Richard Herman - The Peacemakers

“Nice landing,” the flight engineer murmured. It had been years since he had seen an approach and landing that precise. Even the reluctant Marci was impressed.

They came to a halt as two white pickups from the village raced out to meet them. “That must be the welcoming committee,” Allston said.

“They’re UN relief workers,” Marci replied.

“Loadmaster,” Allston said over the intercom. “Tell the investigation team I’m going to arrange transportation to the crash site and they’ve got four hours to get back here. I will leave without them.” He grinned at Marci as he unbuckled. “That should get their attention. Okay folks, let’s go make it happen.”

“No way I’m gonna miss this,” the flight engineer said. The entire crew followed Allston outside to wait for the surprised relief workers to arrive. Within minutes, Allston convinced the four relief workers that they had made a precautionary landing to check out an unsafe condition, traded the pallet of supplies for use of their trucks, and sent the investigation team on their way to the crash site. “Four hours,” he yelled at them. “Let’s go look at the refugee camp,” he said to Marci.

Nothing in Allston’s experience had prepared him for what was waiting inside the compound walls. Dirty, gaunt-eyed children with swollen bellies sat in the dirt as flies swirled through the still, stifling, acrid air. Their eyes followed the Americans in silence. A mother nursed a dying infant, and Marci looked away, the only way she could handle it. Without a word, a relief worker led them to a makeshift hospital. “There’s not much we can do,” the woman explained. She bent over a three year-old child lying in a cot. Her right arm had been blown off by an AK-47 round and her stomach ripped open. “What you brought today will help and we might be able to save her.”

The little girl looked at him, her beautiful dark eyes calm, not begging, not pleading for help. She reached out with her left hand and held his right index finger. Something deep in Allston turned. “Who did this?” he asked.

“Janjaweed.” The relief worker related how the Baggara, Arabized nomads from the state of Western Darfur, had been organized into militias by the Sudanese government and unleashed in a campaign of genocide against the non-Islamic African tribes of the south. “At first, the killing was limited to Darfur, but the Baggara have moved eastward and brought their families with them. The South Sudanese are fighting back as best they can but this is more typical.”

Allston looked at the wounded child. “I mean, who specifically did this?”

“The villagers say it was Jahel. He’s the leader of the local Fursan, or horsemen of the Rizeigat tribe. About one-fourth of the village is Rizeigat. The Fursan consider themselves the elite warriors of the Baggara. They openly brag they shot the C-130 down.” She looked at the infant. “I don’t know why he does this.”

A burning sensation clawed at Allston. “Apparently this Jahel likes to kill and maim innocent children.”

“And you never dropped a bomb on civilians?” the relief worker asked.

“Not knowingly,” Allston replied. Strangely, he was not upset by her question that was really an accusation. “And they were always doing their damnedest to kill me at the time.” He paused, thinking. “The Rizeigat and Africans seem to be getting along here.”

“Only because we’re here,” the relief worker replied. “We’re all that’s between them and starvation. The moment we pull out, the Rizeigat will massacre the Dinkas.”

The burning sensation in Allston grew more intense. “Is the child Dinka?”

The worker’s simple “Yes” pounded at Allston. He had to walk away. Marci stared at his back. “Let him be,” the worker counseled. She had seen it before when the barbarity of the Sudan tore a person apart. “He has to make a decision.”

Allston made it. There were no second thoughts or doubts, and he knew it was right. He turned to the two women, forever changed. “I’ll do what I can. Let’s go.” He spun around and walked out of the camp, back to the waiting Hercules.

Marci hurried after him, not understanding what had happened to him. “There’s nothing you can do, Colonel.”

Allston kept walking, his eyes sweeping the village, taking it all in. He fixed her with a hard, challenging look. “I didn’t sign up to ignore this. Did you?”

BermaNur squatted in front of his mother’s hut and shoveled the last of the sorghum porridge into his mouth. He used a finger to wipe the pot and sucked it clean. The teenager froze when the two Americans walked past. The man was wearing an army style uniform and the woman the flightsuit he had seen so many times before. He came to his feet and ran into the hut for his communicator. He hit the transmit switch. “Jahel, the Americans are in the village now.” He had already warned the sheik that the C-130 had landed.

“How did this happen?” Jahel asked. BermaNur heard the clatter of trotting hooves in the background.

“There was no warning the Americans were coming this time.” He had to make Jahel understand. “There is always warning.”

“They must not take off,” Jahel replied.

“I will stop them,” the teenager said. He ran after the Americans, determined to keep his promise. He reached the road and scrambled up the same low hummock as before. The Hercules was parked on the road, two hundred meters in front of him. He sat down to wait. His eyes narrowed as children from the village swarmed around the Americans, begging for food. With nothing left to give, the tall American pilot picked up one of the children and carried him piggyback as he walked around the big plane, giving the flock of older boys an impromptu tour.

Allston sat the child down when the accident investigation team returned. The colonel leading the team climbed out of the lead pickup, weary and dirty. “How did it go?” Allston asked.

The colonel shook his head. “We didn’t have near enough time. We took photos and what measurements we could.” He paused, obviously upset. “We found the graves. Someone had buried them.” He reached into his pocket and handed Allston a handful of dog tags. “One of the relief workers had these.” Allston read the five names and handed them to Marci.

Her face was a mask. “They were my buddies.” She handed the dog tags back to the colonel.

“Any idea what caused the crash?” Allston asked.

“The site has been looted and even with a full-blown investigation, we’ll never know for certain now. But it wasn’t a surface-to-air missile.”

“That means pilot error,” Allston said, “or mechanical failure.”

“It wasn’t pilot error,” Marci said, conviction in her voice. “Anne was too damn good a pilot.”

“Lieutenant Colonel McKenzie?” Allston asked, a little surprised by the familiarity. Marci nodded. Allston thought for a moment. He nodded. “Okay, lets go.” He shook hands with the boys who still surrounded them and led the way onto the C-130. The loadmaster pulled up the stairs and locked the hatch.

Apprehension swept over BermaNur when a propeller started to turn. By the time all four engines were on line, he was on his feet and filled with worry. When the big aircraft reversed thrust and backed down the road for takeoff, he panicked. He keyed his communicator, “Jahel! They are leaving!”

“We’re almost there,” came the answer. “Stop them!”

The teenager didn’t know what to do but the aircraft had stopped at the far end of the road. The nose lowered as the engines spun up and the props bit into the air. The aircraft started to roll. In the distance, far behind the aircraft, he saw a cloud of dust that had to be Jahel and his band of Fursan. Now the Hercules was roaring down the dirt road, coming directly at him and away from the charging horsemen. BermaNur ran out into the road and held up his arms, willing the plane to stop.