The Peacemakers (25 page)

Master Sergeant Jerry Malone crouched low and held his holstered Berretta to his thigh. The security cop moved silently toward the defensive firing position, DFP for short, which served as an observation post on the main gate and used what concealment he could find. He broke radio silence and spoke low into his radio, using the single word to warn the DFP that he was coming. It was the only radio transmission he would make. Twenty feet away, a woman issued a soft challenge and he whispered the recognition code of the day. “Advance,” Staff Sergeant Louise Colvin said. The loadmaster was an augmentee posted with a security cop in the DFP. Malone slipped silently into the sandbagged foxhole.

“Sum’ bitch, Sarge,” the security cop whispered. “You got lucky they didn’t see you.”

“What was the shooting all about?” Malone asked.

Lou Colvin handed him her high-powered night vision scope. “An officer shot one of the guards when he caught them sleeping.”

Malone’s eyes adjusted as he swept the scene in front of him. The officer in question was praying in front of his tent while the two guards bundled the body in a ragged blanket and carried it to the far side of the road to wait for burial. “So they haven’t got a clue.”

“It seems that way,” Lou replied.

“Good work,” Malone said. He watched as the officer disappeared into his tent as two orderlies carried in cloth-covered trays with his breakfast. Malone handed Lou the scope and disappeared into the dark.

Jill was waiting in operations when Allston arrived. He didn’t turn on the lights, anxious to maintain the blackout and the appearance the compound was asleep. Even in the early-morning dark, he could tell she was exhausted. “Any trouble getting through the gate?” he asked.

“A little. The guards were very upset. I bribed my way through and gave them each a Krugerrand. They do like gold.”

“An officer, I’m guessing it was Waleed, shot one of them earlier for falling asleep on duty.”

“That would explain why they were so antsy,” Jill said.

“So how did it go?”

“I found the truck driver from the Djibouti supply run. He says he can arrange for seven trucks. They should arrive around nine this morning.”

“It’s all in the timing,” Allston allowed.

“They’re on African time,” she replied.

“Cover story?” Allston asked.

“All in place. The driver says they regularly haul cargo for the Sudanese Army. I gave them the loading manifests for what they’re to pick up here, all signed by Waleed.” She gave a disgusted snort and quickly related how she had bribed a Sudanese sergeant to type the loading manifests that gave the SA the right to confiscate whatever they wanted from the Americans. “Waleed actually signed them. The bastard thinks he’s got a license to steal.”

“Which he does,” Allston replied. “But we’re going to steal it right back. I want you and the women on the first C-130. It’s gonna get ugly if we have to fight our way out.”

“No way, Colonel. I can speak for all of us. We do our job like everyone else.”

Allston heard the resolve in her voice. He wanted to tell her that he couldn’t accept the risks the women were willing to take and at the same time, give her a hug for her bravery. But an inner voice told him nothing he could say would change their minds. And a hug was out of the question. “I still need you on the first C-130. If it all falls apart here, you’ll have to play it by ear at Awana. I need some one there with a clue.” Jill nodded, understanding. “You’ve got time to take a shower and eat. Be on the aircraft before the sun comes up.”

She pulled herself to her feet and left him alone in the dark. He sank into her chair, still warm from her body heat. He closed his eyes, running through every detail. The four C-130s were loaded and ready to go, everyone had been briefed, and the legionnaires ready to do their part and create the distraction he needed to get the C-130s launched. But would they do it? Vermullen wanted to fight, but, in the end, he had been ordered by his masters in Paris to turn over the Legion’s heavy weapons and missiles to the Sudanese. While Vermullen didn’t have a choice in the matter, no one had told him the weapons had to be serviceable. His men had removed the battery packs from the missiles, pulled all the fuses from the mortar rounds, and kinked the ammunition belts so they couldn’t feed. What have I forgotten? Allston thought. All the doubts were back. Should he have simply loaded his birds with what he could and escaped under the cover of darkness? Waleed had unwittingly cooperated by leaving the runway open for incoming civilian flights. But that would have left the Legion holding the bag. Was he overreaching and trying to do too much? But if they pulled it off, the 4440th was still in business. Had he underestimated Waleed? Only time would tell. He closed his eyes and fell asleep for the first time since arriving back at Malakal from Mission Awana.

Lieutenant Colonel Susan Malaby barged into Allston’s office. “Colonel, this sucks! Why in hell are we hanging around? The runway is open. Let’s just crank engines and go!”

Allston let her vent and she quickly spun down. “Are all your troops on board?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. And sweating like pigs. You have any idea how hot it is inside those airframes just sitting in the sun?”

“Shit,” Allston said, realizing what he had overlooked. “We need to show some activity on the ramp. Cycle ‘em in and out like they’re doing routine maintenance on the birds. Make sure they know to get on board the moment a prop starts to turn.”

“Yes, sir.” She hurried out to make it happen.

His personal communicator buzzed. It was Jill. “The trucks are here,” she told him. It was 10:17. “Sooner than I expected.”

“Get ‘em loaded,” he told her, breaking the connection. Now he had to speak to Master Sergeant Jerry Malone, the NCOIC of his security police. It was not a conversation he wanted to have. He hit the transmit button. “Backstop, rendezvous at Outhouse.” He had just told Malone to come in.

“On my way,” Malone replied.

Allston was still considering what to say when Malone arrived in operations. Rather than temporize or make it sound better, he came right to the point. “What’s the minimum number you need for the rear guard?”

Malone spread out a hand-drawn chart of the compound and circled fifteen defensive firing positions. “Seventeen cops and thirteen augmentees. Counting me, thirty-one.” He tapped the DFP guarding the taxi path leading to the runway. “I’ll use this one for a command post.”

Allston paused, hating what he had to say. “You’ve got to hold the base until the C-130s get airborne.”

Malone’s face was impassive. “We figured that out a long time ago, Colonel. I think we can put down enough firepower to discourage the bastards until we make it out on our own.”

Allston snapped a salute. “Good luck, Sergeant.”