“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.”
“Crap! So I’ve just got to stand here and let him take it?”
“Maybe not,” Libby said. “Let me talk to him. While I distract him, tell the C-17 to start engines and be ready to taxi when I give the high sign. Tell the aircraft commander to kick up dust and hose the place down with his jet wash.”
Allston didn’t hesitate. “Do it.” Lane spoke into his communicator to make it happen. “Major Waleed,” Allston called. “May we speak for a moment? May I introduce my protocol officer, Captain Libby?”
Libby made a big show of saluting Waleed and broke into a torrent of Arabic as the C-17 started engines. The surprised Waleed could only stare at Libby as he gushed on, an unbroken torrent of words as he waved his hands. Both Allston and Lane caught the ‘chocks out’ signal and Lane spoke into his communicator. Immediately, the huge cargo plane started to move as its big turbofan engines spun up. The aircraft commander rode the brakes as he taxied out and swerved back and forth, blasting the ramp and kicking up a huge cloud of fine dust. The C-17 turned onto the runway and stopped. The engines ran up and the big plane surged forward, taking off.
One of Waleed’s soldiers ran up, still coughing from the dust, and spoke rapidly. Libby translated for Allston and Lane. “He says the aircraft was empty.”
Waleed wiped his face with a grimy handkerchief. “My sergeant says that the only unauthorized item was an engine that was brought in.” Libby immediately protested in Arabic but Waleed only smiled. “It is not for me to determine what is contraband. I am only following orders.” Libby gave up and pointed to a dolly with the engine. Waleed spoke to his men and they quickly hitched it to the lead truck. Waleed barked a command and climbed on board. The two trucks sped away, towing the bouncing engine.
Malaby drove up in her pickup and got out. “What did they want with the old engine?” she asked.
Allston and Lane turned to Libby who only shrugged with a sheepish look on his face. “We distracted ’em while Sergeant Williams did the old switcheroo.” They all stared at the strange looking captain. “Hey, if you’re not cheating, you’re not doing your job,” Libby said in his own defense.
Allston knew when he was in the presence of a warrior, no matter how he looked. “Welcome to Bumfuck South, G.G. You wouldn’t happen to be drop qualified, would you?”
“Done a few,” Libby replied, “and won a few bucks.” He had been on countless airdrop missions delivering everything from paratroopers to bulldozers. In his small world, he was the king of drop-qualified navigators and had won so many bets about whose load landed the closest to the mark that only the unknowing bet against him. He thought for a moment. “You want the old engine back?”
“You can do that?” Malaby asked.
“I think Sergeant Williams and I might be able to arrange something.”
“Don’t get your ass in a crack,” Allston replied.
Allston and his small staff walked into the big hangar just after midnight. The four-man maintenance crew that had flown in on the C-17 had been working since they had arrived and were exhausted. They had erected a high framework on wheels that arched over the wing. A large black box was on the topside of the framework and mounted on a track that moved fore and aft as the framework traversed the length of the wing. The sergeant in charge explained that it was the very latest in X-ray technology combined with sonic scanning, and that when fully assembled and calibrated, they could scan the wing spars for cracks and traces of metal fatigue. “Normally it doesn’t take too long to do the actual scan, but since the hangar here is not air conditioned, heat buildup is going to be a problem. Keeping the equipment in calibration is going to be a bitch.”
“Do we have to prep the aircraft?” Malaby asked. The sergeant explained in detail that the aircraft had to be totally defueled as the fuel tanks were in the wings, and which inspection panels had to be removed. “That will take some time,” Malaby conceded. “I’ll have to stand them down to get them ready.”
Allston thought for a moment. “Prep and scan our two OR birds first” — OR meant operationally ready — “and get them back into the air ASAP. Do the three hangar queens last. How long before all five will be OR?” Malaby and the sergeant conferred. They agreed they could have all five C-130s flying in six days, provided the wing spars all scanned clean and free of cracks. “We need to talk.” Allston led Malaby, Lane and the other two majors into the offices on the side of the hangar. The air conditioner ground noisily, barely able to hold the temperature down to eighty-five degrees.
“We’re going to hustle the next six days,” Allston told them. “We’re going to fix the Herks while we keep flying, and we’re going to make this place look military. Move the tents and trailers into straight rows. Clean everything up. Cut down all the brush. Paint everything you can. Inventory the supply tents and find out exactly what we’ve got in the way of relief supplies. And get the tents organized.” The four officers stared at him in astonishment. “And set up a decent laundry service. I’m tired of everyone smelling like a goat and looking like they crawled out from under a rock.” He paused and smiled. “Hey, at least no one needs a haircut. Next, we got a problem with the fuel dump. We need to build a berm around the bladders to contain any leaks. Hire a local with a Bulldozer. Make it happen.”
“Finally, I’d like every Dick and Jane here to fly on a relief mission. I want them to see what I saw at Abyei. But it is voluntary.” He looked at them. “Any questions?” Four very unhappy officers left him alone as he turned on his laptop computer and called up his secure line to send an e-mail to Fitzgerald.
Estimate fully operational in six days. Need more Security Police and 200 side arms.
He hit the encrypt/send button and went to bed.
FOUR
Malakal
The early morning shadows retreated across the parking ramp and the five C-130s gleamed in the growing light. It was the coolest part of the day as the compound came to life, and the big hangar doors accordioned back to reveal a vacant and spotless interior. The floors had been painted and the maintenance stand used for X-raying the wings disassembled. The inspection team stood by their loaded pallet, looking very pleased with themselves. Outside, Allston and his staff walked around the aircraft. “Colonel Malaby,” Allston said, “well done.”
“Thank you, sir. Please tell the troops.” Then, “Oh no!” She pointed to a big banner stretched high across the front of the hangar announcing BUMFUCK SOUTH. “Who did that?” Allston suppressed a laugh. He suspected a gremlin named Loni Williams had been at work. “I’ll get it down,” Malaby said.
“Leave it,” Allston replied. They walked into the hangar as it filled with men and women, all wearing freshly laundered flightsuits or ABUs, and the UN blue beret.
“Well,” Dick Lane said, “this may be the first Air Force open ranks inspection ever held in Africa.” The four halted as the detachment formed up in ragged groups. Lane groaned loudly. “You can dress ’em up, but you can’t take ’em out.”
“Call the detachment to attention,” Allston told Lane. Malaby and the two other majors stood behind Allston as Lane marched forward. He stopped and came to attention.