The Peacemakers

by Richard Herman

  The Secretary had seen Tara Scott’s TV special, and understood the power of the media and what it could do in the upcoming election. He ground the cigar into an ashtray and stood. The meeting was over. “Allston stays… for now.” The two generals came to their feet but the Secretary wasn’t quite finished. “Fitz, I want your resignation on my desk today. Don’t date it.” Fitzgerald was living on borrowed time.

  The two men walked in silence back to their offices. “How much longer do I have?” Fitzgerald finally asked.

  “He’s bluffing,” Misner answered. “He called you Fitz. They just want you to toe the party line.”

  “I will as soon as my people are out of harm’s way.”

  FOURTEEN

  Mission Awana

  The three men were gathered around Allston’s laptop studying the satellite images of Bentiu. The photos were recent and sharp, detailing signs of recent construction, and the large number of cars and trucks left little doubt it was a boomtown. “This is good stuff,” Dick Lane conceded. “I can’t believe it’s in the public domain.” Both Allston and Vermullen agreed with him. The quality of the images was superb, good enough for targeting. “Did Jill know the location of the ammo dump?” Lane asked.

  Allston shook his head. “The truck driver just told her it was at Bentiu. She said there’s an Army garrison there along with quite a few Chinese soldiers posing as security guards and construction workers.” He was frustrated and wanted a threat assessment; unfortunately, he could only make a few assumptions, none of which had a high level of confidence. “I’m guessing the ammo dump will be isolated and near a runway.” Allston clicked on the zoom slider and zoomed out. He followed the main road leading north out of town to the Bahr el Ghazal, a tributary of the White Nile, where a bridge led onto a wide riverbed. From the bridge, the road crossed the riverbed to a second bridge that spanned the main channel. “It’s at low stage but there’s still plenty of water in the river.” He pointed to the second bridge. “That’s a choke point.” He finally found the runway and an airport a mile north. “Tallyho the fox.”

  Vermullen pointed to a road that led from the airport to a rectangular-shaped compound west of the runway. “There. At the end of the road.”

  “Damn,” Allston muttered. “Where’s Jill when we need her?” Her quiet competence was a rock he depended on. He moved the cursor over the compound and measured the distance to the airport. “Three quarters of a mile.” He zoomed in on the compound. “Okay, assuming that’s the place, what are we looking for?” He hit the print button and the printer spat out a glossy color print.

  Vermullen studied the printout and circled the two shacks at the entrance. “Guard posts, one on each side of the gate.” He circled two big buildings. “These barracks are company-size. Up to 150 men could be billeted there.” He pointed to three buildings separated by earthen berms on the other side of the compound. “These are weapons storage bunkers.”

  Lane voiced what they were all thinking. “But are the missiles there?”

  Vermullen gave a classic French shrug — shoulders hunched forward, his lower lip pushed out, eyebrows arched, head cocked to the right, hands raised — “Who knows?”

  “That’s reassuring,” Lane groused. “We need to ask someone.”

  “Yeah,” Allston replied, “but who? Jill could backdoor her sources and get an answer, but all we can do is query Intelligence at AFRICOM. That would send a signal, and if they’ve got anyone worth their paycheck like Jill, they’ll figure out what we’re doing in a heartbeat. We don’t need some staff weenie ratting us out so a general can tell us no.”

  “I can tap the jungle telegraph,” Vermullen said.

  “You can do that?” Allston asked.

  “Certainly,” the big Frenchman replied. “We are, as you Americans are fond of saying, wired in. It can be a good source of intelligence, but you must know how to listen. Your Major Sharp also listens to it.”

  “She never told me,” Allston said. How long has she been talking to the French? he wondered. Then it hit him. Who else was she talking to?

  “Would you have believed what she heard?” Vermullen asked.

  “Probably not,” Allston replied. “Okay, assuming the compound is our objective, how do we hit the puppy?”

  “We will need trucks,” Vermullen answered. “And a diversion.” He mulled over the possibilities as his right index finger tapped the photo. His adrenaline started to flow and he smiled, his finger resting on the bridge between the airport and the town.

  E-Ring

  Jill sat at the far end of the first row of seats in the small auditorium as Richards started her briefing to the air staff. She gave the general high marks not only for her appearance and the cut of her uniform — both were Madison Avenue quality — but for her skills as a briefer. Jill was honest and admitted to herself that the general simply excelled at whatever she did. She studied the men in the audience and wondered if they were more interested in what the general had to say or her legs. A brief image of Richards and Allston in bed flashed in her mind, which she quickly squashed.

  “The details of the crash at the refugee camp near Wer Ping,” Richards said, “that resulted in the loss of the C-130 are in Appendix B of my report. As no Accident Investigation Board was convened, I relied on the testimony of the aircrews and concluded that the most probable cause of the crash was asymmetrical thrust when the propellers were reversed on landing.” She recreated the aftermath of the crash and the attack on the crew. Again, Jill had to admire her for the accuracy and brevity of her report. The image on the big screen cycled and the ramp at Malakal came into sharp focus. It was the opening shot of the video of the hostage crisis involving Marci Jenkins’s C-130. “I had just arrived at Malakal and witnessed the massacre of twenty-nine Dinka by ten Janjaweed who had slipped on board an evacuation flight.”

  Jill sat upright. What was going on? Richards knew the killers were a Sudanese Army death squad and not Janjaweed. The video, recorded by Tara Scott’s cameraman, gave full play to the actress and Richards. It looked like they were in the thick of the battle and G.G.’s death was barely mentioned. Jill’s anger flared when she realized what Richards was implying; Allston had made the situation worse by over-reacting to a bunch of inept thugs. It was clever and indirect, never stated, but there for all to see. “In the end,” Richards said, “the Janjaweed were summarily executed.”

  Jill’s mind raced. Everything shown on the screen was accurate but carefully edited to give it an entirely different spin. The reaction of the men in the front row indicated Richards had made her point. Jill had to set the record straight. But how? The highest-ranking officer present was the three-star Deputy Chief of Staff for Manpower and Personnel, and she didn’t have access to Fitzgerald. She couldn’t barge into his office and say, “Excuse me, sir, but one of your generals is lying through her teeth.” She flipped open her laptop computer and called up her briefing. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, changing her presentation. She finished just as Richards reached a conclusion. “After witnessing and investigating this incident, I was forced to conclude that the 4440th over-reacted to the Janjaweed to the detriment of its mission. Are there any questions?” Grudgingly, Jill gave her high marks for the way she fielded every question, never straying from the charge that Allston had made the situation worse by his actions.

  It was Jill’s turn but before she could take the podium a voice called out, “Room, ten — HUT!” The audience came to its feet as Misner and Fitzgerald entered the briefing room.

  “Please be seated,” Misner said.

  Jill stepped to the podium as Richards sent her a warning look. The intelligence officer couldn’t believe the sudden turn of events. What had drawn the two generals to the briefing? The lanky three-star who headed Manpower and Personnel deliberately held his personal communicator in full view as he turned it off. “Welcome back, Major Sharp,” Fitzgerald said. “What do you have for us?”

  “Sir, the situation in th
e Sudan is chaotic at best and rapidly deteriorating.” She clicked the remote control and a chart appeared on the screen showing the locations of the UN refugee camps and the boundaries of the oil concessions. “The mission of the 4440th is to deliver relief supplies to these camps. Ninety percent of the camps are located in the oil concessions.” Click. The camps that had been attacked burst into flames. “Every camp that has been attacked is in an oil concession.” Click. An image of a destroyed village filled the screen. “Based on the attack on Abyei, we are now certain the Janjaweed and the Sudanese Army have integrated their actions in order to drive the Dinka and Nuer from the oil concessions. Further, the Janjaweed are operating in much larger numbers. We go where the refugees are. Unfortunately, so does the Sudanese Army and the Janjaweed.”

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

  The briefing was going where Jill wanted. “Sir, I consider myself an Irregular.” Click. A photo of the 4440th at work on the parking ramp with the sign that announced ‘Bumfuck South’ visible in the background cycled onto the screen. Click. “This table lists the tonnage of relief supplies delivered by date and place.”

  General Misner scanned the numbers. He was not impressed. “Is this all?”

  “We’re delivering what we receive. Based on what I witnessed, I estimate eighty to ninety percent of all relief supplies are stolen en route from the port of Djibouti.”

  Misner was angry. “What’s the UN doing about it?”

  “Nothing, sir. But I can only speak to the problem in Addis Ababa.”

  “That’s a serious charge,” Richards said. “Any proof?”

  “I bribed my way onto a convoy of fourteen trucks carrying supplies from the port at Djibouti to Malakal. Only one of the trucks made it.” Click. A video of the convoy and Jill interviewing three truck drivers in Swahili played on the screen. She translated for the audience as the drivers laughingly related how they pilfered their loads while diverting them to black marketers. A second video played, this one of Jill interviewing a disgusted warehouse manager in Djibouti. This conversation was in French, and, again, Jill translated for the audience. “‘You Americans are so stupid. This is nothing but another Oil for Food scam like in Iraq. Nothing changes with the United Nations. People starve while you make three men rich.’”

  “What three men?” Misner asked.

  Jill’s tone was matter-of-fact. “The three commissioners heading the relief mission in Addis Ababa.” Click. Photos of three opulent mansions sequenced across the screen. “These are their homes in Addis Ababa.” Click. A photo of a well-dressed African walking into a hotel with a beautiful woman appeared. “The Head of Mission and his receptionist in the Hilton Hotel in Addis Ababa. Their affair is an open secret in Addis Ababa, and many Africans admire him for his corruption and many mistresses.”

  Richards started to question her but thought better of it. The videos and Jill’s multilingual abilities had established her bona fides. The Intelligence officer had not contradicted Richards, but focused attention on the bigger picture.

  “Besides the corruption, what else are we dealing with?” Misner asked.

  “As you know, the UN ordered the French peacekeepers to turn over their heavy weapons to the Sudanese Army. Those weapons included Stinger and Shipon missiles, which pose a significant threat to both our C-130s and the French if given to the Janjaweed. We are worried the Sudanese Army cannot, or will not, properly secure and control them.”

  Every person in the room understood how dangerous the missiles would be in the wrong hands, and what that meant for the peacekeepers. “Will we have to withdraw?” Misner asked.

  Click. A photo of Vermullen and six of his legionnaires in full gear filled the screen. “The Irregulars and French Peacekeepers have formed an effective team. Without the C-130s for rapid response, mobility and supply, the French will also have to withdraw, most likely to Ethiopia. The result will be a bloodbath for the Dinka and Nuer caught in the refugee camps.”

  “When the 4440th evacuated Malakal,” Fitzgerald asked, “why did they move to Mission Awana, twenty-some miles away?”

  “First, Mission Awana is in a no man’s land between the Republic of the Sudan and the Republic of South Sudan. It is on the southern side of the White Nile, which the Jubans claim is the boundary, but the Sudanese claim it is in the Sudan. Second, Khartoum has benefited from the lack of public attention. As the mission has a high profile in the world’s media, any attack on the mission would make instantaneous news with far-reaching consequences. It is a firebreak the Sudanese will hesitate to cross. Also, the mission provides us a good base to continue relief operations.”

  “The 4440th stays at the mission,” Misner said. “For now.”

  “Thank you, Major Sharp,” Fitzgerald said. “Please stay on top of the situation. Again, welcome back. I’m looking forward to your morning briefings.” The two generals stood. The briefing was over.

  Jill threw caution to the wind. “Sir, I would prefer to return to my unit.” Her simple statement stopped Fitzgerald in his tracks, and everyone in the room froze. She had violated protocol and stepped over the line. Fitzgerald turned and fixed her with a hard look. “They’re my buddies,” she said, her eyes pleading with him.

  Fitzgerald’s opinion of Major Gillian Sharp went over the moon. “Go. File a daily update.”

  ~~~

  Fitzgerald sat at his desk, his fingers slowly moving over the keyboard. He stopped occasionally, reread the e-mail, and made corrections before continuing. Finally, he was finished.

  Our girl did good today. She is on the way back to you. Richards is still a problem, and definitely has the ear of the Speaker of the. House. God only knows where the Administration is on this. Relocating to Mission Awana was a good move. You and the Legion are all that is keeping Khartoum and Janjaweed in check. The French are leading a coalition supporting South Sudan. Their goal is to make Juba a viable counter to stop Sudanese expansion. They believe that is the only way to stop the genocide and stabilize that part of Africa. You’ve got to hold on until that happens.Unfortunately, the loss of the missiles to the SA may make your position untenable. Further, the 4440th may become a political hot potato come the November elections. All bets are off if that happens.

  The general reread the message one last time, hit the encrypt button, and sent it out. He kicked back in his chair, disgusted with the situation. A ragtag group of C-130s and legionnaires was all that was sparing the world of another round of genocide, and he was a co-conspirator in a game of nation building. He hadn’t joined up for that and had enough pressing matters just running the Air Force to fill his days. For a moment he considered resigning, but just as quickly, dropped it. That wasn’t the way he played the game, but he would if he had no other choice.

  Mission Awana

  Allston sipped at his water bottle in a vain attempt to drown the butterflies fluttering in the lower regions of his abdomen. When that failed, he reread the message for the third time, hoping it would be a distraction. There was no doubt that Fitzgerald wanted him to continue operations as long as he could, but it didn’t help with the butterflies. He hit the ‘secure delete’ button. His laptop whirred for a moment, forever shredding the message. What a shitty way to run a railroad, he thought. But he was pleased that Jill was returning. They needed the Intel officer. He checked his watch and locked the computer in his safe. It was time. He stepped outside, onto the veranda of the guesthouse. Tara Scott was sitting in a chaise lounge, enjoying the evening breeze. She gave him a dazzling smile that set another rabble of butterflies into action. “Hi there,” she said. Her hand reached out and touched his. Slowly, their fingers intertwined. “Can you stay a moment?”

  He smiled back. “I wish I could. Some business to take care of.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  He shook his head, lying. “Operations stuff. By the way, Jill’s coming back. Not sure when she’ll arrive.”

  “You know she’
s in love with you.”

  He laughed. “Sure she is. I’m her boss and she’s a good staff officer. That’s all.”

  “Seriously, she is.” Tara tilted her head and studied his reaction. She laughed, enchanting him. “Men! You are so thick at times.”

  Sergeant Loni Williams drove up in a battered pickup he had resurrected from oblivion. “It runs good,” he called. He waited for Allston to join him.

  Reluctantly, Allston pulled his hand free. He bent over and brushed her forehead with his lips. “I’ll be back.”

  ~~~

  Vermullen was dressed in civvies when he arrived at the two waiting C-130s. He got out of his Panhard P4 utility vehicle, pulled on a heavy jumpsuit, and strapped on a parachute harness while talking to his officers, Major Herbert Mercier and Captain Paul Bouchard. They were all in full battle dress and ready for an airdrop. “If anything goes wrong,” Vermullen said in French, “you will not wait for me. Is that understood?” The two men reluctantly agreed. “Good. What do the Americans say, mes amis? Let’s do it!” He laughed, enjoying the moment.

  Allston joined them. “We’re loading the last truck. I hope four is enough.”

  Vermullen assured him that four would do. “Where is Sergeant Williams?”

  Allston pulled a face. “On the other side of the plane, puking his guts out. He’s never jumped before.”

  Vermullen was worried. “Can he do it? He will be strapped to me.”

  “He’ll be okay.” Allston hoped it was true. Williams had eagerly volunteered for the mission, claiming that only he and Vermullen were the right color and spoke the right language. Vermullen was ready to go. “You sure about all this?” Allston asked.

  Vermullen shrugged. “One is never sure.”

  “Let’s do it,” Allston said. His butterflies were gone.

  FIFTEEN

  Bentiu, Unity, Sudan