The Peacemakers (45 page)

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 board?” 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.”