The Peacemakers

by Richard Herman

  The reporter asked about the French peacekeepers. Footage of the legionnaires came on the screen as Tara did a voice over. “There are only two hundred of them. They are led by Colonel Pierre Vermullen of the French Foreign Legion. This is the tenth time he has been on a peacekeeping mission in Africa and he’s a legend in this part of the world.” A scene of the legionnaires parachuting out of a C-130 played on the screen. “The C-130s give the Legion the mobility it needs to be an effective force and Colonel Vermullen always leads the way.” A clip of Vermullen with his men played without comment. From the shouting, it was obvious how the legionnaires felt about their commander. “His men would follow him through the gates of hell and most of them say he will ask.” She checked her watch. “Sunday evening is my favorite time of the week.” She gave him a radiant smile. “Have you ever been to a church service here?”

  The screen faded to an announcer in New York. “Our final segment,” she said, “is a first for Sixty Minutes. When we return, we will be live from Mission Awana in the Republic of South Sudan.”

  Fitzgerald hit the mute button as the commercials came on. “Now it gets interesting,” he told his wife.

  Mission Awana

  A reluctant Allston made his way to the rustic amphitheater on the side of a low hill facing north. He found a place on the rough plank benches as a soft evening breeze broke the heat of the day. He spoke to the family next to him and they shared their dinner of bread, cooked vegetables, and a cool drink of herb tea. More families wandered in and found places under the canopy of fronds and tree branches as they unpacked their dinners. Their numbers kept growing and Allston estimated the size of the crowd at over a thousand. Many of them were recently arrived refugees and everyone was talking, laughing and eating. A trickle of Irregulars wandered in and found places on the benches. They pushed their hats back, letting them hang on their backs. Soon, more arrived. “It is nice when you join us,” the mother of the family said in heavily accented English.

  Allston smiled in answer. “When does it start?”

  “When the time is right,” she replied. “We’re on African time here. Be patient.” A song leader stepped to the front and started to sing. One by one, the families stopped eating and joined in, repeating his words. Soon, all were singing and they were a congregation. The woman motioned to the TV camera set off to one side. Tara was there with the reporter. Tara scanned the crowd and waved at them.

  Allston was transfixed. “It’s beautiful. I wish I understood the words.”

  “It’s a local dialect,” the woman explained. She translated, “We give thanks, Oh Lord, we give thanks. We give thanks for our food, we give thanks for each other.” A lone man sang out and, again, she translated. “I give thanks for tomorrow.” The congregation repeated it and another man gave his personal thanks. Again, the congregation sang back. The song continued for almost ten minutes before it died away and the families went back to their dinners.

  “I wonder who wrote it?” Allston asked.

  “No one,” the woman answered. “That’s the way we sing.” Another song leader stepped forward and began to sing. Again, the people joined in. “We’re singing about our families.” The congregation continued to sing until the night wrapped them in safety, temporarily hiding the death and destruction that marked their lives. A rare calm captured Allston, and, for a moment, he was at peace with himself. The TV camera’s bright Video Lights came on and every head turned as the camera panned the audience. They were live for the world.

  Air House

  Fitzgerald and his wife sat transfixed by the scene on the TV. “Their voices,” she said, “so beautiful. And look at their faces.”

  They listened and watched as Tara narrated. “That’s Dr. Tobias Person making his way to the front.” The camera followed Toby as he made his way down the hill, touching people as they extended their hands to him. He stood in front and spoke for a few moments in Nuer, then Dinka. He raised his right hand and chanted a few words of benediction. The congregation responded and the service was over.

  Tara walked over to a woman sitting nearby and picked up a three-year-old girl. The camera focused on the little girl’s face and her serious dark eyes. “This is NyaMai. It’s a pretty sounding name but can roughly be translated as ‘Daughter of War.’ Her right arm was shot off by the Janjaweed and her stomach ripped open. Because of the relief efforts of the 4440th, she survived.” The camera followed Tara as she carried the child through the crowd, finally finding Allston. “Colonel,” Tara called. “This is someone you need to meet.” She handed the child over to Allston.

  The little girl threw her left arm around Allston’s neck and buried her cheek next to his. She whispered the first words of English that she had learned into his ear, “Thank you.”

  Allston said nothing and only held the child, taking her into his heart.

  Tara smiled for the camera. “I hope you remember NyaMai. You met her the first day you were in the Sudan. It was in the village of Abyei when you and your crew delivered a load of food and medical supplies.” The camera zoomed back and framed the beautiful actress with Allston and the child.

  “You saved her life,” Tara said. She turned to the camera and it zoomed in on her face. “This little band of peacekeepers made up of a few Americans and French legionnaires, along with four old and worn-out C-130s, are making a difference in this devastated land. They are all we have sent to stop the killing and destruction. They alone are the conscience of the world.”

  The camera panned back over the watching Africans, capturing Allston as he held NyaMai. She looked at the camera with hope and confidence as if to announce “I am here.”

  “I’m Tara Scott and these are the people of South Sudan. They need our help.” The broadcast cut to the studio in New York.

  Fitzgerald’s wife held his hand. “John, you old softie. Don’t you try to hide those tears.”

  “What tears?” the general grumbled. The phone rang and he answered. It was the duty officer from Public Affairs. He nodded and smiled before breaking the connection. “Well, it seems we’ve got a celebrity in our midst. The media is doing cartwheels over Mad Dawg.” He stood and stretched. “I’ve got to go to work.” That was the man his wife knew.

  EIGHTEEN

  E-Ring

  T he two generals ambled down the corridor, making the short walk to the Secretary of Defense’s office. General Misner, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, tried to play it straight. “Fitz, I’m assuming you didn’t have a clue about Sixty Minutes yesterday.”

  Fitzgerald was absolutely honest. “I knew the general format but had no idea what Miss Scott would say.”

  “Well, I can tell you the Speaker of the House has egg all over his face and is pissed off something mightily. The President is not very happy, which means the Sec Def is even more unhappy. By the way, have you seen the morning news?” He answered his own question. “Thanks to Miss Scott and Sixty Minutes, you’d think we walk on water. Talk about an ‘atta boy.”

  “A thousand ‘atta boys,’” Fitzgerald cautioned, “are cancelled by one ‘ah shit,’ especially if it is a political ‘ah shit.’”

  “Not this time,” Misner replied. They reached the Secretary’s offices and were escorted into the small adjoining conference room. The head lawyer of the White House’s Office of Legal Counsel, OLC for short, the Speaker of the House’s chief of staff, and the Air Force’s Judge Advocate General, Major General Aaron Forney, were sitting in the conference room. Misner shot Fitzgerald a warning look. “I may have been wrong about the ‘atta boy.’” Silence ruled the room as the two generals sat down next to Forney and opposite the two men from across the river.

  The Secretary of Defense came through the door and sat at the head of the table. “Well, gentlemen,” he began, “it appears we have a problem. If I may summarize, the Speaker of the House claims we have lost control of the 4440th and have a loose cannon on our hands in the person of Lieutenant Colonel David Allston. The White House shar
es that concern. To that end, the Office of Legal Counsel is trying to determine exactly what laws Lieutenant Colonel Allston violated by participating in that unauthorized raid on Bentiu Thursday night.”

  The OLC lawyer jumped in. “At this point, you need to immediately recall Allston and place him under house arrest. That will keep him in our jurisdiction until you can bring charges for a court martial. Failing that, Justice will have to intervene.”

  “To the best of my knowledge,” Fitzgerald said, “Allston has not violated any article of the UCMJ, no order, nor any directive. In fact, he was following a specific order from the UN when he supported the French peacekeepers in the raid.” He handed Forney a single sheet of paper. “Colonel Allston was given this standing operations order by the United Nations Peacekeeping Mission the second day he was in Africa. That was on April eighth of this year.” The silence grew even heavier as Forney read the order.

  “If I may quote the relevant passage,” the JAG began, “‘You are hereby directed to respond to any request for support, to include airlift, by the peacekeeping contingent under the command of Colonel Pierre Vermullen, La Lègion Ètrangère. Further, any such request will be considered as a direct order by this Mission and will take priority over relief airlift.’” He passed the order to the Secretary of Defense. “It is a valid order, duly signed and dated, and it was transmitted, received, and understood.” The Secretary passed the order to the OLC lawyer and the Speaker’s man.

  They read it in silence. “General Fitzgerald,” the lawyer finally asked, “has this order been modified or rescinded since it was issued?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Why hasn’t my office seen this before?” the lawyer asked.

  “Colonel Allston notified my office the day after he received it,” Fitzgerald said. “At the time, I considered it clarification of his status with the UN. In short, it was an internal matter.”

  “May I add,” Misner said, “that the command and control of the 4440th was taken away from AFRICOM and placed under the UN Peacekeeping Mission, effectively removing us from the loop.” Every head turned to the Speaker’s chief of staff. The Speaker had been instrumental in making that happen.

  “That policy was driven by our lack of credibility with the UN,” the chief of staff replied. “It was a major step in improving our relations, not to mention legitimacy, with the rest of the world.”

  Misner was enjoying himself. “We are now living with the results of that decision. In our view, the UN issued that operations order as a deliberate slap at the US by placing the 4440th under a French commander. Further, the UN put every peacekeeper at serious risk by ordering the French to turn over their Stinger and Shipon missiles to the Sudanese Army. The peacekeepers were justified in believing that the Sudanese Army could not, or would not, properly secure them and would give them to the Janjaweed. We concur in that assessment.”

  The lawyer from the OLC had one last gambit to play. “That does not absolve Allston from following an illegal order. Either you arrest Allston or we will.” The Speaker’s man nodded in agreement.

  Now it was the JAG’s turn. He leaned forward, folded his hands, and fixed the two men with the look he reserved for lecturing incompetent lawyers on obvious points of the law. “Command and control is like sovereignty, you either have it or you don’t, and it cannot be divided. You cannot expect Colonel Allston to serve two masters. Further, if you wish to bring charges against Colonel Allston, you will have to do so through his chain of command, which means you must first indict the French peacekeepers. We do not have the jurisdiction to do that. Further, it appears that the French were simply retrieving weapons stolen from them. If it is all the same to you, we would prefer to represent Colonel Allston in this matter.” He played his trump card. “Of course, Tara Scott will be one of our witnesses.”

  “Perhaps you would be interested in this,” Fitzgerald said. He handed them a thin folder. “Here are the current airlift stats. In the last twenty-four hours, the 4440th has flown over fifteen hundred refugees to safety, along with nineteen UN relief workers who were stranded and under attack by the Janjaweed.” He let the political implications sink in. “Further, our intelligence confirms that a large scale genocide is underway and fifteen hundred is a small fraction of what the Janjaweed and Army of the Sudan have killed in the last few days. The situation has deteriorated to the point that we’re flying with armed legionnaires on each sortie.”

  The lawyer stood. “We will advise the President and the Speaker.” The meeting was over.

  The two generals walked in thoughtful silence back to their offices. Misner motioned for Fitzgerald to join him in private. “We drove a stake in their hearts on that one,” Misner said.

  “You can kill ’em but you can’t kill ’em dead,” Fitzgerald said. “Hal, how do you read the Administration on this?”

  “It all depends on how committed the President is to reconciling with the UN. He may decide to hang Allston out to dry to accomplish that.” A wry grin split his weather-beaten face. “He may nail our hides to the wall to make it a trifecta. But the political reality is how the public views the situation. Right now, the Speaker appears tone-deaf and the President looks like he’s isolated from the facts on the ground. Thanks to Tara Scott, we’re out in front on this one, at least for now.”

  “How deep a pile are we in?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “I don’t know,” Misner replied. “But your General Richards isn’t helping. You need to stomp on her.”

  “I’m waiting for the right moment. No need to piss off the Speaker twice in one day.”

  Al Ubayyid, North Kordofan, Sudan

  Jahel tried to relax into the helicopter’s leather-covered seat but wearing a ceremonial robe and holding the gold-plated AK-47 upright between his knees made it difficult. BermaNur sat in the seat opposite and twitched nervously, uncomfortable in his borrowed robe and panicked by his first ride in an aircraft. Jahel gave him a reassuring look. It was the Sheikh’s second time in a helicopter; Waleed had invited him for a ride in one of his MI-24s to interrogate a Fursan suspected of spying for the Americans. But the man had protested his innocence so the MI-24 landed with one less passenger. But this helicopter was totally beyond the MI-24, quieter, air-conditioned and much more comfortable. He knew the crew was Chinese, which did not surprise him, but not the make nor type of the aircraft, which was French. He glanced out the window as the pilot circled the capital of North Kordofan.

  A flight attendant wearing an exquisite headscarf that accentuated her eyes and beautiful face joined them. She spoke in Shuwa, the language of the Baggara, another mark of respect. “We will be landing soon. Would you like to circle the airfield first to announce your arrival?” Jahel swelled at the compliment and told her to make it happen.

  BermaNur could not contain his excitement as they flew over the airport on the southern end of the large town. He tried to count the tanks, artillery, armored personnel carriers, and trucks lined up for inspection. “There’s over a thousand men,” he said as their helicopter landed next to three MI-24 attack helicopters. The flight attendant opened the passenger door and bowed them out.

  Waleed was waiting for them in his dress uniform in the arid heat. He saluted the two Baggara and invited them to join him in the back of a small truck designed for review. Jahel handed BermaNur his AK-47 and climbed up the steps to the truck. Waleed stood beside him as they drove past the men and equipment on review and took the salute. They continued to the northern end of the airdrome where a complex of glistening white tents were surrounded by even more soldiers. The truck stopped in front of the largest tent and Waleed invited Jahel to enter while he waited outside. Inside, four Asian men, all in civilian clothes, were waiting with two Sudanese generals. Aides from both groups hovered in the background, ready to be of instant service. An interpreter stepped forward and made the introductions, his Suwa, Arabic, and Chinese faultless. He ended by escorting the men to a circle of divans and overstu
ffed chairs arranged on a priceless Persian rug. Jahel was given the seat of honor and BermaNur stood behind him, the AK-47 at the ready.

  Refreshments were served before the ranking Sudanese general stood and went through the formal opening statements. He turned the meeting over to the second general who stood beside a large computer-driven screen. “You are all aware of the attack on Bentiu by the French Legionnaires and their American lackeys. It will be avenged.” The civilians nodded in approval with hard looks, their faces frozen. The general turned to Jahel, “I will lead the forces you have seen outside.” A map came on the screen and he tapped the target, 265 miles to the south. “But we must cross the Al Bahr Al Abyad before it floods. Unfortunately, the floods will come early this year and we must move now. In order to be successful, we must hold the French in place. To that end, it falls to the Fursan of the Baggara to lead the attack and kill this man.” A photograph of Allston flashed on the screen.

  BermaNur snapped to attention as Jahel lifted his head and spoke. “The honor is mine.”

  Mission Awana

  Jill knocked on the door jam and motioned Marci Jenkins inside. Allston looked up, glad to see the two women had finally returned. They reported in with sharp salutes. “I hear I missed all the fun,” Marci said. Allston returned the salute and asked about G.G.’s funeral. “G.G.’s parents almost adopted me,” the captain said. “He was their only child and I cannot tell you how proud they are of him.”

  “I’ve recommended him for a Silver Star,” Allston said.

  Marci beamed at him. “His family will appreciate that. Mrs. Libby said they were thankful for the time they had together. She wished it was more, but it was enough.” There were tears in her eyes.

  “The Libbys sound like wonderful people,” Jill offered.

  “They are,” Jenkins said.