The Peacemakers (21 page)

Loni Williams slowly paced the distance to Allston. He dropped his left hand to hold G.G.s bush hat against his thigh and gave his commander the best salute of his career. Allston returned the salute, “Sir,” Williams said, “if I may.”

“Carry on, Sergeant.” Allston said, not sure what Williams had in mind, but instinctively trusting him.

The sergeant walked over to Tara Scott and held out G.G.’s hat. “Ma’am, please accept this. Captain Libby would want you to have it.”

Tara took the hat and held it to her breast. “I know what these mean to you, but why? I’ve done nothing …” Her voice trailed off as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“You’re one of us,” Williams said. He snapped a salute, did an about face, and marched over to the waiting coffin where six security cops were waiting as pallbearers. They carried the coffin on board as a gentle breeze ruffled the silence. Captain Marci Jenkins was the last to board. She would take G.G. home.

Richards sat in Allston’s office and read the two reports on the massacre the day before. The OpRep, or Operations Report, had been up-channeled to AFRICOM and the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon within an hour after the shooting had stopped and the base secured. The IntRep, or Intelligence Report, had followed six hours later and was much more detailed. The general dropped the two printouts on the desk, and stared at Allston and Jill. “Unacceptable.” She tapped the reports. “Too many unanswered questions. Who drafted these reports?”

Allston glanced at Jill. “Major Lane drafted the OpRep and Major Sharp the IntRep.”

“I need to speak to Captain Jenkins about what happened on your airplane,” Richards replied.

“Captain Jenkins is escorting Captain Libby’s coffin. She’ll be made available the moment she returns.”

“And when will that be?”

Allston thought for a moment. “Two weeks at the most.”

“How convenient,” Richards snapped.

“Major Lane and I debriefed Captain Jenkins before she left,” Jill said. “It’s all in my report.” Richards gave her a hard look and didn’t respond. “The gunmen were not Janjaweed,” Jill continued. “They were soldiers. SA – Army of the Sudan.”

“Really,” Richards snapped. “Do you have any proof to substantiate that claim?”

“First,” Jill explained, “they were all armed with 9mm Glock semi-automatic pistols and Russian-made combat knives. The SA only issues those to its elite forces. Second, counting the two killed on board the C-130, there were ten of them, the exact number of an SA squad. Third, they were all carrying booklets of sayings from the Koran and Hadith that urge the faithful to become martyrs, also issued by the SA. Finally, they were all wearing standard issue combat boots. Janjaweed won’t wear boots like that. It’s a cultural thing to do with the honor of being horsemen. Those ten men were a death squad out to kill anyone they could. Further, the Janjaweed participated in the attack, which indicates they are acting with the SA.”

“And how did they get on board in the first place?” Richards asked.

Allston answered. “We were off loading supplies at a refugee camp and came under small arms fire. To say the situation was confused is an understatement. The SA were there and exploited the opportunity. Captain Jenkins was sitting in the left seat as the aircraft commander. I fly as a copilot with all my aircraft commanders from time to time, mainly to see how they are handling the stress, and was the copilot.”

Richards interrupted. “And to blame them if anything goes wrong, which it did.”

Allston ignored the allegation. “The refugees were blocking our takeoff, and rather than leave them to the tender mercies of the Janjaweed, Captain Jenkins loaded them all on board and we took off.”

Richards scanned the reports, finding what she wanted. “You allowed Captain Jenkins to take off grossly overloaded for the takeoff conditions and endangered everyone on board.”

“With 204 passengers. She set a record for the Hercules.”

“And you let her do it,” Richards charged.

“She was in command and we made it. Her judgment was correct. That’s why she’s an aircraft commander.”

Richards dropped the reports into her briefcase. “I need to incorporate these into my report.”

“No problem,” Allston said, “just sign for them.” The reports were classified confidential and required special handling. Richards scrawled her signature across the bottom of a transmittal slip and flung it at him. She closed the briefcase and stormed out the door. “Major Sharp,” he said loudly, making sure the general heard him. “Please take a letter.” Richards stopped, her back to him. “Dear Mr. Lockheed, in regards to your C-130, thank you.”

Richards spun around. “Flippancy isn’t called for.” Allston didn’t respond and let her have the final word. She turned and left, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

“We haven’t seen the last of that lady,” Allston said.

“You were right,” Jill replied. “She wants your head on a platter.”

“She’ll probably get it. But in the meantime, we’ve got work to do.” Jill nodded, her face not revealing what she felt. She would follow this man anywhere he asked, which he promptly did. “Let’s go see if Tara needs some help.”

“Yes, sir,” Jill said. Seeing Allston and Tara Scott together was the last thing she wanted.

Richards’ right index finger beat a relentless tattoo on the table as she quickly rifled through her notes. She glanced at the sergeant sitting patiently opposite her and started to ask a question about Allston. But she knew the answer and didn’t want to hear it. She had quickly sorted out the incident at Wer Ping and the alleged use of nerve gas and concluded there was nothing there for her. It had gone down as reported. Frustrated, she turned her investigative sights on the loss of the C-130 when it crashed on landing and the crew almost captured by the Janjaweed. That had led her to Staff Sergeant Louise Colvin who she had grilled for over an hour. Again, nothing. An idea came to her and she almost smiled. It was so simple and had been out there all the time. “Thank you, Sergeant Colvin. I believe we’ve covered everything.” She closed her notebook. “That will be all.”

Louise Colvin stood, relieved that the interview was over. It was the first time she had ever spoken to a general, much less been subject to an intense questioning by any officer. She hoped her nervousness wasn’t too obvious. “Yes, ma’am.” She turned to leave.

“Oh,” Richards said, stopping her. “One last thing.” The tone of her voice changed, much friendlier. “Do you go by Louise?”

“I prefer Lou, ma’am.”

“Lou, is it difficult being the only female loadmaster here, among so many men?”

The young woman brightened. “Oh, no. Not at all. I do my job. That’s what counts.”

“So no one has made, ah, improper advances? Of a sexual nature? No higher ranking NCO or an officer?”

“No ma’am. Colonel Allston would” – she searched for the right words – “cut their balls off if they did.”

That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “Really? He said that?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. He’d never say that. But he’d do it.”

Richards’ lips disappeared in a straight line. “You may go.” She watched the young sergeant make her escape. The general ran her mental abacus, adding up all she had learned about Allston. The one over-arching constant in every interview had been the high regard for Allston, which in a few cases, amounted to hero worship. A change in tactics was called for.