“We’ve got a C-130 going to Addis tomorrow afternoon. I’ll get you on it. All things considered, it’s best you get out of here. I will miss you.”
“Not if your major has her way.”
“There’s nothing between us.”
“Really? You like her, but are too stubborn to admit it.” She pulled him to her. “Now say goodbye properly.”
~~~
The summons for Allston to report to Richards came late the next morning. At first, he considered ignoring it and pleading the press of other duties. On reflection, he realized that would be counterproductive, and he did need to speak to Jill about the countless administrative details that nibbled at a commander’s time and attention. It bothered him that it was barely six hours into the day and he already missed her. He made the short walk from the Ops Center to Toby’s office where the brigadier was conducting her investigation. Jill was waiting at the office door and ushered him in. She closed the door behind him and waited for the fireworks to start.
Allston reported in and stood in front of Toby’s desk while Richards thumbed through her notes. At her nod, Jill started a mini CD recorder and sat down to take notes. “Let’s begin,” Richards said. “You are aware of my authority to conduct this investigation into the torture of a prisoner of war.”
“Alleged torture of an illegal combatant,” Allston corrected. Jill dutifully continued to make notes.
Richards ignored his reply. “Major Sharp, please read Colonel Allston his right to remain silent under Article 31 of the UCMJ.” Jill did so while Allston continued to stand. “Colonel Allston,” Richards continued, “were you present at Mission Awana on early Thursday morning of last week?”
“With all due respect, ma’am,” Allston said, “I will be glad to answer your questions when my attorney is present to advise me.”
Richards’ fingers beat a tattoo on the desk. “Colonel, do you consider that answer worthy of a pro?”
Allston couldn’t help himself. “Ma’am, where I come from, a pro is a hooker.” Jill suppressed a laugh and turned away so Richards couldn’t see the expression on her face. Unfortunately, the general caught it. “Major Sharp, please note that I am reprimanding Colonel Allston for his flippant and disrespectful remarks to an investigating officer.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jill replied, dutifully recording the reprimand.
“This interview is terminated for now,” Richards continued. “Colonel Allston, there is a related matter we must discuss that concerns the well-being of your prisoner, BermaNur. With the aid of an interpreter provided by the Reverend Tobias Person, I have interviewed him in conjunction with this investigation. The prisoner is fearful of his life while in your custody. I am convinced that his fears are well-founded, and I am ordering you to turn him over to the United Nations Relief and Peacekeeping Mission, Southern Sudan.”
“With all due respect, ma’am,” Allston replied, “that would be a mistake. You are giving up custody of a witness.”
“So noted,” Richards replied. “However, the physical safety of the prisoner is paramount. You will do as ordered.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Allston replied. “Will there be anything else.” Richards told him no and that he was excused. “Ma’am, I need to speak to Major Sharp about some administrative details and other matters that do not concern your investigation.”
“You may, but only in my presence.”
Allston thanked her and huddled with Jill, going over some paperwork. Then, “Any progress on getting Waleed out of Malakal?”
“Colonel Vermullen’s working on it. I’ll talk to him today and get an update.”
Richards interrupted. “What are you up to now? You’re not authorized to engage in combat operations.”
Allston glanced at the CD recorder. It was still on. “With all due apologies, ma’am, this matter does not concern you.” He turned and left.
“We’ll see about that,” Richards muttered.
Outside, Allston checked his watch. He keyed his communicator and called Malone, telling him Richards had ordered them to turn the Janjaweed over to the UN, and that he wanted BermaNur on the C-130 that was leaving for Addis Abba in two hours.
“I can make that happen,” Malone replied, “but that’s dumber than dirt.”
“I know,” Allston said. “Let’s get him as far away from here as possible. Hell, I’d send him to the UN in New York if we had a plane going there.” Another thought came to him. “Send two escorts with the little bastard and record the turnover to the UN on video. I want it documented we delivered him healthy and in one piece.”
“Will do.” Malone understood the game of ‘cover your ass.’
Allston returned to his desk in the operations center and wrapped up a few minor matters. Finished, he spun around in his chair and checked the latest numbers posted on the boards that tracked the status of the 4440th. Because of the twenty-one Irregulars who flew out the day before, his unit strength was down to 140 people. Thanks to Malaby, all four of his C-130s were operational and flying over twenty sorties a day. But the big numbers were eighteen and 17,892. They had been evacuating every Nuer and Dinka they could find out of harms way and flying them into the mission for eighteen days. Unfortunately, the huge number of refugees had overwhelmed the mission’s ability to handle them. Toby was working with the rebels in Juba and moving them out as fast as possible by trucks and buses but the refugee camp was overflowing with humanity.
He wanted to fly the refugees to the main camps three hundred miles south but fuel was a problem as C-130s gulped fuel at over 600 gallons an hour. By keeping sorties short, they were able to rescue more tribesmen from certain genocide. His eyes moved down the status boards to the fuel remaining in the dump. He did the math. They had enough fuel for three days of operations. That reserve had stayed constant and he wondered where the major in charge of logistics was finding the fuel. He suspected the major had tapped into the flourishing black market. But that was a question he would not ask. What he didn’t know, he could ignore.
He studied the wall chart that Jill kept current. Every attack by the SA and Janjaweed was marked with a red flag and the date. The frequency of the attacks was increasing and coming their way. How much longer did they have before he had to evacuate the mission and find safety in Ethiopia or deep in rebel held territory? He mentally crunched all the variables, trying to predict the future. There was a high uncertainty but that day was not far off. So what could he do to delay it? If Vermullen could get Waleed out of Malakal, that might give him an extra week. And that meant seven to eight thousand more Africans saved. Could they hold on that long? How much more could he ask of his people? They were working eighteen to twenty hours a day in the stifling heat and dead tired. Still, if he read them right, their morale was high. He closed his eyes.
~~~
Someone was talking to him. Allston’s eyes snapped open. He was napping at his desk and Jill was standing in the doorway. “Colonel, we’ve got to hurry if you’re going to see the C-130 off.”
He came to his feet and grabbed his hat. “Thanks. Let’s go. I owe you one.”
She gave him the look he couldn’t read. “I’ll add it to the list.” She drove in silence, racing for the airstrip. In the distance, he heard the sounds of a C-130’s engines. Jill put her foot down and accelerated. They reached the ramp just as the C-130 started to move. Suddenly, it came to a halt. The crew entrance door flopped down and the loadmaster hopped off. He held his arms out, a barricade against the whirling props. Tara ran down the steps and towards him. She flew into his arms and held him tight.
“I was afraid I would miss you,” she said, yelling into his ear. She kissed him on the cheek and pulled back. “Take care.” Then she was gone, running for the Hercules.
Allston watched her climb on board. The loadmaster followed her and closed the hatch. Allston didn’t move as the Hercules taxied out. He turned, only to face Jill. “That was sweet,” she said.
“Was BermaNur on b
oard?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. With two armed escorts.”
“And Captain Jenkins?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
TWENTY-ONE
Mission Awana
A gentle breeze drifted over the three as they sat under a canopy and enjoyed the evening. The chirping insects softened the ever-present clamor of the nearby refugee camp, and were held at bay by the canopy’s netting. Hans Beck, the aging private who served as Vermullen’s valet and self-appointed bodyguard, stood back, tending a bottle of chilled wine and ready to be of instant service. A fragrant aroma from the dining tent announced that dinner was ready. Jill looked up from the wine glass cradled in her hands. “No music, Idi?”
“That can be remedied,” Vermullen assured her. He gestured at the private. “Hans.” Beck disappeared into the tent, and an Edith Piaff CD started to play in the background.
“Ah, gay Paris,” Allston offered, trying to do his part. “That’s nice,” he allowed. “Very Parisian. What is it?”
“It’s called Non je ne regrette rien,” Jill replied. “There is nothing I regret.” Vermullen gave a slow nod, impressed that she recognized the French classic. Jill’s eyes danced as Beck emerged from the tent carrying a loaded tray and served dinner. “It smells delicious. What is it?”
“Grilled gazelle with Private Beck’s special marinade,” Vermullen told her.
“A bit much for the Legion, ne c’est pas?” Allston ventured.
“Parlez-vous francais, monsieur?” Jill asked.
“That’s about it,” Allston confessed. He started to eat. “This is really good. Is this the new Legion?”
“The Legion is still the collection of misfits it always was,” Vermullen said. “They haven’t forgotten how to fight.” He didn’t tell the two Americans that he paid well for his private mess.
Allston changed the subject. “Major Sharp tells me you have some ideas on how to dispose of our village idiot, Waleed.”
Vermullen played with his food as he laid out his strategy and tactics. “Waleed is dangerous, but he is not the enemy I want to fight at this time, in this place.” He spoke in a monotone, the cool professional plying his trade, as he laid out his plan. The two Americans exchanged glances as Vermullen’s tone changed, becoming clipped and hard. The conflict between the French officer and the Sudanese major had become personal and Vermullen wanted Waleed dead. However, Vermullen knew he could accomplish more by settling for less.
“You really hate that bastard,” Allston said.
“Totally and absolutely. He is a disgrace to our profession. He is vermin.”
“I don’t hate the bastards,” Allston said. “I just want them to stop.”
“Only the world can make them do that,” Vermullen replied. “For that to happen, people need a face so they know who to hate. Only then will they take sides. Such is human nature.”
Jill ran Vermullen’s plan through her mental abacus, weighing the pros and cons. It was a skillful use of tactics with a political payoff, and a side of Vermullen she had not seen before. She was impressed. “Waleed could be that face, if we do it right.”
Allston was intrigued with the plan. “Will the good Reverend do his part?”
“Why not?” Jill replied. “He benefits if we can pull it off.”
Vermullen turned to Allston and asked the key question. “This may upset your masters in the Pentagon. Are you willing to take that chance?”
Allston gave them his best fighter pilot grin. “What the hell, they’re already pissed off. What are they gonna do? Send me to the Sudan? Besides we can top off our fuel tanks at Juba, which means we recover here with tanks three-quarters full.”
“I understand fuel is a problem,” Vermullen said.
Allston leaned forward and lowered his voice. “It’s a limiting factor. Even with Waleed gone, I’m not sure how much longer we can operate out of here. We need to think about evacuating.”
Vermullen didn’t answer as he pulled into himself. Finally, “We can cross that particular bridge later.”
Allston checked his watch. “Thanks for the dinner, Colonel. It was superb, as always. But tomorrow’s a long day.” He glanced at Jill. “Major?”
She shot an enquiring glance at Vermullen. “You go on,” she said. “I’ll catch a ride later.”
Allston came to his feet and ambled to his truck. How long has that been going on? he wondered. An image of the two in bed flashed in his mind’s eye. “Damn,” he muttered to himself. But he was brutally honest with himself. “And just what are you bitchin’ about?”
~~~
Jill sipped at her coffee and savored the early morning quiet. She had another hour before the sun split the horizon and the constant buzz of activity, punctuated by the occasional roar of a C-130 taking off or landing, that marked the mission’s life would return. The attentive Beck hovered in the background, ready to be of service. “Hans,” she called softly, raising her empty cup. He rushed over to fill the cup. “How long have you been with the Colonel?”
The rugged old German was slow to answer and fumbled with his English. “Since he was a sous-lieutenant new from St. Cyr.” St. Cyr was France’s West Point founded by Napoleon in 1802. “Even then, he could fight.”
“Is that why you stay with him?”
“For that, and other reasons.”
From the way he studied her, Jill sensed that he would cut her throat in a flash if she harmed or betrayed Vermullen. “Thank you, Hans.” Vermullen joined her at the table and a huge breakfast appeared as if by magic. She smiled at the way he attacked the omelet. “You are hungry.”
“It is your fault,” he replied. She fell silent and stared at her coffee. “What is troubling you?” he asked between mouthfuls.
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” she began, not sure she could explain the emotions tearing at her. He continued to eat, waiting for her to go on. “I don’t know why I’m acting like this.” She looked at him, pleading for understanding. “I am fond of you. But…”
“But your mother would not approve,” he said. “Neither would mine. But they have never faced the dangers we live with. When life hangs by a thread, when our very existence is in doubt and danger lurks in every shadow, Mother Nature commands us to procreate. We have no choice in the matter. We are genetically wired this way.” He laughed. “It is something you Americans do not understand. Don’t blame yourself, it is an ignorance in your culture.”
For a moment, Jill assumed he was being urbane and witty, and almost laughed. Then the truth of it all hit her like a revelation. “So that’s why Tara and…”
“I see,” Vermullen said, now understanding. “Your colonel and Tara Scott. She is a child of nature and reacts naturally. Your colonel was merely the best available.”
“Why does he do it? I mean, why does he, why do you, deliberately seek out danger?”
“Ah, this is not about sex.” He thought for a moment. “So why do we fight? It is hard to explain. It is a felt need, something we are driven to do, much like you have experienced, but very different. It is a testing. Every man, I don’t know about women, has a secret image of himself. In combat, that image is taken out and tested. Your colonel is the most fortunate of men. His secret image has been held up to the bright light of reality and it was all a normal man could hope for. He has seen himself for what he is. He is a leader, not a posturing egomaniac hungry for power. Because of what he is, men follow him.”
“And which are you?” she asked, “leader or egomaniac?”
Vermullen had come to terms with himself years before. “My case is different. I am a throw back to an earlier time. This is all I am. Just ask Hans here.”
“It is true, mademoiselle,” the old private replied. “He is the ancient warrior.”
Vermullen’s laughter split the morning quiet. “Nonsense, Hans. I am a misfit like all the rest of you.” He drained the last of his coffee. “Come. We have work to do if we are to wink Waleed out of Malakal.�
��
~~~
Richards’ fingers danced over the keyboard as she rushed to finish the report of investigation. Jill proofread each page as the general finished it, and her panic grew with each paragraph. Richards was an accomplished staff officer and marshaled her facts with stained-glass logic and a rare expertise, leaving little doubt that Allston was guilty of permitting a subordinate to torture a prisoner and then covering it up with his silence. Richards finished the last page and checked the time: it was just before noon. “Print it out.” Jill hit the print command and the printer whirred, spitting out the hundred-page report. Richards scanned it with a smug satisfaction. “Not bad, if I say so myself.” She watched as Jill bound it in a report cover. “I hope you learned something from all this,” Richards said.
Never trust a vindictive bitch? Jill thought. “I’m quite sure your Colonel Sutherland will be impressed.” She glanced at the wall clock. “A Dumbo is landing in twenty minutes.” She handed the report to the general. “Colonel Sutherland is on it.”
“I’ve never met the gentleman. I understand he’s famous for gaining convictions.” She enjoyed twisting the knife and watching Jill’s reaction. They walked out to Jill’s truck and headed for the airstrip. “I would have preferred that Colonel Sutherland served as trial counsel in a court-martial and not the investigating officer.”
“It appears you have done his work for him,” Jill said.
“That’s why I was sent ahead, to prevent a cover up.” They reached the airfield as a C-17 entered the landing pattern. “I’ll be glad to get out of here once and for all.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jill replied. They watched in silence as the big airlifter landed and taxied in.
Richards got out of the truck and waited for the aircraft to stop. “Stay here and keep the air conditioner running.” She walked towards the lone figure who deplaned. From her vantage point, Jill watched them as they talked and headed her way. The lawyer was slender, non-descript, and slightly hunched shouldered. Richards introduced them and they stood talking. There was something about his boyish features and the way he listened that made Jill trust him. Satisfied he had his bearings, Sutherland climbed into the truck. Richards handed him her report. “The investigation to date,” she announced.
The Peacemakers Page 27