The Peacemakers

by Richard Herman

  Jill wasn’t having any of it. “What about the women they raped on the C-130?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “At least five, maybe more. Two of them were little girls, eight and nine years old. Don’t they count?”

  Susan Malaby burst into the room at full-throttle, her standard mode of operation. “Vermullen’s found something he wants you to see.”

  Jill’s stare riveted the actress. “You never answered the question.”

  Tears welled up in Tara’s eyes. “Yes, they count.” She stood and followed Malaby into the hangar. Allston and Jill were right behind.

  They found Vermullen in the corner that had been turned into a morgue. Ten bodies were stretched out in a row. Without a word, Vermullen pointed to a pile of weapons and boots. Jill picked up a 9mm semi-automatic pistol and checked its markings. She looked at the boots and her head came up. “They’re not Janjaweed.”

  “Oui,” Vermullen said in a low voice.

  TEN

  Malakal

  The whine of a turbo prop engine cranking to life echoed through the walls of the trailer where Richards was sleeping and jolted her awake. She glanced at the travel alarm clock on the nightstand beside her bed — 6:10 in the morning. She sat up and pulled back the curtain over the small window. Outside, the morning twilight was yielding to the new day and she was vaguely aware of the air-conditioning kicking in. She shook her head, getting her bearings. She was in the spare bunk in Allston’s sleeping quarters, and she glanced at his bed where Tara had dropped her bags. It had not been slept in.

  Richards showered and quickly dressed in a tailored set of ABUs. She rolled the sleeves up as she had seen the others do and examined her image in the mirror. She liked what she saw. She stepped outside and the heat hit her, wilting the crisp image. She walked through the compound, surprised by all the activity; the sun was just breaking the horizon and everyone was at work. She walked into the big mess tent and was surprised to see the food line closed. A lone cook asked if he could get her anything. She settled for her usual breakfast — two pieces of toast, a glass of juice, and a cup of coffee. She found a seat and nibbled at the toast. “May I join you?” a voice said. Richards looked up to see Susan Malaby.

  “Please do,” the general said. Malaby sat down. Instinctively, Richards knew the lieutenant colonel wanted to talk, and she studied the small, intense woman. Malaby was the new Air Force, totally at home with integrated management and information flows and an excellent manager.

  “How’s the assignment here going?”

  “We have problems,” Malaby answered. Richards nodded, encouraging her. Malaby stared at her hands. “We’re too fly-by-night… seat-of-the pants decision making… hopelessly old-fashioned. Allston treats Air Force directives as points of discussion to be disregarded at will. Look at the silly hats they wear. And everyone is wearing a side arm like we’re in some wild-west movie.”

  Richards knew she had an ally. “I see you don’t wear either.”

  Malaby shook her head. “It’s not professional. Our mission is to deliver relief supplies for the UN, not play cowboy. Do you know what Allston calls the base?” It embarrassed her to talk about it and a pained look crossed her face. “He calls it Bumfuck South, and we’re the Irregulars.” Richards was truly shocked. Like Malaby, this was not her vision of the Air Force. Malaby was in full flow and warmed to the subject. “I don’t like everyone carrying a side arm. That’s asking for trouble and we’re setting ourselves up for a suicide or someone going postal.”

  Richards finished her coffee. “I need to see what you’re seeing.”

  “You don’t want to see the inside of the hangar,” Malaby said. “You’d think it was a slaughterhouse after yesterday.” The two women walked outside.

  “After the carnage here yesterday,” Richards said, “I’m surprised it’s a normal work day. Your people were traumatized after seeing so many killed and wounded. They need a down day for counseling.” She checked her watch. She had been at Malakal less than twenty-four hours, and like a good manager, had a programmed response to violence she assumed was good for all situations and circumstances. “How many were killed and wounded?”

  Malaby ran the numbers. “In addition to Captain Libby, twenty-nine Nuer were slaughtered on the tarmac and eight Janjaweed gunned down. I heard that another twenty-five Nuer or so were killed on board the C-130 along with two of the Janjaweed. At least thirty-eight Nuer were wounded and are in the hospital.” She paused. “It was a blood bath.” They walked towards the hangar. From inside, a woman’s voice sang out in Nuer and a chorus replied.

  “That’s singing,” Richards said, not believing what she was hearing. A small door leading into the hangar was open and they looked in. It was empty except for a group of women scrubbing the floor and singing. Tara Scott was standing in the interior doorway leading to the offices and waved for them to join her. “What happened to the refugees?”

  “We moved them,” Tara explained. “I went through those big tents out back, the ones with all the relief supplies, and took what I needed. After that, it was easy to get organized. We’re setting up a tent city on the road leading to town. All very temporary until we find a better place.” She paused. “There’s only 142 of them,” she added, as if that explained everything.

  Richards chose her words carefully, not wanting to offend the actress but determined that she understood the rules. “I believe those supplies were the property of the United Nations.”

  Tara laughed. “They’re being used the way they were meant to.” Richards’ body language signaled it wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. Tara tried a different track. “This is Africa, Yvonne. The rules are different here.” She turned to the women who had finished cleaning the hangar. “They are magnificent singers. And so resilient. Excuse me, we’ve got to go.” She called out in Nuer and the women followed her out of the hangar.

  Jill came out of Allston’s office. “Good morning. May I help you?”

  “We need to talk,” Richards replied. Malaby excused herself and left the two women alone. Jill led the way into Allston’s office where she was working, and Richards closed the door. “I assume Allston has told you why I’m here.” Jill nodded in answer. “Good. Under the circumstances, I think it would be most productive by starting with the incident at Wer Ping.” Without a word, Jill called up her report on her computer. She spun the screen around for Richards to read. Richards scanned the report, her anger mounting with each sentence. “I hadn’t seen this. This isn’t a report, it’s a whitewash. Allston must have used some type of nerve gas.”

  “It’s not a whitewash,” Allston said from the doorway.

  Richards’ head came up. She hadn’t heard the door open. “This is a private conversation.”

  “And my office,” he answered. He walked in and sat down. “Major Sharp, please excuse us.” The Intelligence officer shot him a grateful look and beat a hasty escape. “Please close the door.” He thought for a moment. How did he explain combat to an officer who had never flown an airplane, dropped a bomb, or been shot at? “Ma’am, if you’re interested, I can detail what it would take to employ an airborne-delivered gas or nerve agent of any type.” Richards tried to stare him down. It didn’t work. “First, assuming the Air Force still had chemical weapons in the inventory, which it does not, it takes a special weapons pylon and canisters for aerial delivery. Those pylons and canisters were destroyed at the completion of testing.”

  “And how do you know all this?” she demanded.

  “Because I was one of the crews who did the testing and I certified their destruction. Second, if I had used a gas or nerve agent of any kind, we would not have been able to land without MOPP, which neither we, nor the legionnaires have.” He assumed she knew that MOPP, Mission Oriented Protective Posture, was the special clothing and equipment needed to operate in a chemical or nerve gas environment. “I dumped jet fuel on the Janjaweed to create the impression that it was a nerve gas and scare them away. It worked. You can in
terview every swinging” — he almost said “dick” but caught himself in time — “every crew member who was on board my C-130.” He reached for the phone to make it happen as the unmistakable sound of a C-17 taxiing in echoed in the office.

  “That’s not necessary,” Richards conceded, “at this time.”

  “Please excuse me, ma’am, but I’ve got an important matter to attend to.” He stood up. “We’re sending Capt. Libby’s body home. Please join us.” She heard the pain in his voice and followed him outside where Tara and her cameraman were waiting.

  ~~~

  The C-17’s engines were spinning down as the men and women of the 4440th gathered at the tail of the huge aircraft. Without a command, they formed up in two ranks, creating a corridor leading from the Globemaster’s loading ramp to the hangar. Tara’s cameraman raised his camera as a tug drove slowly out of the hangar, pulling a maintenance cart bearing a wooden coffin covered with an American flag. Staff Sergeant Loni Williams walked behind, holding G.G.’s bush hat in his hands. Allston walked to the head of the corridor and came to attention. “Squad — RON” - he drew the word out, his voice firm and in command, concealing the pain that was tearing at him — “ten — HUT!”

  As one, the Irregulars came to attention. “Pre — SENT… Arms!” Tara’s cameraman panned back and forth as the Irregulars saluted their fallen comrade. The tow motor reached the waiting aircraft and stopped. “Or — DER… Arms!” The Irregulars dropped the salute but remained at attention. “Pa — RADE…Rest!” The two ranks shifted to the formal at-ease, their feet apart, hands clasped behind their backs, their heads up.

  Loni Williams slowly paced the distance to Allston. He dropped his left hand to hold G.G.s bush hat against his thigh and gave his commander the best salute of his career. Allston returned the salute, “Sir,” Williams said, “if I may.”

  “Carry on, Sergeant.” Allston said, not sure what Williams had in mind, but instinctively trusting him.

  The sergeant walked over to Tara Scott and held out G.G.’s hat. “Ma’am, please accept this. Captain Libby would want you to have it.”

  Tara took the hat and held it to her breast. “I know what these mean to you, but why? I’ve done nothing…” Her voice trailed off as tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “You’re one of us,” Williams said. He snapped a salute, did an about face, and marched over to the waiting coffin where six security cops were waiting as pallbearers. They carried the coffin on board as a gentle breeze ruffled the silence. Captain Marci Jenkins was the last to board. She would take G.G. home.

  ~~~

  Richards sat in Allston’s office and read the two reports on the massacre the day before. The OpRep, or Operations Report, had been up-channeled to AFRICOM and the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon within an hour after the shooting had stopped and the base secured. The IntRep, or Intelligence Report, had followed six hours later and was much more detailed. The general dropped the two printouts on the desk, and stared at Allston and Jill. “Unacceptable.” She tapped the reports. “Too many unanswered questions. Who drafted these reports?”

  Allston glanced at Jill. “Major Lane drafted the OpRep and Major Sharp the IntRep.”

  “I need to speak to Captain Jenkins about what happened on your airplane,” Richards replied.

  “Captain Jenkins is escorting Captain Libby’s coffin. She’ll be made available the moment she returns.”

  “And when will that be?”

  Allston thought for a moment. “Two weeks at the most.”

  “How convenient,” Richards snapped.

  “Major Lane and I debriefed Captain Jenkins before she left,” Jill said. “It’s all in my report.” Richards gave her a hard look and didn’t respond. “The gunmen were not Janjaweed,” Jill continued. “They were soldiers. SA — Army of the Sudan.”

  “Really,” Richards snapped. “Do you have any proof to substantiate that claim?”

  “First,” Jill explained, “they were all armed with 9mm Glock semi-automatic pistols and Russian-made combat knives. The SA only issues those to its elite forces. Second, counting the two killed on board the C-130, there were ten of them, the exact number of an SA squad. Third, they were all carrying booklets of sayings from the Koran and Hadith that urge the faithful to become martyrs, also issued by the SA. Finally, they were all wearing standard issue combat boots. Janjaweed won’t wear boots like that. It’s a cultural thing to do with the honor of being horsemen. Those ten men were a death squad out to kill anyone they could. Further, the Janjaweed participated in the attack, which indicates they are acting with the SA.”

  “And how did they get on board in the first place?” Richards asked.

  Allston answered. “We were off loading supplies at a refugee camp and came under small arms fire. To say the situation was confused is an understatement. The SA were there and exploited the opportunity. Captain Jenkins was sitting in the left seat as the aircraft commander. I fly as a copilot with all my aircraft commanders from time to time, mainly to see how they are handling the stress, and was the copilot.”

  Richards interrupted. “And to blame them if anything goes wrong, which it did.”

  Allston ignored the allegation. “The refugees were blocking our takeoff, and rather than leave them to the tender mercies of the Janjaweed, Captain Jenkins loaded them all on board and we took off.”

  Richards scanned the reports, finding what she wanted. “You allowed Captain Jenkins to take off grossly overloaded for the takeoff conditions and endangered everyone on board.”

  “With 204 passengers. She set a record for the Hercules.”

  “And you let her do it,” Richards charged.

  “She was in command and we made it. Her judgment was correct. That’s why she’s an aircraft commander.”

  Richards dropped the reports into her briefcase. “I need to incorporate these into my report.”

  “No problem,” Allston said, “just sign for them.” The reports were classified confidential and required special handling. Richards scrawled her signature across the bottom of a transmittal slip and flung it at him. She closed the briefcase and stormed out the door. “Major Sharp,” he said loudly, making sure the general heard him. “Please take a letter.” Richards stopped, her back to him. “Dear Mr. Lockheed, in regards to your C-130, thank you.”

  Richards spun around. “Flippancy isn’t called for.” Allston didn’t respond and let her have the final word. She turned and left, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

  “We haven’t seen the last of that lady,” Allston said.

  “You were right,” Jill replied. “She wants your head on a platter.”

  “She’ll probably get it. But in the meantime, we’ve got work to do.” Jill nodded, her face not revealing what she felt. She would follow this man anywhere he asked, which he promptly did. “Let’s go see if Tara needs some help.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jill said. Seeing Allston and Tara Scott together was the last thing she wanted.

  ~~~

  Richards’ right index finger beat a relentless tattoo on the table as she quickly rifled through her notes. She glanced at the sergeant sitting patiently opposite her and started to ask a question about Allston. But she knew the answer and didn’t want to hear it. She had quickly sorted out the incident at Wer Ping and the alleged use of nerve gas and concluded there was nothing there for her. It had gone down as reported. Frustrated, she turned her investigative sights on the loss of the C-130 when it crashed on landing and the crew almost captured by the Janjaweed. That had led her to Staff Sergeant Louise Colvin who she had grilled for over an hour. Again, nothing. An idea came to her and she almost smiled. It was so simple and had been out there all the time. “Thank you, Sergeant Colvin. I believe we’ve covered everything.” She closed her notebook. “That will be all.”

  Louise Colvin stood, relieved that the interview was over. It was the first time she had ever spoken to a general, much less been subject to an intense questioning
by any officer. She hoped her nervousness wasn’t too obvious. “Yes, ma’am.” She turned to leave.

  “Oh,” Richards said, stopping her. “One last thing.” The tone of her voice changed, much friendlier. “Do you go by Louise?”

  “I prefer Lou, ma’am.”

  “Lou, is it difficult being the only female loadmaster here, among so many men?”

  The young woman brightened. “Oh, no. Not at all. I do my job. That’s what counts.”

  “So no one has made, ah, improper advances? Of a sexual nature? No higher ranking NCO or an officer?”

  “No ma’am. Colonel Allston would” — she searched for the right words — “cut their balls off if they did.”

  That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “Really? He said that?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. He’d never say that. But he’d do it.”

  Richards’ lips disappeared in a straight line. “You may go.” She watched the young sergeant make her escape. The general ran her mental abacus, adding up all she had learned about Allston. The one over-arching constant in every interview had been the high regard for Allston, which in a few cases, amounted to hero worship. A change in tactics was called for.

  ~~~

  It was late in the evening when Richards entered the mess tent. The food line was still open and a savory aroma drifted over her. She was suddenly hungry and joined the queue. Laughter and cheering echoed from the far end of the tent that served as a small lounge. She looked around. Everything seemed so normal with none of the signs of stress and depression she expected. “Ma’am,” one of the cooks said, catching her attention. “Did you hear that we made the news in the States yesterday?”

  “No I haven’t. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

  “It was all over the TV,” the cook said. “They’re running it again in about an hour. That’s what all the noise is about. Everyone wants to see it.”