Richard Herman - The Peacemakers

“Colonel!” Marci shouted. “There’s a kid on the road!”

“Got him,” Allston replied. He had a problem. There was not enough room to stop or to swerve. Luckily, the aircraft was lightweight and they were accelerating smartly. But could they come unglued from the dirt road in the distance remaining? Allston pulled back on the yoke and willed the Hercules to break free of the shackles that bound it to the earth. It did. “Gear up,” he ordered. Marci’s left hand flashed and snapped the gear lever on the instrument panel to the retract position.

BermaNur wanted the aircraft to hit him. He firmly believed Allah would honor his sacrifice and wreak vengeance on the Americans. But the plane passed safely overhead. He turned to the north and saw the band of horsemen charging towards him. It was Jahel. He faced the riders and steeled his will to resist any blame for not stopping the Americans from leaving.

On board the Hercules, the gear was moving. Allston leveled off at 200 feet above the ground and turned out to the east, avoiding the village. He looked back and saw the boy standing in the road, unhurt. The gear clunked into place. “Who were the guys on the horses?” he wondered.

Malakal

The C-130 turned off the runway and Allston taxied slowly into the compound. “Sweet Jesus,” Riley, the flight engineer, said. “I was certain we were gonna hit that kid.”

“It was close,” Allston said. He gave them his crooked grin. “No harm, no foul. Feather the outboards.” Riley shut down engines one and four. “Check that out,” Allston said. The area was a beehive of activity. The four Hercules were marshaled into rows, two on each side of the ramp, their noses pointed inward. A fire truck was washing the last one down and the Herks gleamed in the sun, their white paint clean and radiant. A smiling Loni Williams threw them a sharp salute when they taxied past. A crew chief and two wing walkers ran out to meet them and backed them into an open spot on the left. The fire truck drove up, closely followed by a fuel browser.

“I’ll be damned,” Riley muttered. “The place looks like military.”

A white pickup slammed to a stop in front of the nose and a bird-like woman dressed in the same style ABU that Allston wore got out. Her UN blue beret was perched jauntily on her short and curly brown hair and she wore big sunglasses, reminding Allston of a chipmunk. She stood five foot two and paced nervously back and forth. “Is that our Colonel Malaby?” Allston mused.

“The one and only,” Riley replied.

They shut the engines down. “Loadmaster,” Allston said over the intercom, “stay on board and help the crew chiefs sweep out all the crap on the cargo deck. Then clean the bird up, make it shine.” He got out of the seat and deplaned to meet Malaby.

She was more than ready for him. “Lieutenant Colonel Susan Malaby,” she snapped, introducing herself. She charged ahead. “Colonel, you’ve managed to drive whatever morale that was still hiding around here into the dirt, and are now the most hated man south of the Pentagon. And you did all that within twenty minutes after getting here. That’s got to be a record.”

Allston cocked his head and thought for a moment, sizing her up. “Tell you what, Colonel. You worry about getting the planes flying and I’ll worry about morale. And that’s south of Bumfuck Egypt, not the Pentagon.”

“Bumfuck Egypt? I never heard of it.”

“According to legend, Bumfuck was the worst assignment in the whole fucking Air Farce.” He looked around. “In fact, that’s what we’re gonna call this place, Bumfuck South. See if you can get a sign painted.”

“My job is fixing aircraft, not painting signs. Get me the parts we need and I’ll get ’em flying.”

“Will do. For now, cannibalize like hell.” She looked at him in shock. Removing parts from a downed aircraft to keep others flying took special permission that required reams of paperwork. Getting a Papal Dispensation was easier and faster. Before she could answer, the colonel in charge of the accident investigation team joined them.

“Colonel Allston, a word. I’ve talked to my team and we’re going to report the most probable cause of the accident as structural failure, not pilot error or hostile action. We’re going to recommend your aircraft be grounded pending inspection.”

“Well,” Malaby said, “that ends this discussion.”

“Not hardly,” Allston said. “Get ’em fixed and make ’em shine. And I still want that sign. That’s all, Colonel.”

He headed for the air-conditioned offices attached to the side of the big hangar to meet the rest of his staff. Major Dick Lane, his Ops Officer, and two other majors were waiting for him. One was his Logistics Officer who managed supplies and moved cargo, and the other was the Facilities Commander who took care of everything else. They escorted him on a quick tour as they briefed him on his detachment: five C-130s and 162 personnel, counting Allston. Thirty-four were aircrew, eighty-two were maintenance, twenty-two were logistics, and sixteen were facilities who took care of the mess hall, billeting, communications, administration, and the buildings. Finally, there were eight security police. The big hangar was shared by maintenance and logistics for handling relief supplies. Behind the hangar, twenty air-conditioned personnel tents along with four sleeping trailers and three huge white tents were scattered haphazardly around the area. The personnel tents were used for billeting, and two of the big tents were for warehousing relief supplies. The last white tent served as the mess hall and recreation center. The fuel dump was set well back from the hangar and near the main gate and the road that led into town. The two black, and very big fuel bladders made Allston think of giant amoebas poised to mate.

They were back in the offices within thirty minutes where an e-mail was waiting on his laptop. His United Nations masters in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, demanded his immediate presence. He checked the time. It had been a long day and the hour was late. He replied that he would be there as soon as airlift permitted. Next, he called up his secure line and sent an e-mail to Fitzgerald.

Some magic is needed here. Three Herks non-operational for parts. Need to X-ray the wing spars ASAP or will ground the fleet. Request an airdrop-qualified navigator.

Allston hit the send button and went to dinner in the big mess tent. He had to turn morale around and the best place to start was with the working troops.

African Union Headquarters, Ethiopia

The driver spoke English non-stop on the four-mile drive from Addis Abba’s Bole International Airport. “We are here, Mr. Colonel. This is the headquarters for the African Union. The United Nations stays here.” He pointed down Menelik II, the broad avenue with a wide tree-lined median, “and there, at the Hilton hotel.”

“Why the Hilton?” Allston asked.

The driver laughed as he pulled to a stop in front of the steps leading to a modern office high-rise. “For lunch and afternoon activities when there is no work. Which is every day. Follow the signs to the UN Economic Commission for Africa in the third building.” He turned around in his seat and gave Allston a serious look. “Hey, mon, they are not going to like seeing you in that uniform.” Laughing at his own wisdom, the driver gunned the engine and shot into the heavy traffic. Allston trotted up the steps and into the main foyer. He immediately felt out of place as well-dressed men and women hurried past, all holding folders or briefcases and wearing looks of purposeful resolve.

The beautiful woman at the information desk frowned when he signed in. She gave him a visitor’s badge. “Follow the signs,” was all she said.