The Peacemakers

by Richard Herman

  G.G. came to his feet, not believing what he had just heard. “Dondo Four, say again.”

  “Dondo-Four has two hundred plus refugees on board and experiencing gunfire on the cargo deck. Have the security police meet us on the ramp.”

  “What the hell is going…” He regained control. “Say nature of emergency.”

  “Janjaweed are on board armed with knives and guns. Exact number unknown. We require armed intervention and medical aid on landing.”

  “Copy all,” G.G. replied. He sprang into action and within thirty seconds had sounded the alert and the security police were headed for the parking ramp. Dick Lane was the first to arrive and G.G. explained the situation. He took a deep breath. “Sir, getting a hundred passengers on board a C-130 takes some hard packing, but over two hundred? You can’t do it. It just can’t be done.”

  “Yeah, it can, standing up,” Lane replied. He grabbed the mike. “Dondo Four, say status.” He wanted an update. Malaby, Jill, and Master Sergeant Jerry Malone, the recently arrive security cop, skidded through the door in rapid succession.

  Allston’s voice was cool and matter-of fact as he again described the situation. He paused. “Standby one, the loadmaster’s talking to Captain Jenkins.”

  Jill was confused. “Why is he talking to Marci and not the Boss?”

  “Because she’s the aircraft commander,” Lane explained, “and in command of the aircraft. The Boss is giving her a check ride.”

  “That’s one hell of a check ride,” G.G. muttered.

  Allston was back on the radio. “Outhouse, Dondo Four. The loadmaster is talking to the refugees. They say there are eight Janjaweed at the rear and they have one AK-47.”

  “I really needed to hear that,” Malone said under his breath.

  “Outhouse,” Allston radioed, “The Janjaweed can’t get to the flight deck because of all the people in the way. We can make them offload out the back, but they’ll probably come out shooting.” He quickly outlined what he was thinking.

  Malone liked what he was hearing. “We’ll be waiting for them,” he promised. He bolted from the room, issuing commands into his communicator.

  “This is going down fast,” Lane said, wishing Allston was there to make the decisions. “Get all the troops who are weapons qualified out to Malone to augment the cops. Two of the Herks on the ground are good to go, so let’s get them airborne and out of here ASAP. Tow the Herk that is down for maintenance over to the civilian ramp.” Malaby hurried out to make it happen. Lane thought for moment. A decision made, he said, “G.G. you’ve got the stick here. Contact Vermullen and get some firepower over here. I’ll get two crews out to the Herks that are good to go.” He bolted out the door.

  Twelve minutes later, the two Herks were airborne and Lane focused on the emergency coming his way. He keyed his communicator and issued his last instructions. Now he had to wait. It seemed to take forever to tow the broken C-130, and he breathed a sigh of relief when it finally cleared the runway and turned into the civilian parking area.

  Allston’s voice came over his handheld radio. “Dondo Four, ten miles out.”

  Lane looked to the west, but he couldn’t see the C-130. He counted to ten slowly. Then he saw it. He keyed his communicator. “Dondo Four in sight. Backstop, are you in place?”

  “That’s affirm,” Malone answered. The security cops and the Irregulars who were weapons qualified were hidden in defensive firing positions around the ramp. Each of the sandbagged foxholes held three troops and provided overlapping fields of fire. The plan was to hide their muscle until needed. Lane’s eyes tracked the C-130 as it entered the downwind leg.

  He keyed his communicator. “Outhouse, any word from the French?” G.G. replied in the negative. “Where the hell are they?” Lane asked aloud. The C-130 turned onto a base leg, the aircraft still in a nose high attitude with the loading ramp lowered to the trail position. The C-130 came down final in a steep rate of descent with the aircraft’s nose high in the air for a short field landing. Lane murmured his approval when the ramp lifted into the closed position, insuring it would not drag on landing.

  Marci planted the C-130’s main landing gear hard on the runway, 1500 feet short of the turnout to the parking ramp, and well past the civilian terminal at midfield. She slammed the nose down and immediately reversed the four props, dragging the Hercules to a crawl. The aircraft taxied in, swerving, accelerating, and then braking, creating a rough ride for anyone on board and not strapped in. A crew chief marshaled the C-130 as it turned into position, its nose facing the runway and tail towards the hangar. The crew chief gave the sign to run the engines up, kicking up dust and dirt, creating a smoke screen as the ramp lowered, this time to the ground. As planned, the crew chief ran for cover.

  A wave of refugees flooded out the back of the C-130, only to sit down in a big group and cover their heads against the bellowing dust. “What the hell?” Lane grumbled. “Dondo, is everyone off?”

  “That’s an affirmative,” Allston replied.

  “Fast taxi to the runway and takeoff,” Lane ordered. The big aircraft leaped forward as Marci applied power, blowing even more dust over the refugees sitting on the ramp. A man with an AK-47 stood up in the center of the refugees and fired a short burst after the moving C-130. Fortunately, the blowing dust spoiled his aim. A single shot echoed from the far corner of the hangar and the gunman crumpled to the ground. “What the…” Lane mumbled, searching for the shooter. A legionnaire was crouched in a firing position in the shadows sighting down a sniper rifle. “About fucking time,” Lane growled.

  Vermullen materialized out of the shadows and ambled towards Lane as if he were strolling down the Champs-Elysèes. “A fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Laurel,” he said with his best American accent. “My father was a Laurel and Hardy fan.” He leaned across the hood of Lane’s pickup and studied the refugees. “Cool the situation down. Time is on our side.”

  Lane keyed his communicator. “Backstop, weapons cold, repeat, weapons cold. Do not fire unless fired upon.”

  “Copy all,” Malone answered

  “Outhouse,” Lane continued, “what happened to Dondo Four. I don’t see them.”

  “They didn’t takeoff and turned into the civilian parking area,” G.G. replied.

  Lane took a deep breath, relieved that Allston would soon be there to take command. He knew when he was in over his head. “Colonel Vermullen, what do you make of all this?”

  Vermullen shrugged. “They have hostages, we have them surrounded, and nothing will happen until it is dark.” The big legionnaire checked his watch. It was two hours to sunset. “Now what is this?” A man was standing in the midst of the refugees waving a makeshift white flag. “I believe they want to negotiate.”

  “What do we negotiate for?” Lane asked.

  “For time,” Vermullen replied. “Send an American. They hate the Legion.”

  Lane keyed his communicator. “I need a volunteer who speaks the local lingo to establish contact with the gunmen.”

  “I’m on it, Boss,” G.G. replied. It was the first time anyone had called Lane ‘Boss’ and he liked it. A few minutes later, a pickup pulled up and G.G. got out. “I’m your man,” he announced. He motioned to the rear of the truck that was filled with cases of bottled water. “I figured this might help to get things moving.”

  “Good thinking,” Lane replied. “I know you speak Arabic, but…” His words trailed off, his uncertainty showing.

  “I’ve picked up quite a bit of the Nuer language,” G.G. countered. “It’s the most widely spoken language in this part of Africa.” He rattled off a few phrases of the Nilo-Saharan language.

  Vermullen replied in the same language and listened carefully to G.G.’s response. “You are very good.”

  A pickup slammed to a halt and Allston got out. “Okay, where are we?” A very relieved Lane rapidly filled him in, explaining how G.G. was ready to take a load of water under a white flag out to the refugees and try to open negotia
tions with the gunmen. Doubt nagged at Allston and he temporized, searching for a better option. “Those bastards shot at least a dozen or so on the aircraft and threw the bodies overboard. I’m guessing it’s only a matter of time before they start shooting again.” One of the six pacs pulled up and its doors swung open. Tara was the first out, followed by her cameraman. Jill and Richards were right behind him. Allston glared at the women. “You’re in the wrong place, ladies.”

  Tara shook her head. “We will stay back and out of the way.”

  “Tara.” Richards said, “Colonel Allston is right. We should leave.”

  The actress was accustomed to having her way and not about to change. “Yvonne, I know it is dangerous. But I have been to Africa many times and been in much worse situations. We did not come here to be pampered or to be safe. I also speak Nuer, so let me help.” She spoke a few words and G.G. replied in some length. “I am impressed, Captain G.G.”

  Tara Scott was not a typical Hollywood celebrity and Allston sensed he was dealing with an immovable force. “Take cover over there.” He pointed to the side of the hangar that was in the shade. “Be ready to beat feet if the situation heats up, but I think we’re going to be here for a few hours before anything happens.” He waited until Tara and Richards were in the truck and headed for the hangar. “Okay, I’m not so sure about this negotiations thing.”

  “Captain G.G.’s command of the Nuer language is excellent,” Vermullen said.

  G.G. waved his hand in a broad gesture, taking in the hostages. “At least I can get some water to them.”

  Jill urged G.G. to stop well short of the refugees and wait for their spokesman to meet him in the open. “They don’t respect white flags,” she warned.

  “You’ve done this before?” Allston asked.

  “In Afghanistan.” The memories came surging back. She had spent a year in Afghanistan interacting and negotiating with local tribal chiefs in the vain hope of bringing stability to that torn land, but in the end there was little to negotiate. Still, this was not Afghanistan. “It might buy some time,” she offered.

  Reluctantly, Allston conceded. “Okay, G.G., you’ve got it. But only go halfway.”

  G.G. snapped a salute hopped into his loaded truck. He unrolled a makeshift white flag and stuck it out the driver’s side window. He started the engine and drove slowly out to the refugees who were still huddled in a large, amoeba-like group in the sun. He stopped fifty yards short and got out, holding the white flag. Soon, two men stood up in the middle of the refugees and kicked their way through the mass of people. They sauntered out to G.G.

  “I don’t like this,” Allston said in a low tone. He watched as G.G. talked while motioning to the cases of bottled water in the back of his pickup.

  One of the Janjaweed examined the water and turned to G.G., saying something. G.G. turned his back on the second Janjaweed to answer. The man at G.G.’s back threw an arm around his neck in a strangle hold and pulled him to the ground. The other Janjaweed ran up, and his knife flashed in the sun as he drove the blade into G.G.’s stomach. The other assailant holding G.G. drew his knife and slashed at the navigator’s neck. Four shots rang out from the side of the hangar where the legionnaires were hiding. “Fuck!” Lane roared. “G.G.’s truck is in the way!”

  Allston keyed his communicator. “Backstop, have you got a shot?”

  “Negative,” Malone replied.

  Vermullen raised his FAMAS 62 and sighted. “No shot,” he said, lowering the assault rifle.

  Something inside Allston snapped. “Shit-fuck-hate!” he roared, jumping into Lane’s pickup. He hit the ignition and the engine roared to life. He shifted into gear as he mashed the throttle and wheeled it around. He sped towards G.G. as the two Janjaweed looked up from their grisly work. They were on their feet and running for G.G.’s truck. One pulled his semi-automatic pistol as the other ran around to the driver’s side. The shooter knelt in a firing position and emptied his clip into the truck charging down on him.

  Allston pulled his head down and laid across the passenger’s seat as five rounds smashed into the windshield. Glass shards rained down on him as he steered blindly with his left hand. The left side of his head felt warm. The gunfire stopped and Allston reared up. The Janjaweed in front of him was coming to his feet as he reloaded. He pulled the slide on his weapon back, chambering a round, as he raised the weapon to fire. He was too late, and Allston smashed into him going over forty miles per hour. Allston hit the brakes, dragging the pickup to a crawl. Inertia did its thing, and the man crumpled across the grill flew forward and rolled on the ground.

  Allston mashed the accelerator and drove over the Janjaweed. He hit the brakes and dragged the rear wheels over the man, grinding him into the asphalt. Without glancing back, Allston accelerated as he spun the steering wheel and headed for G.G.’s truck, which was now racing towards the mass of refugees still sitting in the boiling sun. Allston never hesitated and crashed into the truck’s left rear, causing it to spin out and stall. Both trucks came to a halt. Allston leaped out, drawing his .45. He thumbed the safety off as he sprinted for the other truck. He reached the passenger’s side window and fired point blank into the driver’s head. He pulled the trigger again.

  Allston’s rounds echoed across the field, unleashing chaos. Allston ran straight for the mass of people as three men in the center of the refugees stood up. One raised an AK-47 in Allston’s direction. Allston never slowed and fired wildly as he closed the gap. At the same time, the refugees started to run in all directions, effectively shielding the gunman and denying him a shot at Allston. Frustrated, the gunman emptied his clip into the backs of the fleeing refugees. Allston fell to the ground and reloaded as the hostages ran for cover. He rolled on the ground, trying to find a clear field of fire through the refugees. The rattle of the AK-47 rang out again, still cutting into the escaping refugees.

  The mass of bodies in front of Allston suddenly cleared and he had a clear shot at the shooters. Still in a prone position, Allston drew down on the shooter and squeezed off a single shot. The Janjaweed fell to the ground. The remaining two Janjaweed dropped for cover. Now all Allston could see was a pile of bodies. One of the Janjaweed stood, holding the AK-47. A hail of gunfire from Allston, the security police, and the legionnaires tore the man apart. Allston was vaguely aware of the AK-47 falling to the ground with an arm and shoulder still attached to the sling.

  Vermullen ran across the ramp, his FAMAS 62 against his side in a firing position. He shouted in Nuer, ordering everyone to stay on the ground. “David!” he yelled at Allston, “stay down!” Legionnaires erupted from the side of the hangar, running in groups of three as they converged. Vermullen was beside Allston. “Are you okay?” Much to his surprise, Allston was alive, but the side of his head was bleeding profusely, cut by flying shards of glass from the windshield.

  Two more shots rang out, this time from the legionnaires who had found the last gunman. An eerie silence ruled the parking ramp. Allston came to his knees and touched the side of his head, finally aware of the blood. Tara Scott was running straight towards him, her cameraman right behind, recording as he ran. She reached Allston and ripped open the first aid kit she was carrying. “Lie down,” she commanded. Her fingers probed the gash. She slapped a compress bandage against his head. “You’ll live. Hold this.” Then she was gone, running for the wounded and dying.

  Jill pulled up in a pickup and jumped out. She knelt and quickly examined him. “Thank God,” she whispered. She tied the bandage in place.

  Allston struggled to his knees, a little dizzy. He surveyed the carnage around him. Tara Scott was in the middle of it all, organizing everyone around her and performing triage on the wounded and dying.

  Vermullen walked through the bodies, looking for the Janjaweed. At one point, he stood and drew his semi-automatic pistol. He turned and aimed at Tara’s cameraman. “Turn your camera off and lay it on the ground.” The cameraman did as he was ordered and stepped back from the camera. V
ermullen spoke a few words to the wounded man on the ground. The man snarled an answer and Vermullen squeezed off a single shot, striking the asphalt inches from the prostrate man’s right ear. Vermullen repeated his question. The man spat at the big legionnaire, hitting his pants leg. Vermullen shot him in the head. “You can pick up your camera now.”

  Tara was a woman possessed as she commandeered everyone she saw and turned the hangar into a makeshift dressing station, hospital, and morgue. She was everywhere, making sure the wounded were cared for and tending to the children. To get what she needed, she ordered her three bodyguards to rip into the pallets of cargo waiting for delivery to refugee camps and took what she needed. Malaby started to protest but thought better of it. Tara Scott had taken charge and kept at it until order reigned. Only then did she walk into the air-conditioned offices and slump into a chair with her ever-present cameraman still filming. She was not a pampered Hollywood star, but a caring and dedicated human being. She was fatigued to the point of exhaustion, and it was a rare photo op for her cameraman. He swung the lens on Allston when he entered the office. “Thank you,” Allston said. It was not enough, but it would have to do.

  “Your bandage is much too big,” Tara told him. She made him sit in her chair and gently removed the compress. “You’ll need a few stitches.” She nodded at her cameraman who went in search of a first aid kit. “Twenty-nine innocent people died out there today and another thirty-eight were wounded because you over reacted.”

  “Did I?” he replied.

  “General Richards agrees with me.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  Jill was standing in the doorway. “Those monsters killed and wounded over two dozen on the airplane and threw them overboard, dead or alive.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Tara said, her voice softening. Tara’s cameraman was back, carrying a first aid kit. Without a word, Tara cleaned Allston’s wound and stitched it closed.

  “Ouch!” Allston protested.

  “You’ll live,” Tara told him. “Regardless of what they did, you caused the bloodbath here.”