The Peacemakers (49 page)

Toby shook his head. “Even if we had the trucks and busses it would be too dangerous. A convoy returning from Juba was due in this afternoon and there’s been no word. The jungle telegraph says the Janjaweed have cut us off to the south, the same as your message.”

Allston made a decision. “Okay, here’s the drill. I’m flying the 4440th to Juba tonight. I’ll keep a small contingent here and start a shuttle; evacuees out and fly in whatever support the South will give us. The birds can refuel at Juba, and we’ll keep at it as long as the runway here is open.” The details were quickly arranged. “Major Lane will take the Irregulars to Juba and run the operation from there. I’ll stay here and keep the shuttle going from this end.” He turned to Jill. “Let’s go do it.” The two hurried to the Ops Center to set the evacuation in motion.

An hour later, the advance party of crew chiefs and mechanics, along with their baggage, tools, and spare parts, started to load the first Hercules. Lieutenant Colonel Susan Malaby counted heads and sorted out who would shuttle out and who would stay at the mission. She was not surprised when Loni Williams and four crew chiefs volunteered to stay. The two majors who ran Logistics and Facilities conferred and decided which of their troops would stay behind to keep the shuttle going. Like Maintenance they had plenty of volunteers. Master Sergeant Jerry Malone clumped into the Ops Center in full battle gear and caught Allston’s attention. “Like Malakal?” he asked.

“Just like Malakal,” Allston confirmed. The security cops would be the very last to leave – on board a C-130 if they were lucky.

“Got it,” Malone replied. He snapped a salute and left.

Major Dick Lane was next and told Allston that the aircrews were all gathered and ready to go. Did he want to say anything? Allston did. He went into the big room where his pilots, flight engineers, and loadmasters were waiting. For a moment, he couldn’t find the right words. Supposedly, these men and women were not the elite, the fighter pilots or the bomber crews, but were trash haulers who moved cargo. They had flown day after day with skill and determination, at the risk of their lives, and had done everything he asked of them.

Now he was going to ask for more and there was no doubt they would give all they could. “You all know the situation,” he began, “so I won’t try to blow smoke up your backside. The next few days are going to be tough, and most of you are going to get shot at and some are going to be hit. But we’ve got a job to do and with every sortie you fly, you save innocent men, women, and children from certain death.

“I seriously doubt that the generals and politicians back home give a damn or care about the Dinka or Nuer. But I’ve seen way too many starving babies, shattered men and women without hope, and mutilated and desecrated bodies not to care.”

“That’s why we’re the Irregulars, Colonel,” a voice from the back called. A rumble of approval swept the room and kept growing, and Allston knew, without doubt, that he was in the company of heroes.

“Okay,” Allston said, “forget about the twelve hour crew duty day. This is a max effort and fly as long, and as safe as you can. I’m not asking you to fall on your sword and self-destruct, just give it your best shot. Show the world what the Irregulars are all about.” He looked around the room, taking them in. Jill stood by the door, her eyes shining. “That’s it, folks. Let’s make it happen.” The Irregulars came to their feet and trailed out the door. He caught a glimpse of Marci Jenkins as she tried to blend in and sneak out.

“Captain Jenkins,” he called. “Wait up.” He walked towards her, his anger growing with each step. “Didn’t I order you to leave?”

“You did, sir.”

He pushed his face close to hers, their noses an inch apart. “Then why are you still here?”

“Sir,” Jill called, “I have it on the best of authority that a direct order is a point of discussion.”

He whirled around and glared at her. She cocked her head and smiled sweetly at him and, for a moment, he was speechless. Then, the irony hit him. Marci Jenkins was doing exactly what he would have done. He turned back to the pilot. “Report to Major Lane and tell him I said to fly your pregnant ass off.”

“Yes, sir,” Marci said.

“And you,” he said to Jill, “be on the first shuttle to Juba.”

Allston kept looking at his watch as he stood on the ramp with Toby. “Any time now,” he said. The C-130s had been gone for three hours. The flight time was one hour each way, and with one hour on the ground to turn around at Juba, they should be back at any moment. That meant all four could be turned and launched with a full load of refugees well before first light. He fought the urge to get on the radio and break radio silence, but the SA had to be monitoring their frequencies. “Come on,” he urged.

“Did you get all your folks out?” Toby asked.

“We evacuated a hundred,” Allston answered. “We got all the spare parts and equipment for the birds and enough tents and MREs to set up shop at Juba.” He scanned the dark sky, looking for a telltale shadow moving against the moonlit clouds. He had to talk, anything to break the rising tension. “We got twenty-six folks still here; eight ground crew to turn the birds and eighteen security cops.”

“And you,” Toby added.

“There,” Allston said, pointing to the south. A dark shadow punched through the clouds.

“You got good eyeballs,” Toby said.

They watched as the darkened C-130 flew a lights-out approach, the pilots relying on their NVGs. It touched down and taxied in. The rear ramp came down and eight South Sudanese soldiers double-timed off. All were carrying weapons and full backpacks. Private Hans Beck was there to meet them and they quickly climbed on board a waiting truck and sped away. Just as quickly, Loni Williams and one of the loadmasters who had volunteered to stay behind, marshaled over a hundred refugees up the ramp. The Hercules taxied out as the ramp came up.

A lone figure walked towards him. It was Jill. Allston stared at her. “Doesn’t anybody understand an order anymore?”

“A point of discussion, sir,” Jill answered. Then, “We have a problem at Juba.”

It was a tense meeting as Jill described the situation at Juba. “The South Sudanese closed the airfield and won’t let us takeoff. I have no idea why. Major Lane is furious and collected all the money we had to bribe the guards. Then he asked for volunteers to fly a special mission. Marci put a crew together; the copilot was Bard Green, Riley the flight engineer, and MacRay the loadmaster. I asked the soldiers hanging around if any wanted to kill some SA. You saw the eight who took me up on the offer. Colonel Malaby got the Herk refueled, MacRay loaded the soldiers, and Marci just took off, no flight plan, no clearance, nothing. No one stopped them.”

“And you decided to come along,” Allston said.

“You ordered me to be on the first shuttle to Juba,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “And I was. You never said I had to stay there.”

Vermullen laughed. “You have another lawyer on your hands.” He turned serious. “The Legion trained those eight soldiers and they say more want to come.”

“Did they say why Juba had closed the runway?” Allston asked. Vermullen shook his head.

“The South Sudanese are split by tribal factions,” Toby said. “It’s a matter of bribing the right tribe. If we can get D’Na to Juba, she’ll find the right people.”

“Do we have enough money?” Allston asked.

“The mission has about 50,000 Euros worth of Krugerrands in Juba,” Toby replied. “A little gold goes a long way in this part of Africa.”

“Reverend, you shock me,” Allston said, trying to break the tension. Toby gave him a helpless look, his arms outstretched. Allston’s head came up. In the distance he heard a familiar drone. “That’s a 130.” The sound of the turboprop grew louder. “Let’s go howdy the folks. Toby, can you get D’Na to the airstrip ASAP? The Herk won’t be on the ground long.” Outside, the first light of the new day cracked the far horizon. They ran for their vehicles as the first shrieks of incoming artillery split the air.

TWENTY-FOUR

Mission Awana

A
llston floor-boarded the accelerator as he raced for the airfield. Off to his left, dust and dirt mushroomed into the air as another artillery shell exploded. The concussion rocked the pickup as shrapnel cut into the back and shredded a tire. Allston slowed as he regained control. A second round exploded harmlessly further away. “It’s not aimed,” he shouted.