The Peacemakers (20 page)

Tara was a woman possessed as she commandeered everyone she saw and turned the hangar into a makeshift dressing station, hospital, and morgue. She was everywhere, making sure the wounded were cared for and tending to the children. To get what she needed, she ordered her three bodyguards to rip into the pallets of cargo waiting for delivery to refugee camps and took what she needed. Malaby started to protest but thought better of it. Tara Scott had taken charge and kept at it until order reigned. Only then did she walk into the air-conditioned offices and slump into a chair with her ever-present cameraman still filming. She was not a pampered Hollywood star, but a caring and dedicated human being. She was fatigued to the point of exhaustion, and it was a rare photo op for her cameraman. He swung the lens on Allston when he entered the office. “Thank you,” Allston said. It was not enough, but it would have to do.

“Your bandage is much too big,” Tara told him. She made him sit in her chair and gently removed the compress. “You’ll need a few stitches.” She nodded at her cameraman who went in search of a first aid kit. “Twenty-nine innocent people died out there today and another thirty-eight were wounded because you over reacted.”

“Did I?” he replied.

“General Richards agrees with me.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

Jill was standing in the doorway. “Those monsters killed and wounded over two dozen on the airplane and threw them overboard, dead or alive.”

“I didn’t know that,” Tara said, her voice softening. Tara’s cameraman was back, carrying a first aid kit. Without a word, Tara cleaned Allston’s wound and stitched it closed.

“Ouch!” Allston protested.

“You’ll live,” Tara told him. “Regardless of what they did, you caused the bloodbath here.”

Jill wasn’t having any of it. “What about the women they raped on the C-130?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “At least five, maybe more. Two of them were little girls, eight and nine years old. Don’t they count?”

Susan Malaby burst into the room at full-throttle, her standard mode of operation. “Vermullen’s found something he wants you to see.”

Jill’s stare riveted the actress. “You never answered the question.”

Tears welled up in Tara’s eyes. “Yes, they count.” She stood and followed Malaby into the hangar. Allston and Jill were right behind.

They found Vermullen in the corner that had been turned into a morgue. Ten bodies were stretched out in a row. Without a word, Vermullen pointed to a pile of weapons and boots. Jill picked up a 9mm semi-automatic pistol and checked its markings. She looked at the boots and her head came up. “They’re not Janjaweed.”

“
Oui
,” Vermullen said in a low voice.

TEN

Malakal

T
he whine of a turbo prop engine cranking to life echoed through the walls of the trailer where Richards was sleeping and jolted her awake. She glanced at the travel alarm clock on the nightstand beside her bed – 6:10 in the morning. She sat up and pulled back the curtain over the small window. Outside, the morning twilight was yielding to the new day and she was vaguely aware of the air-conditioning kicking in. She shook her head, getting her bearings. She was in the spare bunk in Allston’s sleeping quarters, and she glanced at his bed where Tara had dropped her bags. It had not been slept in.

Richards showered and quickly dressed in a tailored set of ABUs. She rolled the sleeves up as she had seen the others do and examined her image in the mirror. She liked what she saw. She stepped outside and the heat hit her, wilting the crisp image. She walked through the compound, surprised by all the activity; the sun was just breaking the horizon and everyone was at work. She walked into the big mess tent and was surprised to see the food line closed. A lone cook asked if he could get her anything. She settled for her usual breakfast – two pieces of toast, a glass of juice, and a cup of coffee. She found a seat and nibbled at the toast. “May I join you?” a voice said. Richards looked up to see Susan Malaby.

“Please do,” the general said. Malaby sat down. Instinctively, Richards knew the lieutenant colonel wanted to talk, and she studied the small, intense woman. Malaby was the new Air Force, totally at home with integrated management and information flows and an excellent manager.

“How’s the assignment here going?”

“We have problems,” Malaby answered. Richards nodded, encouraging her. Malaby stared at her hands. “We’re too fly-by-night … seat-of-the pants decision making … hopelessly old-fashioned. Allston treats Air Force directives as points of discussion to be disregarded at will. Look at the silly hats they wear. And everyone is wearing a side arm like we’re in some wild-west movie.”

Richards knew she had an ally. “I see you don’t wear either.”

Malaby shook her head. “It’s not professional. Our mission is to deliver relief supplies for the UN, not play cowboy. Do you know what Allston calls the base?” It embarrassed her to talk about it and a pained look crossed her face. “He calls it Bumfuck South, and we’re the Irregulars.” Richards was truly shocked. Like Malaby, this was not her vision of the Air Force. Malaby was in full flow and warmed to the subject. “I don’t like everyone carrying a side arm. That’s asking for trouble and we’re setting ourselves up for a suicide or someone going postal.”

Richards finished her coffee. “I need to see what you’re seeing.”

“You don’t want to see the inside of the hangar,” Malaby said. “You’d think it was a slaughterhouse after yesterday.” The two women walked outside.

“After the carnage here yesterday,” Richards said, “I’m surprised it’s a normal work day. Your people were traumatized after seeing so many killed and wounded. They need a down day for counseling.” She checked her watch. She had been at Malakal less than twenty-four hours, and like a good manager, had a programmed response to violence she assumed was good for all situations and circumstances. “How many were killed and wounded?”

Malaby ran the numbers. “In addition to Captain Libby, twenty-nine Nuer were slaughtered on the tarmac and eight Janjaweed gunned down. I heard that another twenty-five Nuer or so were killed on board the C-130 along with two of the Janjaweed. At least thirty-eight Nuer were wounded and are in the hospital.” She paused. “It was a blood bath.” They walked towards the hangar. From inside, a woman’s voice sang out in Nuer and a chorus replied.

“That’s singing,” Richards said, not believing what she was hearing. A small door leading into the hangar was open and they looked in. It was empty except for a group of women scrubbing the floor and singing. Tara Scott was standing in the interior doorway leading to the offices and waved for them to join her. “What happened to the refugees?”

“We moved them,” Tara explained. “I went through those big tents out back, the ones with all the relief supplies, and took what I needed. After that, it was easy to get organized. We’re setting up a tent city on the road leading to town. All very temporary until we find a better place.” She paused. “There’s only 142 of them,” she added, as if that explained everything.

Richards chose her words carefully, not wanting to offend the actress but determined that she understood the rules. “I believe those supplies were the property of the United Nations.”

Tara laughed. “They’re being used the way they were meant to.” Richards’ body language signaled it wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. Tara tried a different track. “This is Africa, Yvonne. The rules are different here.” She turned to the women who had finished cleaning the hangar. “They are magnificent singers. And so resilient. Excuse me, we’ve got to go.” She called out in Nuer and the women followed her out of the hangar.

Jill came out of Allston’s office. “Good morning. May I help you?”

“We need to talk,” Richards replied. Malaby excused herself and left the two women alone. Jill led the way into Allston’s office where she was working, and Richards closed the door. “I assume Allston has told you why I’m here.” Jill nodded in answer. “Good. Under the circumstances, I think it would be most productive by starting with the incident at Wer Ping.” Without a word, Jill called up her report on her computer. She spun the screen around for Richards to read. Richards scanned the report, her anger mounting with each sentence. “I hadn’t seen this. This isn’t a report, it’s a whitewash. Allston must have used some type of nerve gas.”

“It’s not a whitewash,” Allston said from the doorway.

Richards’ head came up. She hadn’t heard the door open. “This is a private conversation.”

“And my office,” he answered. He walked in and sat down. “Major Sharp, please excuse us.” The Intelligence officer shot him a grateful look and beat a hasty escape. “Please close the door.” He thought for a moment. How did he explain combat to an officer who had never flown an airplane, dropped a bomb, or been shot at? “Ma’am, if you’re interested, I can detail what it would take to employ an airborne-delivered gas or nerve agent of any type.” Richards tried to stare him down. It didn’t work. “First, assuming the Air Force still had chemical weapons in the inventory, which it does not, it takes a special weapons pylon and canisters for aerial delivery. Those pylons and canisters were destroyed at the completion of testing.”

“And how do you know all this?” she demanded.

“Because I was one of the crews who did the testing and I certified their destruction. Second, if I had used a gas or nerve agent of any kind, we would not have been able to land without MOPP, which neither we, nor the legionnaires have.” He assumed she knew that MOPP, Mission Oriented Protective Posture, was the special clothing and equipment needed to operate in a chemical or nerve gas environment. “I dumped jet fuel on the Janjaweed to create the impression that it was a nerve gas and scare them away. It worked. You can interview every swinging” – he almost said “dick” but caught himself in time – “every crew member who was on board my C-130.” He reached for the phone to make it happen as the unmistakable sound of a C-17 taxiing in echoed in the office.

“That’s not necessary,” Richards conceded, “at this time.”

“Please excuse me, ma’am, but I’ve got an important matter to attend to.” He stood up. “We’re sending Capt. Libby’s body home. Please join us.” She heard the pain in his voice and followed him outside where Tara and her cameraman were waiting.

The C-17’s engines were spinning down as the men and women of the 4440th gathered at the tail of the huge aircraft. Without a command, they formed up in two ranks, creating a corridor leading from the Globemaster’s loading ramp to the hangar. Tara’s cameraman raised his camera as a tug drove slowly out of the hangar, pulling a maintenance cart bearing a wooden coffin covered with an American flag. Staff Sergeant Loni Williams walked behind, holding G.G.’s bush hat in his hands. Allston walked to the head of the corridor and came to attention. “Squad – RON” - he drew the word out, his voice firm and in command, concealing the pain that was tearing at him – “ten – HUT!”

As one, the Irregulars came to attention. “Pre – SENT … Arms!” Tara’s cameraman panned back and forth as the Irregulars saluted their fallen comrade. The tow motor reached the waiting aircraft and stopped. “Or – DER … Arms!” The Irregulars dropped the salute but remained at attention. “Pa – RADE …Rest!” The two ranks shifted to the formal at-ease, their feet apart, hands clasped behind their backs, their heads up.