The Peacemakers (16 page)

Malakal

“It’s unusually cool this morning,” Allston said as he joined Dick Lane and Susan Malaby on the ramp as a C-17 taxied in.

“Right,” Lane agreed. “It must be all of eighty. Down right tolerable. Won’t even break a sweat today.” The two men laughed.

Malaby didn’t join in and was all business. “The C-17 wasn’t on the schedule.”

“Indeed,” Allston replied. I’m hoping Major Sharp is on board.” They hadn’t heard from the Intelligence officer in four days and he was worried. The thought of what could happen to a pretty redhead running around Africa alone was very disturbing. The C-17 swung around and came to a halt, its nose to the runway. The engines did not stop as a loadmaster jumped off the ramp under the tail. He motioned and twelve Security Policemen deplaned as a loader arrived from the hangar. Six pallets quickly rolled off the C-17 as an Irregular signed the manifest. The loadmaster climbed back on board and the ramp came up. Within moments, the big cargo aircraft taxied out and turned onto the runway. The three officers watched as it took off. “That was quick,” Allston said. The big airlifter had been on the ground less than ten minutes.

“And no Major Sharp,” Lane said. “We’re gonna have to go find her, Boss.”

“I was afraid of that. Any suggestions who we send?”

“G.G. speaks Arabic,” Lane said. “He talks to the locals all the time. We could always use a little muscle. Maybe Colonel Vermullen could lend us some of his.”

“I’ll ask him,” Allston replied. He turned to Malaby. “Lay on a C-130, ASAP.” She spoke into her personal communicator, making it happen. “Dick,” Allston continued, “I’d like you to honcho it. Bard Green in your right seat.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Lane replied. Allston liked what he heard and he was getting the responses he wanted.

One of the passengers from the C-17 marched up. He was a big and young-looking security cop. He snapped a sharp salute and introduced himself – Master Sergeant Jerry Malone from Dover Air Force Base, Delaware. Allston returned the salute. “Welcome to Bumfuck South,” Allston said. “Please tell your men we don’t salute in the open. Don’t want someone taking pot shots.”

“Will do, sir. You don’t happen to have a Staff Sergeant Loni Williams here?”

“We do. You know him?”

“In a manner of speaking. We babysat him when he was in our confinement facility.”

“What was he locked up for?” Lane asked.

“Barroom brawl. The Air Force dropped the charges and we released him. A few days later, the Dover police produced a warrant for his arrest for striking a cop. But he was over here by then. We’re still scratching our heads over how he did that.”

“Well, Sergeant Malone,” Allston said, “I’d like to keep him here for awhile.” Malone didn’t understand. “He’s useful,” Allston explained.

“We got a couple of more just like him on ice back at Dover.”

“I can use ‘em,” Allston replied. As a commander, he had learned a very inconvenient truth. When things got rough, the best men for the job were often in the slammer.

“Can I take Williams along?” Lane asked.

“You got him,” Allston said. He turned to Malone. “Is there anything else, Sergeant?”

“I need someone to sign for two-hundred side arms.”

“Sign for what?” Malaby blurted.

“For two-hundred Colt .45 semi-automatic pistols with holsters, belts, and ammunition,” Malone replied. “As requested.”

“Is that the Colt they call the Peacemaker?” Lane asked.

“No, sir,” Malone answered. “That was the old Colt .45 six-shooter, sometimes called the Single Action Army. These are the Colt 1911A, forty-five caliber, semi–automatics. These puppies may be old but they’ve got stopping power. You either love ‘em or hate ‘em, depending on which end of the barrel you’re looking down.”

“Better to be the peacemaker than the target,” Allston added. “Sergeant Malone, get everyone trained and issue them a weapon.”

“Colonel,” Malaby protested, “someone will shoot their foot off.”

“Not after I train them,” Malone promised.

Abyei

BermaNur reined his horse to a halt slightly behind Jahel at the top of a low ridge overlooking the village a mile to the west. The teenager imitated Jahel as he leaned on his saddle’s pommel to wait. A few minutes later, Jahel straightened up and pointed to the north. “There.” Three helicopters hugged the ground as they over flew the horsemen and converged on the village. The Janjaweed tensed as the three Russian-built MI-24 attack helicopters bore down on their target in a vee formation. Jahel turned to BermaNur. “Is your family still there?”

“No, sire. They left with most of the others.” He failed to mention that his mother and sister had flown out on a C-130 with the UN refugee workers the day before. A trail of smoke reached out from the helicopters as they emptied their rocket pods into the village. A series of explosions echoed over the horsemen as the rocket barrage tore the huts apart, killing and maiming the tribesmen who had not escaped.

The helicopters circled to reposition for a strafing run. Jahel sneered at the ugly machines as the burring sound of their 12.7mm Gatling guns split the morning air. “They have no honor, but we are no match for their guns and rockets.”

“But sire,” BermaNur protested, “they are only killing vermin.”

“To have honor, you must face your enemy and look him in the eye when you kill him. There is no honor in this.” He watched dispassionately as the helicopters made repeated passes over the big village, leveling it with high explosive rounds. When there was nothing left to shoot at, they circled over the empty refugee camp and raked it with gunfire. On command, they disengaged and settled to the ground. Jahel reined his horse around and cantered towards the waiting machines. BermaNur followed behind.

Major Hamid Waleed climbed out of the lead helicopter and shoved his thumbs in his web pistol belt as he struck a pose. Rivulets of sweat coursed down his cheeks from under his aviator sunglasses and sweat strains spread across his tight uniform shirt. He stared at two Baggara as they approached. Jahel reined to a halt, but did not dismount. It was the first time the two men had met and they stared at each other, each taking the others measure. Jahel leaned across his pommel. “Salem.”

“And you are?” Waleed demanded in Arabic.

Jahel came erect with a dignity beyond Waleed. “I am Sheikh Amal Jahel of the Rizeigat. I am a cavalier of the Fursan and lead the Janjaweed.” He smiled as if he couldn’t be bothered with Waleed’s credentials. “How may I be of service?”

Waleed caught the implied insult. “And I am Major Hamid Waleed of the Army of the Sudan” – his right hand swept the helicopters – “and commander of these falcons. We finish what you cannot.”

Jahel’s Arabic was not good enough to continue the verbal sparring. “We are not armed to fight the French legionnaires, and we cannot move as swiftly as the Americans.”

“What is your problem?” Waleed replied.

“Because of the Americans, the legionnaires ride the wind. If we are to be your sword and cleanse this land, you must control these infidels.”

Waleed smiled. “The Americans will be punished. Their leaders have no stomach for a fight and they will leave. Without their airplanes, the French will not be able to reach out to harm you.”

“
Insh’ Allah
,” Jahel replied.

Waleed pulled a folded chart out of his hip pocket. “It is truly as God wills,” he said, unfolding the chart. He pointed to a village one hundred miles to the south. “Can you be there in two days?” Jahel nodded and Waleed smiled. “We will be waiting for you.”

“
Insh’ Allah
,” Jahel said. “Be careful, commander of falcons. These infidels know how to fight.” He reined his horse around and headed to the south.

Malakal

A volley of small-arms fire echoed from the makeshift firing range the security cops had built on the far side of the compound and woke Allston. He turned over and tried to go back to sleep. Another volley echoed outside his tent-trailer. Automatically, he checked his watch. It was 6:30 Sunday morning and he had slept in. He sat on the edge of his bunk and slowly came to life. What was he going to do about Jill Sharp? Dick Lane had returned empty-handed, and she was still missing after ten days. As best Lane could learn, Jill had interviewed the UN Head of Mission in Addis Ababa about the rescue of the Legionnaires at Wer Ping, and then taken off for Djibouti where she had contacted the US Air Force detachment operating from the airfield. From there, she had disappeared. Where the hell are you? Allston raged to himself.

A knock at his door brought him to his feet. “Colonel!” it was G.G. “A UN supply truck just rolled in with Major Sharp.”

That particular problem went up in smoke only to be replaced with a simmering anger. “Where is she?”

“Waiting in Ops.”

“On my way.” He quickly dressed and pulled on his boots as his anger flared. G.G. was waiting for him outside. Together, they headed for the hangar offices as another volley echoed from the firing range. He noticed that G.G. was wearing a web belt with a holstered .45 automatic and an ammunition pouch. “I see you qualified.”

G.G. shifted the weight of the .45 further back on his hip. “Yep” was all he said as he tilted his bush hat forward. He wore the hat and sidearm with pride.

The woman waiting for him was a far cry from the neat and impeccably uniformed officer he had last seen. Her ABUs and boots were filthy, her hair grimy and matted down, her fingernails broken, knuckles scraped, and a vicious bruise on her right cheek. Only her face and hands were clean. She drew herself to attention and braced for a reprimand. “You’ve been through the wringer,” Allston said, fighting the urge to shout. “What in hell happened?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, “I need five hundred dollars.”

Allston exhaled, his relief obvious. “My second wife always opened a conversation like that.”

“I need to pay off the truck driver. I had to bribe him to get here.”

“You really need a bath, Major. You’re way past your expiration date.” She didn’t reply. “One question. You came in on a UN truck, right?” She nodded. “So why do you have to bribe the driver?”

“Because his load was never meant to get here.” She smiled at the confused look on Allston’s face. “Corruption. By the way, that was two questions. Bath time. Please take care of my driver.”

Allston watched her leave. “Please take care of my driver,” he groused. But for some reason, he didn’t really mind. “G.G. go hit up the APO for five hundred, my account.” The postal clerk was also the unit’s paymaster and informal bank.

“Colonel,” Jill said, “I need to get my report off soonest. It’s way overdue.” A much different Jill stood in front of Allston and Vermullen. She was dead tired but squeaky clean and fresh in a clean set of ABUs. Her hair glowed, framing her face, and her blue eyes were clear. Allston was stunned, for in her own unique way, she was beautiful. He got a grip and chalked his reaction up to the ‘only woman available’ syndrome. Jill plugged her computer into the detachment’s system and the report was on the wires within seconds. “That’s going to stir up a hornet’s nest,” she said. An explanation was in order. She typed a command into her computer and spun it around for Allston to read the report.