The Peacemakers (28 page)

Richard’s voice was there, hard and sharp-edged. “Colonel, stand up when I’m talking to you.” Allston’s eyes snapped open and he came to his feet. Richards was standing in front of him with Jill and Malone immediately behind her. “I’m formally relieving you of your command.” She motioned at Malone. “Take Colonel Allston into custody.”

Malone didn’t hesitate. “Without authorization from AFRICOM, I don’t have the authority to do that.”

“Then get it,” she replied.

“The mission’s communications center is in contact with AFRICOM,” Allston said. He couldn’t help himself. “There’s a message waiting for you, ma’am. Sergeant Malone, please drive General Richards over. It’s too hot to walk.” He motioned for Jill to join him as Malone escorted Richards to the waiting six-pac truck. He waited until Richards was sitting in the truck and out of earshot. “We need to talk. When Waleed confiscated the weapons on that supply truck that brought you back from Djibouti, you mentioned a Sudanese Army supply dump. Where was that?”

“Bentiu.” Like a good Intel officer, she was ready with the details. Bentiu was a large town located 153 miles west of the mission and under Khartoum’s control. It was also in the heart of an oil field and was a combination of an oil boomtown replete with bars and prostitutes, a shantytown filled with refugees, and a Sudanese Army garrison. It also housed a large concentration of Chinese soldiers masquerading as private security guards and pipeline construction workers.”

“Any chance that’s where the Legion’s heavy weapons will end up?”

“I’d say there’s a good possibility they will. The Stingers and Shipons are high-value weapons, and Bentiu is the most secure facility the Sudanese have in the area. Why the interest?”

“Just curious.” He changed the subject. “You need to pack your bag. I imagine the General is reading the message recalling you and her to the Pentagon as we speak.” He sensed she needed some encouragement. “Not to worry, Merlin’s on top of it.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“It’s not like you’ve got a choice. Hurry back.”

“There’s the Legion,” she said, pointing to the first of a long line of trucks rolling into the mission.

E-Ring

The Secretary of Defense motioned the two four-star generals to the leather couch in the far corner of his huge office overlooking the Potomac and let them stew for a few moments while he signed paperwork and memos. Satisfied the delay had made it clear just how angry he was, he joined them and sat in a big overstuffed chair opposite the couch. He puffed on his cigar, enjoying the aroma, but not what he had to do. “Hal, Fitz, I assume you know what’s got me pissed off.” Although protocol dictated that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Harold Misner, United States Army, answer, Misner hesitated and nodded at Fitzgerald to answer.

“Mr. Secretary, I assume you’re concerned with recent developments in the Sudan,” Fitzgerald said, stepping up to take the heat. The Secretary nodded and Fitzgerald continued to talk. “Specifically, I assume you are concerned by the landing of a NSA high-value reconnaissance asset at Malakal.” He had assumed correctly and the Secretary asked how Admiral Chester A. Bellows, the brilliant and irritable head of the National Security Agency, got involved without his knowledge. Bellows was famous for his short fuse and total inability to put up with fools, bureaucrats, and politicians. His temper was legendary, as well as the results his agency achieved. “We’re field testing Eagle Eye,” Fitzgerald replied, “and I asked Chester if he could have one of his platforms monitor the same activities to see if we are missing anything. He happened to have an An-12 in the area and obliged.”

The Secretary puffed on his cigar, laying a smoke screen between him and the two generals. “So why did it land at Malakal just in time to create a diversion for the 4440th to evacuate?”

“I imagine it was maintaining its cover,” Fitzgerald replied. “Did you ask Chester?”

“I did. He gave me the same load of crap. Talk about perfect timing. Just how much coincidence do you expect me, or for that matter, the President to believe?”

The two generals tried to look innocent. “Coincidence does happen,” Misner allowed. He had mentioned the situation at Malakal to the vice admiral over lunch, certain that the crusty old salt’s fangs would come out. Misner then dropped the subject, for what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Like many flag rank officers, he was very adept at playing CYA – cover your ass – with politicians. He didn’t like it but it went with the job.

The Secretary puffed harder on the cigar. “Apparently, that clown you appointed to run the show at Malakal doesn’t understand the tightrope the President is walking with world opinion, the UN, and the Government of Sudan.”

“Lieutenant Colonel Allston,” Fitzgerald replied, “is delivering more relief in the Sudan than all the NGOs” – NGOs were nongovernmental organizations – “and UN agencies combined. In my book, that counts. Because he is effective, his aircraft are being shot at.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I certainly hope the President still allows his commanders the right of self defense.”

“There’s a pack of lawyers at the DOJ nipping at my heels,” the Secretary replied, “who believe self defense is another form of aggression and want Allston’s hide nailed to a wall.”

“That would be a mistake,” Fitzgerald replied. He clasped his hands and leaned forward. “Sir, we’ve conditioned our officers to avoid aggressive action for fear of retroactive punishment dished out by those same lawyers. Those lawyers couldn’t lead a pack of Boy Scouts to a latrine and have never been on the receiving end of an AK-47 or a surface-to-air missile. They’ve never seen the atrocities that Colonel Allston’s people deal with everyday, nor do they intend to. I gave Allston a job to do and he’s doing it. He’s one of the few commanders I have who isn’t afraid to act out of fear for their careers. A fear, I might add, that is well justified. Just what message would we be sending if we fired him now?” He administered the coup de grace. “Especially considering the media attention he’s getting.”

The Secretary had seen Tara Scott’s TV special, and understood the power of the media and what it could do in the upcoming election. He ground the cigar into an ashtray and stood. The meeting was over. “Allston stays … for now.” The two generals came to their feet but the Secretary wasn’t quite finished. “Fitz, I want your resignation on my desk today. Don’t date it.” Fitzgerald was living on borrowed time.

The two men walked in silence back to their offices. “How much longer do I have?” Fitzgerald finally asked.

“He’s bluffing,” Misner answered. “He called you Fitz. They just want you to toe the party line.”

“I will as soon as my people are out of harm’s way.”

FOURTEEN

Mission Awana

T
he three men were gathered around Allston’s laptop studying the satellite images of Bentiu. The photos were recent and sharp, detailing signs of recent construction, and the large number of cars and trucks left little doubt it was a boomtown. “This is good stuff,” Dick Lane conceded. “I can’t believe it’s in the public domain.” Both Allston and Vermullen agreed with him. The quality of the images was superb, good enough for targeting. “Did Jill know the location of the ammo dump?” Lane asked.

Allston shook his head. “The truck driver just told her it was at Bentiu. She said there’s an Army garrison there along with quite a few Chinese soldiers posing as security guards and construction workers.” He was frustrated and wanted a threat assessment; unfortunately, he could only make a few assumptions, none of which had a high level of confidence. “I’m guessing the ammo dump will be isolated and near a runway.” Allston clicked on the zoom slider and zoomed out. He followed the main road leading north out of town to the Bahr el Ghazal, a tributary of the White Nile, where a bridge led onto a wide riverbed. From the bridge, the road crossed the riverbed to a second bridge that spanned the main channel. “It’s at low stage but there’s still plenty of water in the river.” He pointed to the second bridge. “That’s a choke point.” He finally found the runway and an airport a mile north. “Tallyho the fox.”

Vermullen pointed to a road that led from the airport to a rectangular-shaped compound west of the runway. “There. At the end of the road.”

“Damn,” Allston muttered. “Where’s Jill when we need her?” Her quiet competence was a rock he depended on. He moved the cursor over the compound and measured the distance to the airport. “Three quarters of a mile.” He zoomed in on the compound. “Okay, assuming that’s the place, what are we looking for?” He hit the print button and the printer spat out a glossy color print.

Vermullen studied the printout and circled the two shacks at the entrance. “Guard posts, one on each side of the gate.” He circled two big buildings. “These barracks are company-size. Up to 150 men could be billeted there.” He pointed to three buildings separated by earthen berms on the other side of the compound. “These are weapons storage bunkers.”

Lane voiced what they were all thinking. “But are the missiles there?”

Vermullen gave a classic French shrug – shoulders hunched forward, his lower lip pushed out, eyebrows arched, head cocked to the right, hands raised – “Who knows?”

“That’s reassuring,” Lane groused. “We need to ask someone.”

“Yeah,” Allston replied, “but who? Jill could backdoor her sources and get an answer, but all we can do is query Intelligence at AFRICOM. That would send a signal, and if they’ve got anyone worth their paycheck like Jill, they’ll figure out what we’re doing in a heartbeat. We don’t need some staff weenie ratting us out so a general can tell us no.”

“I can tap the jungle telegraph,” Vermullen said.

“You can do that?” Allston asked.

“Certainly,” the big Frenchman replied. “We are, as you Americans are fond of saying, wired in. It can be a good source of intelligence, but you must know how to listen. Your Major Sharp also listens to it.”

“She never told me,” Allston said. How long has she been talking to the French? he wondered. Then it hit him. Who else was she talking to?

“Would you have believed what she heard?” Vermullen asked.

“Probably not,” Allston replied. “Okay, assuming the compound is our objective, how do we hit the puppy?”

“We will need trucks,” Vermullen answered. “And a diversion.” He mulled over the possibilities as his right index finger tapped the photo. His adrenaline started to flow and he smiled, his finger resting on the bridge between the airport and the town.

E-Ring

Jill sat at the far end of the first row of seats in the small auditorium as Richards started her briefing to the air staff. She gave the general high marks not only for her appearance and the cut of her uniform – both were Madison Avenue quality – but for her skills as a briefer. Jill was honest and admitted to herself that the general simply excelled at whatever she did. She studied the men in the audience and wondered if they were more interested in what the general had to say or her legs. A brief image of Richards and Allston in bed flashed in her mind, which she quickly squashed.

“The details of the crash at the refugee camp near Wer Ping,” Richards said, “that resulted in the loss of the C-130 are in Appendix B of my report. As no Accident Investigation Board was convened, I relied on the testimony of the aircrews and concluded that the most probable cause of the crash was asymmetrical thrust when the propellers were reversed on landing.” She recreated the aftermath of the crash and the attack on the crew. Again, Jill had to admire her for the accuracy and brevity of her report. The image on the big screen cycled and the ramp at Malakal came into sharp focus. It was the opening shot of the video of the hostage crisis involving Marci Jenkins’s C-130. “I had just arrived at Malakal and witnessed the massacre of twenty-nine Dinka by ten Janjaweed who had slipped on board an evacuation flight.”