the only water source within miles. Again, Allston gave her high marks for judgment and flying ability. She was one of those true rarities — a natural pilot that became better with experience. “There’s enough room to land on that straight section of road. Before landing checklist.” Allston called out the checklist as they configured for landing. Marci flew a smooth approach and firmly planted the main gear on the hard earth. She rode the brakes and reversed engines, coming to a stop less than thirty yards from the watering hole. The mass of people ran towards the C-130.

  Marci called the loadmaster, “MacRay, lower the ramp. We need to backup for takeoff.” It seemed to take forever for the loadmaster to lower the cargo ramp under the tail to the horizontal and raise the door.

  “Scanner’s on the ramp,” MacRay called. “All clear in the rear.”

  The desperate, starving refugees were almost to the C-130 as Marci backed slowly down the dirt track, away from the mass of people, and gaining the distance they needed for a takeoff roll. They stopped. “Everyone listen up,” she said, her tone changing. “We’re gonna keep the engines running and make this a fast off load. We’re talking Guinness Book of Records. Go-go-go!” She climbed out of her seat and checked out the cargo deck. About a dozen tribesmen had crawled on board at the back and were ripping at the end pallet, desperate to get at the sacks of sorghum. She didn’t like what she saw and bolted for her seat, reaching for her headset.

  “Captain Jenkins!” the loadmaster shouted over the intercom. “We’re taking hostile fire! Sounds like an AK-47.”

  “Time to get the hell out’a Dodge,” Marci replied. Her words were clear and distinct with no signs of panic. “MacRay, dump the pallets. We gotta lighten up to takeoff.”

  “I can’t go forward!” the loadmaster shouted. He was at the rear of the aircraft and the quick-release lever for jettisoning the pallets was forward, just aft of the flight deck.

  “I’ll get it,” Riley yelled as he unstrapped from the flight engineer’s seat. Now they heard the rattle of a submachine gun. Riley jumped off the flight deck and was back in seconds. “Got it.”

  “MacRay, hold on,” Marci said over the intercom. She ran the engines up and released the brakes, accelerating. The pallets rumbled out the back.

  “All clear!” MacRay shouted.

  “Ah shit!” Marci roared, stomping on the brakes. A mass of people were running onto the road in front of them, blocking their takeoff roll. “MacRay, what’s happening back there?”

  “Small arms fire still coming from our six. They’re shooting at the refugees. Jesus H. Christ! They’re butchering ’em!”

  Marci made a decision. “Get everyone you can on board. We’re taking them with us.”

  “Will we have enough runway to takeoff with a load?” Allston asked.

  Marci didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

  “You sure?” he replied.

  “Colonel, I think we do. If you don’t, then kick me out of this seat and make the decisions. But as long as I’m sitting in the left seat…”

  Allston released his seat belt and shoulder harness, and, for a split second, Marci was sure he was taking command of the aircraft. “Come on Riley,” Allston called. “Let’s get ’em loaded.” Riley jumped out of his seat and scrambled down the steps to the cargo deck and opened the crew entrance door to let refugees board from the front. He passed a child up to Allston’s waiting arms who dumped the infant on the crew bunk at the rear of the flight deck. Within seconds, twelve more children were crowded onto the flight deck. The track in front of them cleared.

  “Button it up,” Marci ordered. “Let’s go.”

  Riley pulled the crew entrance door shut and locked it. He pushed his way through the children packed onto the flight deck, finally reaching his seat. The stench was overpowering and he smelled fresh urine. He strapped in and gestured to the rear. “It’s a sardine can back there.”

  “MacRay, ready to go back there?” Marci asked over the intercom.

  “Give me ten seconds,” MacRay replied. They waited, feeling the mass of people on the cargo deck shift around. She ran the engines up, holding the brakes. The C-130’s nose came down, digging into the dirt. “We got ’em all!” MacRay called from the rear, his voice triumphant. “Ramp’s up and locked.” Marci released the brakes and the Hercules started to move.

  A man on horseback with an AK-47 slung across his back galloped up on their right. For a moment, he raced ahead of the accelerating C-130 before starting to fall behind. He looked directly at Allston, and, in that instant, the two recognized each other. “It’s that crazy kid from Abyei!” Allston shouted. It was BermaNur and his mouth worked furiously as he cursed the Americans. He reached around for his AK-47, never breaking eye contact as he lost ground and fell back under the wing. His horse stumbled and he pitched forward, tumbling along the rocky ground. “Shit hot!” Allston roared. He hoped the kid broke his neck in the fall.

  Marci felt the tail grow heavy as the passengers shifted around. “What the hell is going on back there?”

  “They’re climbing onto the ramp to get some room,” the loadmaster answered.

  “We’re running out of runway,” Allston said. The road ahead took a sharp bend to the left.

  Marci kept forward pressure on the yoke and held the Hercules on the ground as long as possible. “Rotate… now,” she said, pulling back on the yoke. They lifted off as the road turned and barely cleared a rock and low scrub. “Gear up.”

  Allston’s left hand flashed out and lifted the gear handle. A hard silence came down on the flight deck as they climbed out. “Gear’s up and locked,” Allston said. He took a deep breath. “We almost got hosed down and I didn’t think we were going to clear…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Piece of cake,” Marci told him. It was exactly what Allston would have said. “MacRay, how many folks we got on board?”

  “Standby,” the loadmaster answered. “I’ll come forward and get a head count.” Five minutes later, MacRay tried to climb onto the flight deck, but it was too crowded with children for him to move. He counted heads. “Two-oh-four,” he announced from the ladder.

  Marci couldn’t believe it. “How many?”

  “Counting the thirteen ankle biters on the flight deck,” MacRay said, “two hundred and four. They’re all standing and jammed in like sardines. I’ve got ’em stuffed everywhere, storage racks, up in the empennage under the tail roosting like chickens, everywhere. I had to crawl along the side of the aircraft above their heads to come forward.”

  A single gunshot rang out. “Who’s shooting?” Marci demanded.

  MacRay climbed the steps onto the flight deck, shoving the children aside. He stood and bobbed his head around the corner looking aft. “Two guys are bulldozing their way foreword. I can’t tell who’s shooting.” He drew his .45 semi-automatic.

  “Riley,” Marci said, “help him.”

  The flight engineer unstrapped and tried to stand, but a child was in his way. He picked the little girl up, stood in her spot, and dumped her into his seat. He picked up another child and shoved him into his seat. With enough room, he bulldozed his way to MacRay. He drew his semi-automatic and knelt beside the loadmaster. He chanced a look into the cargo compartment and quickly pulled back. “Got ’em,” he said. “They’re almost here. Both are armed.”

  “Take ’em out,” Marci ordered. Allston started to protest. He didn’t like the idea of gunfire on any aircraft, but they were out of options.

  “You take the guy on the right,” MacRay told the flight engineer. “On three. One, two, three.” Both men leaned around the corner and fired a single round. “I got mine,” MacRay said.

  “Ditto,” Riley said.

  Two more gunshots and loud
screaming echoed from the rear of the cargo deck. “What the hell!” Allston yelled. MacRay and Riley peered into the cargo hold, but couldn’t see anything. More screams and shouts reached them.

  “It’s coming from the rear,” MacRay said. “But I can’t see anything to take a shot.”

  “Colonel,” Marci said, “raise the door and lower the ramp. Put a little blue sky in their face. That should calm ’em down.” Allston didn’t hesitate. He reached for the control box on the flight control pedestal and hit the toggle switch. The open light came on and Marci sawed on the rudder pedals, yawing the C-130. “Anyone fall out?”

  “I can’t tell,” MacRay replied. “But it’s quiet back there. Hold on.” He jumped down onto the cargo deck and talked to a woman. “I’ve got a woman here who speaks English. She says there are six or seven Janjaweed at the rear who snuck on board. They’ve killed some people to get room. Standby.” Again, the passing seconds seemed like an eternity. “They’re throwing bodies out the back and raping a couple of women.”

  “Not on my aircraft,” Marci said. She slowed and put the C-130 into a nose up attitude and again sawed at the rudder pedals, whipping the tail back and forth. “That ought’a make a few pricks to go limp. Colonel, advise Outhouse of our situation.” Outhouse was the radio call sign the Irregulars had given C-130 Ops.

  Malakal

  G.G. was in his normal position behind the scheduling counter in operations — rocked back in his desk chair, feet up on the counter, and practicing a card trick when the radio call came in. “Outhouse, Dondo Four,” Allston radioed. G.G. acknowledged the call, relieved that the last mission of the day was inbound and that his commander was back. “Outhouse,” Allston continued, “we’re twenty minutes out with two hundred plus refugees on board. We are experiencing gunfire on the cargo deck and will require armed security police to off load.”