The Peacemakers (4 page)

“You got good eyeballs,” Riley said. He was sitting between them and aft of the center console. He liked their new boss, but sensed that Captain Marci Jenkins was not a happy camper. She had worshipped their former commander, Lieutenant Colonel Anne McKenzie. Everyone had liked the popular McKenzie and had despaired at her death, especially Marci, and he understood why the captain would be reluctant to give her allegiance to any newcomer, much less a macho fighter pilot.

“I’ve got it,” Marci said, taking control of the aircraft. She still couldn’t see the airfield at Malakal, but she was the aircraft commander. “Before descent checklist,” she called. It was the copilot’s job to read the checklist and she wanted to see if Allston would stay in the right hand seat and play copilot. He did and started through the checklist.

The flight engineer realized Allston was reciting the checklist from memory. “Damn, Colonel, when did you do that?”

“Do what, Riley?” Allston replied.

“Memorize the checklist.”

“I reviewed the tech manual on the flight over. It all came back.”

“I’d prefer you to read the checklist,” Marci said, establishing her authority.

“You bet,” Allston said. He scrolled down the checklist. Then, “Captain, do you mind circling the area and pointing out the local landmarks?”

“Besides the river and the town, there’s not much,” she answered. “You’ll see it all during the approach.”

“What do you use for an I.P.?” The Initial Point was an easily identifiable geographical reference a few miles from the end of each runway that pilots used to enter the landing pattern.

“We don’t have one,” she replied. “We use the GPS. There’s no control tower.”

Allston made a mental note. He had some work to do. “Thanks for the stick time. I’ll give it back to Bard.” Allston crawled out of the copilot’s seat to let First Lieutenant Bard Green do his job, and strapped into the empty navigator’s seat. He made another mental note. He watched the crew as they entered the landing pattern and landed on Runway 23, to the southwest. The approach and landing were okay but nothing to write home about.

Malakal, South Sudan

Marci rolled out long. “The compound is at the southwestern end of the field,” she explained. Allston stood behind the copilot as they taxied to the end of the 6600-foot runway and turned off to the left into the parking area with a big hangar on the far side. “Let me be the first to welcome you to Malakal,” the loadmaster said over the intercom, “the garden spot of the Sudan, or South Sudan, or whatever.”

“Some garden,” Bard Green snorted. “Now we got the heat, a hundred to one-oh-five every day. But the humidity ain’t too bad, around thirty percent. Wait until August when the Nile floods and the humidity hits eighty-percent and the bugs come out. At least it cools down a little but it’s still not pleasant. Everyone wants to get the hell out of here.”

Allston listened to the crew complain as they taxied into the parking area. That in itself was not a bad thing, and he expected a lot of bitching and moaning. A single crew chief came out to meet them and motioned them to a corner of the square ramp. Allston automatically counted three other white C-130s parked in a ragged line with little semblance of order. “Where’s the fifth bird?” he asked. Marci said it was flying a relief mission and the three C-130s on the ground were down for maintenance. He made another mental note. He climbed off the flight deck as the loadmaster opened the crew entrance door, on the left side of the aircraft, immediately aft of the flight deck. Rather than deplane, Allston walked past the hatch and into the cargo compartment. It was filthy. He turned to the loadmaster, only to discover he was alone on the airplane. “What the hell?” he muttered.

He clambered down the crew entrance stairs and the heat hit him. A worried looking major wearing a sweat-stained flightsuit was waiting beside a battered pickup truck. He threw Allston a sloppy salute. “Welcome to Malakal, hell’s half acre. I’m Major Dick Lane, acting honcho and your Ops Officer.” The Operations Officer was a key member of any flying unit and Allston returned his salute.

He introduced himself and they shook hands. “Glad to meet you, Major. You look like a man carrying the weight of the world.”

Relief flooded over Lane as he unloaded his problems on his new commander. “Colonel, this place is falling apart and no one gives a damn. We got three birds down for lack of parts, and the UN changes the rules daily, make that hourly. We haven’t got a clue if we’re coming or going, and morale is in the dirt.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the hangar. “I’ve got an accident investigation team inside headed by a bird colonel who is chomping at the bit to get to the crash site. But I can’t get permission from the UN to fly them into Abyei. That’s the village near the crash site. We haven’t even recovered the bodies yet … this place really sucks.”

Allston took command. “Then let’s do something about it. First things first. Get this bird refueled, the accident investigation team ready to board, and a crew out here.” Another thought came to him. “And load a pallet of relief supplies, anything that’s handy. While that’s happening get all the crew chiefs and the Maintenance officer out here ASAP.”

“You’re gonna love Lieutenant Colonel Malaby,” Lane said. He keyed his hand-held communicator to make it happen while Allston walked around the three C-130s parked nearby. They were as dirty as the aircraft he flew in on. He didn’t even want to look inside. He paced the ramp and waited. Ten minutes later, eighteen airmen and sergeants managed to find their way out of the hangar and cluster under a wing taking advantage of the shade. But there was no Lieutenant Colonel Malaby. Allston checked his watch and walked over to the group. A sergeant called them to attention, turned and saluted.

Allston returned the salute. “At ease. This is a work area and we’re in less than friendly territory, so don’t salute. I don’t need someone taking a pot shot at me. He might be able to shoot and that would ruin my day.” He gave them his crooked grin and saw them relax. But they didn’t know what was coming. He spoke in a low voice, making them strain to listen. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel David Allston, your new boss.” He paused for effect. “I just got here and so far, I’m not impressed.” His tone was soft and friendly, his words were not. “And it’s your fault. Since you don’t know me, this is your lucky day and you get a second chance.” He motioned to the Hercules being refueled. “I’m taking that bird up for a few hours and when I get back, I expect to be impressed.”

He studied their body language. He hadn’t gotten through. “You’re crew chiefs and these are your birds.” His voice hardened, challenging them. “You own them, not the Department of Defense, not the Air Force, not me, not the Maintenance officer, not the flight crews. You! Line ‘em up and make this ramp look military. Then wash ‘em down and clean ‘em up. Hose out the cargo compartments. Make ‘em shine.” He let his words sink in. “They deserve better. A lot better.”

“Colonel,” a hesitant voice called, “how do we wash them down? There’s no water supply on the ramp and we need a pumper truck, which we ain’t got.”

“I saw a fire station with two trucks at the main terminal when we taxied in. One looked like a pumper to me. Use it.”

“Sir, they won’t let us use it. We …”

Allston cut the speaker off. “Start a fire. Then bribe ‘em after they get here. You’re in Africa, Sergeant.”

An African-American sergeant came to attention and boomed, “Yes, sir! We’ll make it happen.” A big smile spread across his face revealing a magnificent set of teeth. “Welcome to the Forty-four Fortieth, sir.”

“Your name, Sergeant.”

“Staff Sergeant Loni Williams.”

“Sergeant Williams, as of now you’re in charge of this detail. Make things happen.” Allston motioned the sergeant over, surprised by his muscular build. He was short and reminded him of a fireplug. “Please tell Colonel Malaby to be waiting when I get back,” he said in a low voice.

“Yes, sir,” Williams replied, his smile wider still. “She ain’t gonna like that. She thinks she should be the detachment commander.”

Allston arched an eyebrow. “Tough tacos, Sergeant.” He sensed he had an ally. “Hey, I could have said ‘tough shit.’” He spun around to check on the C-130. Refueling was complete and the pallet of relief supplies loaded. A very unhappy Captain Marci Jenkins and her crew were walking back out to the aircraft. He motioned her over for a quiet word.

“I’m taking the accident investigation team to Abyei and need your help.”

“Sir,” she said, “we can’t land anywhere but here without clearance from the UN. You’re asking me to violate our standing orders. I won’t do that.”

He nodded. “I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to be my copilot.”

“Sir, when was the last time you flew a Hercules?”

“About an hour ago. I had my last flight check five months ago, before I retired. It’s still good.”

“But you have to be checked out by an instructor pilot to be current, sir. And we don’t have an IP now.” McKenzie, the dead commander, had been the only instructor pilot in the detachment.

“You’ve just been upgraded to IP, Captain, and I’m your first check out.” Marci bit her lip, not sure what to do. “You’ll miss all the action,” he coaxed. She nodded, still chewing on her lip. “Great. Get the investigation team on board and let’s go have some fun.”

Abyei

“That’s the village,” Marci said from the right seat. “We normally land on the road on the southern side, about three-thousand feet of hard pack.” Allston leaned forward in the left seat and studied the area. He made a decision and called for the before landing checklist. “Sir,” Marci protested, “we don’t have clearance from the UN to land.”

“Right,” Allston replied. He turned to the flight engineer. “Riley, did you see the Door Warning light flash?”

“Sorry, sir. I missed it.”

“Right. But it’s a safety of flight item. We need to land and check it out.”

“At the nearest suitable field,” Marci cautioned, quoting from the flight manual.

“This one looks suitable to me,” Allston replied. “Before landing checklist.” Marci shook her head and read the checklist. Allston turned over the village at 2000 feet to announce their presence and saw smoke from cooking fires hanging in the air. There was no wind to worry about as they entered a short downwind to land on an easterly heading towards the refugee compound. Allston flew a classic short-field landing and planted the Hercules hard. He reversed the props while the nose was still in the air and rolled out in less than 1400 feet.

“Nice landing,” the flight engineer murmured. It had been years since he had seen an approach and landing that precise. Even the reluctant Marci was impressed.

They came to a halt as two white pickups from the village raced out to meet them. “That must be the welcoming committee,” Allston said.

“They’re UN relief workers,” Marci replied.

“Loadmaster,” Allston said over the intercom. “Tell the investigation team I’m going to arrange transportation to the crash site and they’ve got four hours to get back here. I will leave without them.” He grinned at Marci as he unbuckled. “That should get their attention. Okay folks, let’s go make it happen.”

“No way I’m gonna miss this,” the flight engineer said. The entire crew followed Allston outside to wait for the surprised relief workers to arrive. Within minutes, Allston convinced the four relief workers that they had made a precautionary landing to check out an unsafe condition, traded the pallet of supplies for use of their trucks, and sent the investigation team on their way to the crash site. “Four hours,” he yelled at them. “Let’s go look at the refugee camp,” he said to Marci.

Nothing in Allston’s experience had prepared him for what was waiting inside the compound walls. Dirty, gaunt-eyed children with swollen bellies sat in the dirt as flies swirled through the still, stifling, acrid air. Their eyes followed the Americans in silence. A mother nursed a dying infant, and Marci looked away, the only way she could handle it. Without a word, a relief worker led them to a makeshift hospital. “There’s not much we can do,” the woman explained. She bent over a three year-old child lying in a cot. Her right arm had been blown off by an AK-47 round and her stomach ripped open. “What you brought today will help and we might be able to save her.”

The little girl looked at him, her beautiful dark eyes calm, not begging, not pleading for help. She reached out with her left hand and held his right index finger. Something deep in Allston turned. “Who did this?” he asked.

“Janjaweed.” The relief worker related how the Baggara, Arabized nomads from the state of Western Darfur, had been organized into militias by the Sudanese government and unleashed in a campaign of genocide against the non-Islamic African tribes of the south. “At first, the killing was limited to Darfur, but the Baggara have moved eastward and brought their families with them. The South Sudanese are fighting back as best they can but this is more typical.”

Allston looked at the wounded child. “I mean, who specifically did this?”

“The villagers say it was Jahel. He’s the leader of the local Fursan, or horsemen of the Rizeigat tribe. About one-fourth of the village is Rizeigat. The Fursan consider themselves the elite warriors of the Baggara. They openly brag they shot the C-130 down.” She looked at the infant. “I don’t know why he does this.”

A burning sensation clawed at Allston. “Apparently this Jahel likes to kill and maim innocent children.”

“And you never dropped a bomb on civilians?” the relief worker asked.

“Not knowingly,” Allston replied. Strangely, he was not upset by her question that was really an accusation. “And they were always doing their damnedest to kill me at the time.” He paused, thinking. “The Rizeigat and Africans seem to be getting along here.”

“Only because we’re here,” the relief worker replied. “We’re all that’s between them and starvation. The moment we pull out, the Rizeigat will massacre the Dinkas.”

The burning sensation in Allston grew more intense. “Is the child Dinka?”

The worker’s simple “Yes” pounded at Allston. He had to walk away. Marci stared at his back. “Let him be,” the worker counseled. She had seen it before when the barbarity of the Sudan tore a person apart. “He has to make a decision.”