The Peacemakers (11 page)

“I’ll be damned,” Green said. “It looks like he’s fifty meters from the trucks and ten meters off the road.” He groaned. “Bird colonels don’t like landing in trees.”

“He will not be happy,” the French captain predicted.

“Well, you know what they say about a bird in the bush,” G.G. quipped, making the best of it.

The two C-130s continued to circle the area as Vermullen’s legionnaires went through a well-rehearsed routine and secured the area. They were out of their parachutes within seconds after hitting the ground and formed up into firing teams. There was no attempt to join up with their assigned squads and as soon as a sergeant had five or six men, they moved out, securing the perimeter. From his perch in the tree, Vermullen had an excellent view of the action and made no attempt to lower himself to the ground. One fire team ran down the road in the direction the fleeing horsemen had taken. Whenever they came across a horse or Janjaweed lying on the ground, they fired a short burst of gunfire, making sure the unfortunate animal was out of its misery and the man was no longer a threat. It was quick, efficient, and brutal. Exactly sixteen minutes after Vermullen had landed, the area was secure and two sergeants from the patrol were waiting for Vermullen to lower himself out of the tree. They quickly briefed him on the situation.

Allston landed first in case they had taken battle damage to the landing gear and might block the road. He eased the big aircraft onto the road and reversed the props. A cloud of dust roared out in front of them, blocking his view. He stopped and waited for the dust to settle. A bruised and battered Vermullen walked out of the dust with two sergeants and the ever-present Hans. A ragged and gaunt boy from the village followed them. The colonel’s uniform was torn and his left cheek was bandaged. He fixed the C-130 with a hard look. “There is one angry dude,” Allston said. He keyed the radio. “Marci, we’re okay. You’re cleared to land behind me. You’ve got about 4000 feet.” A flying safety officer could cite chapter and verse about what could go wrong with one aircraft landing behind the other without a clear rollout, but Allston knew she could handle it. He set the brakes and quickly shut down the engines. “Come on, G.G. I think the Colonel wants to talk to us. And please, no jokes about a bird in the bush. He won’t think it’s funny.” The two men clambered down the boarding steps and marched towards the waiting Frenchmen. Much to their surprise, Vermullen smiled at them.

“Captain G.G., I must apologize. I maneuvered to land in the tree. Otherwise, I would have landed on the road.”

“Why?” Allston asked.

“The tree was a good place to observe if my men can operate independently of command. Forming up and grouping for action after landing is the most difficult and critical phase.” He motioned at the two sergeants and the boy. “These men were on the patrol. The boy is the only survivor from the village. He hid in the bush and saw what happened. He speaks some English. There is something you need to see.” He spoke in French and the sergeant in charge of the patrol led them into the nearby village of Wer Ping. The boy followed, shaking with fear.

The smell of burning flesh assaulted them well before they reached the village. “The Janjaweed camped here,” the sergeant said. He walked over and kicked a body lying in the dirt. Hard. “This one didn’t get away.” He fired a short burst of submachine gun fire into the dead body. Allston shot a warning glance at Vermullen. The legionnaire had crossed the line and had committed a war crime. Vermullen only stared back. The sergeant led the way to a shallow pit a few feet from the campsite. The bodies of two young girls were staked out over a bed of charcoal. “They were roasted alive. Do you have a camera to document this?” G.G. pulled a small digital camera out of a pocket and started to take pictures.

“Janjaweed laugh,” the boy said in halting English.

“They laughed when they did this?” Allston asked. The boy nodded in answer.

“It took a long time for the girls to die,” the sergeant added.

“How do you know that?” Allston asked.

“Janjaweed watch,” the boy said. “Janjaweed talk, talk, talk, laugh when die.”

Vermullen spoke softly. “
Il y a plus
.” There is more. He led the way into the smoldering ruins of the village. A line of nineteen bodies were stretched out on the ground. All were male with bloody crotches. “They were castrated before they were shot.” The sergeant checked the mouth of the nearest corpse. The man’s genitals were shoved down his throat. “The women and girls were made to watch this before they were raped and killed.”

“Where are the women?” G.G. asked.

“In the huts,” the sergeant said.

“But they’re all burned down,” G.G. said, not understanding. Vermullen gestured for him to examine one and take a photograph. The navigator walked slowly to the charred ruins of the nearest hut. The stench of burning flesh was overpowering but he snapped four photographs before retreating.

“
Il y a plus
,” Vermullen said. His small tactical radio buzzed with a message. “They found the body of the village chief.” The boy looked at them, his emaciated body shaking. Not able to take anymore, he turned and ran.

“The chief was his grandfather,” the sergeant said. The five men walked deeper into the destroyed village and found two legionnaires standing guard over the body. The village elder had been dismembered and his legs and arms thrown to waiting dogs. His stomach had been ripped open and his head shoved inside. G.G. bent over and vomited. Then he took more photos, his face deathly white.

“
Il y a plus
,” Vermullen repeated.

“There is always more,” the sergeant added. “Have you ever seen a baby impaled?” He pointed to the body of an infant dangling from a stake fence.

Allston stared at the baby, his whole being shaken to the core. There was no rationalization for what he was seeing, no justification, no explanation, no understanding. For the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to have an epiphany. This was reality and it was evil. Like most Americans, Allston had convinced himself that evil was a primitive belief that only existed in the ignorant. But the ignorance was his. The evil that the Allies had experienced when they stumbled across the death camps in World War II was still very much alive. It had taken a new form in Bosnia and now Africa, and it was the curse of the modern world, challenging civilization.

“Il y a plus,”
Vermullen said.

Allston breathed deeply, not able to speak and vent the emotions shredding his humanity. By any standard, he was a well-educated and superbly trained professional warrior, yet nothing had prepared him for this, not even what he had seen at Abyei on his first day in the Sudan. That had only been a prelude, a small sample of what he was witnessing. Perhaps a more urbane and sophisticated man could play the intellectual and find refuge in the abstract, but when faced with the horror of genocide, Allston could not mute it or turn away. This was the here and now and he had to physically engage. Anything less would be a denial of what he was and everything he believed in. A burning hate swept over him, threatening to consume him, and from that moment, he was willing to risk his life to kill the evil before him.

“Are you okay?” G.G. asked.

Slowly, Allston regained control. “No, G.G., I’m not okay. And I doubt that I ever will be.” He swept the village with his hand. “If this doesn’t put some hate in your heart, nothing will.”

“It’s there, Colonel,” G.G. assured him.

“Good. Don’t ever forget it.”

“So now you understand why my sergeant reacted as he did,” Vermullen said. He fell silent as he led them out of the village. The boy was sitting in the shade of a bush, waiting for them, his arms wrapped around his knees.

Allston extended a hand and pulled him to his feet. “Who did this?”

The boy froze in fear. Slowly, his lips moved, forming a single word. “Jahel.”

Beica, Ethiopia

It was dusk when the two C-130s landed to discharge the legionnaires. Allston made his way through the cargo compartment as the legionnaires deplaned, impressed with the good order they left behind. They may have been societal misfits, but they were not slobs. His crew joined him as they walked around the aircraft, inspecting for bullet holes in the fuselage. Tech Sergeant Riley, the flight engineer beamed in relief when they only found three holes in the beavertail, the underside of the empennage beneath the vertical and horizontal stabilizers. Riley crawled inside and quickly reported that nothing critical had been hit and they had only taken superficial damage. Gauging by the size of the holes, they had taken fire from an AK-47.

“It had to be that Janjaweed we over flew who shot at us,” Bard Green decided. “He didn’t use enough lead.”

Vermullen overheard them. “It is very difficult to shoot from a galloping horse. My tireurs could not hit him as he cut back and forth. It was an outstanding display of horsemanship. Do not underestimate this man.” He let it sink in. “It is late. May I extend the hospitality of our mess for the night? I have a good chef.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Allston asked. The arrangements were quickly made and the four pilots and G.G. were billeted in the officers’ quarters while the two flight engineers and two loadmasters joined the NCOs.

An hour later, Vermullen was waiting for the Americans in the officer’s mess. Like them, he was showered, but he was wearing a fresh uniform. His officers were clustered behind him and two immediately escorted Marci Jenkins and her copilot into the dining room. “Shall we join them?” Vermullen asked, playing the gracious host. As promised, the dinner was excellent and the surroundings on the elegant side. “The UN built this for the relief mission,” Vermullen explained, “but the commissioners prefer Addis. They gave it to us instead.” The big man thought for a moment. “It is not for the Legion. My men are losing their edge – too much of the good life. We need to be nearer to – what do you Americans say? – to the action.”

“There’s always Malakal,” Allston said. “But I don’t think our masters in Addis Ababa will approve.”

“Tactically, that would be a good move. Unfortunately, you are correct; the head of mission will not approve. I believe he wants you Americans in harm’s way.” He changed the subject. “It appears your Captain Jenkins is most popular with my officers and is enjoying her dinner.”

“She didn’t see the village,” G.G. said.

“Food will never taste the same,” Allston added.

“You must learn to handle it,” Vermullen said.

“I’ll try,” Allston replied. “But I never want to hear
Il y a plus
again. How do you handle it?”

“By relying on my men. For them, it was a successful mission with no casualties. In our business, there is no better result. Perhaps, we should see how they are getting on.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Allston said. “G.G., Bard, come on and join us.” He looked around for Marci and her copilot but couldn’t find either. Vermullen led the three Americans to the NCO mess where they could hear singing. “That sounds like German.”

“Indeed it is,” Vermullen admitted. “There are many Germans in the Legion, and they do love to sing.” He listened for a moment. “It is an old World War II Wehrmacht drinking song.” He sang in English, “Hurry, hurry to the whorehouse before the prices go up.” They listened for a moment as a new song broke out. “Ah, I like this one better. ‘Tonight We March On England.’”

Allston laughed, liking the big Frenchman more and more. “I imagine you would.” The four entered the mess and a loud cheer echoed over them. There was no doubt that Vermullen was extremely popular with his men. Big water glasses filled with red wine were pushed into their hands and the noise grew even louder.

“Colonel,” a legionnaire with a thick German accent called, “what are you going to do to the American who dropped you in the tree?”

“Let him do it to you,” Vermullen shouted back. “Be sure to keep your ankles crossed to protect your Kraut balls.” More cheers deafened them. Vermullen drained his glass and banged it on the bar for attention. The room quickly quieted. “It is obvious we are growing soft here. What would your mothers think? They will never forgive me, and we must rectify the situation.” He looked out over them expectantly. “What? No suggestions?”

“Bloody hell!” a Cockney sergeant shouted. “We’re moving to Malakal to save the Americans’ bloody ass.”

Vermullen pulled a face. “Well, if you insist, Sergeant Abbott.” He turned to Allston. “Can you provide airlift?”

“So sayeth my standing orders. But what about the UN?”

A broad smile spread across the Frenchman’s face. “If we do it quick enough, they will have no say in the matter. Tomorrow is Saturday and they never work on weekends.” He laughed, enjoying the moment. “And very seldom on Mondays.”

SIX

E-Ring

“P
lease have General Richards come right in,” Fitzgerald told his secretary. He glanced at his watch. They had less than ten minutes before his morning staff meeting. “Good morning,” he said as Richards entered. He waved her to a seat. “Is this going to be one of those Mondays?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.” She handed him a leather folder. “I received this by special courier from the State Department twenty minutes ago. We will have to respond. May I suggest we alert Public Affairs for pre-emptive damage control?”

Fitzgerald groaned inwardly. The Secretary of State detested the military and never missed a chance to slap the Pentagon around. He accepted it as part of the give and take of power politics in Washington and never took it personally, although the Secretary of State treated the Joint Chiefs as an evil cabal. He opened the elegant leather folder that was Richards’ trademark and quickly scanned the thin document. He sat upright and slowly read it again. It was a formal complaint filed by the Government of Sudan with the United Nations charging the 4440th with using weapons of mass destruction on innocent nomads at the village of Wer Ping. “Did they specify what WMD they employed?”

“Apparently it was some type of nerve gas.”