Richard Herman - The Peacemakers

“In the Sudan? Not yet. Like you, I just arrived, but I have been on peace keeping missions in other parts of Africa many times.” A staff car pulled up and a much older legionnaire hustled to open the door. “Ah, there’s Hans. On the spot, as always. By the way, you were right about the uniforms.” The private held the door and snapped a sharp open-handed salute as the colonel squeezed his bulk inside. The car drove off and another staff car arrived, this one a black Mercedes flying a UN flag. The head of the peacekeeping mission came down the steps with the gorgeous secretary from his office on his arm. They ignored him and got inside.

“Over here, Mr. Colonel,” a voice said. It was Allston’s driver.

“Any idea where they’re going?” Allston asked.

“The Hilton, where else?” the driver replied. “For lunch and afternoon activities.” He led the way to their car. “Where to, Mr. Colonel? The Hilton?” He laughed uproariously, enjoying his own humor.

Allston never considered it. “Where do they sell hats?” The driver pulled out into the traffic, and, within minutes, they were inching their way past crowded stalls in an open-air market. Allston saw what he wanted. “Over there.” The driver stopped and Allston pointed to a stall with hats. “The stall with the tan Australian bush hats. Can you negotiate for me?” He pointed to the rugged, wide-brimmed hats with a leather chinstrap and the right side of the brim folded up and snapped to the side of the low crown.

“You want one of those?” the driver asked.

“Not one, two hundred.”

Malakal

“Colonel, there’s a C-17 ten minutes out,” the Ops Officer, Dick Lane, said. He was monitoring the UHF radio in airlift operations, the closest thing they had to a control tower, and checked the meteorological display before keying the mike. “Roger Dumbo Four. The wind is calm, altimeter 29.99. Recommend Runway Two-three for landing, no other reported traffic.”

It was Allston’s first full day after returning from Addis Ababa and was still learning the ropes. “A Dumbo, isn’t that unusual?” Dumbo was the call sign for a C-17 Globemaster III, the Air Force’s primary heavy lifter cargo aircraft.

“Very,” Lane replied. He explained that their normal logistical supply line was by truck out of Ethiopia. “The UN contracts for civilian trucks to haul all supplies. I’d guess that over half the loads are stolen or hijacked along the way. They even take JP5, which they can’t use.” JP5 was the jet fuel the C-130s burned. “We buy it back from the bastards who stole it. According to rumor, the three UN commissioners get a couple of million euros a month from kickbacks outta the arrangement. Needless to say, someone is gonna be very pissed.” The two men walked out to the ramp to watch the Air Force’s main cargo lifter taxi in. “That’s what I want to fly,” Lane said, his voice wistful.

“But you’re stuck in Herks,” Allston said. Lane nodded in reply, a less than happy man.

The C-17 taxied into the compound, its 170-foot wingspan barely clearing the parked C-130s. Sergeant Loni Williams and two wing walkers guided it through a tight turn and, by judicious reversing of thrust, were able to turn it around. Lieutenant Colonel Susan Malaby, Allston’s cantankerous maintenance officer, was beside herself as the cargo was offloaded. “Colonel,” she called, “we’re golden! We even got the engine we needed.” A new Allison T56 turboprop engine on its dolly rolled down the huge aircraft’s cargo ramp under the high T-tail. Maintenance crews quickly rolled it over to a parked C-130 that had been grounded waiting for an engine change. The old engine was already off and mounted on a dolly for return shipment.

Then pallet after pallet of supplies was offloaded, effectively doubling their stocks of essential parts and supplies. “Can you believe that?” Allston’s Logistics officer said. He actually bounced in excitement. Allston berated himself for being so slow. His troops wanted to do their job and all he had to do was to supply the wherewithal. But could he take them to the next level? He didn’t know, but he had to try.

A four-man maintenance team got off the C-17 with a pallet of equipment for X-raying the wings. Finally, a strange looking captain wearing a flightsuit walked down the ramp loaded with bags and an old leather suitcase strapped closed with a belt. ‘Mandrake the Magician’ was stenciled on the side of the suitcase in faded gold letters. He seemed to wilt in the heat as he struggled with his load. Sergeant Loni Williams took pity on him and shouldered part of the load. Williams pointed to Allston and Lane and the two made their way across the ramp. The newcomer carefully set the suitcase down. He threw Allston a salute. “Captain Glen Libby reporting for duty.”

Allston studied the man, not sure if he should send him back. Libby stood five feet six with a potato-like body and toothpick arms and legs. His face reminded Allston of a bulldog. Then it hit him. Libby was a remake of a young Winston Churchill. “Don’t salute outside,” Allston told him, returning the salute. He glanced at Libby’s nametag. There was no star over his navigator wings, which meant he hadn’t been flying that long, and his full name was Glen G. Libby. “What’s the G. stand for?” Allston asked.

“It’s Glen Gordon,” Libby replied. “Everyone calls me G.G.” It sounded like Gigi and Lane suppressed a chuckle. He considered navigators a hold-over from the past and no longer needed in the modern Air Force.

Allston’s and Lane’s communicators squawked simultaneously. The gate guard was calling with the news that two Sudanese Army trucks had barged through the gate without stopping. “Well, we better go howdy those folks,” Allston said. He headed for the detachment’s offices but didn’t get far. Two weapons carrier type trucks sped around the corner of the hangar and headed directly for the C-17. Two soldiers stood in the back of each truck manning a machine gun mounted over the cab. The trucks slammed to a halt, and Allston’s eyes narrowed as an army major got out of the lead truck. He was heavyset and his potbelly strained at the buttons on his uniform. A web belt was strapped around his middle with a holster holding a large, well-used automatic.

“The commander of the army garrison in town,” Lane whispered. “A real bastard.”

“Major Hamid Waleed, Army of Sudan,” the newcomer announced in a rapid-fire, staccato bark. “Don’t you salute your superior officers?”Allston extended his right hand. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel David Allston, United States Air Force. At your service.” The major ignored the outstretched hand. “And, yes, I do salute my superior officers.” He almost added a ‘Don’t you?’ but thought better of it.

Waleed flushed at the rebuke that he had not recognized Allston’s rank and was out-ranked. “Colonel Allston,” Waleed said, “I’m here to investigate an unauthorized landing and possible smuggling.” He gestured at the C-17.

“Just routine resupply,” Allston explained.

“Still, I must investigate. Orders, you know. As a military man, I’m sure you understand I have no choice.” He spoke to his men in Arabic and gave them lengthy instructions.

Libby walked calmly over to Loni Williams and spoke in a low voice. Williams nodded and quickly disappeared behind the C-17. The pudgy captain then joined Allston. “I speak Arabic,” he said in a low voice, his back to Waleed. “He just told his men that he wants the engine that came off the Globemaster.”

“What the hell for? What can they do with it? That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does if you’re an Arab. He’s establishing his authority. He figures that the engine is the most valuable thing that was offloaded.”