“Do it,” Fitzgerald said.
“We’ll get on it.”
The intercom buzzed. “General,” Mary said, “your call to France is on the secure line.”
“I need to take this,” Fitzgerald said. The spook smiled and excused himself.
Malakal
Allston walked through the hangar that was packed with maintenance equipment and cargo pallets ready to be loaded on relief missions. He stopped and stared at the engine dolly holding an Allison T-56 turboprop engine parked at the end of a neat row. Where did that come from? he wondered. Outside, he heard a C-130 taxi in. He glanced at his watch. It was the last mission of the day and all his aircrews and aircraft were safely recovered. The unyielding tension that bound him tight yielded a notch and he breathed easier. But it would all repeat itself the next day, and every day after that as long as he commanded the 4440th and sent his aircrews into harm’s way. It was a burden few sane men or women chose to carry, and fewer yet who could do it successfully. He walked into operations.
Inside, G.G. was sitting behind the counter monitoring the radio, his feet up on the desk, the microphone in his left hand. He keyed the mike. “That’s it for the day, Marci.” He noted the C-130’s landing time on the big tracking board and turned to his commander. “All five birds back, OR, and good to go.”
“G.G., did you have anything to do with that engine out there?”
“Guilty. Me and Loni, er, Sergeant Williams, convinced a few misguided souls they didn’t really want it.”
“How did you do that?” Allston asked. He wasn’t really sure he wanted to know.
“Magic, sir, pure magic.” G.G. laughed. “I did a few slight-of-hand tricks and then offered to not tell their futures.” He flicked his fingers and produced a big coin from nowhere. “No Muslim wants to know the day he will die.” Now Allston was sure he didn’t want to know any more.
The office rapidly filled as a sergeant and four airmen filed in. They threw their blue berets on the counter and stood there, big grins on their faces. “We flew with Captain Jenkins today,” the sergeant announced. They had come for their bush hats. G.G. rummaged in a nearby cardboard box.
“Learn anything?” Allston asked.
“Yes, sir,” a young airman answered. She looked all of sixteen. “The Dinka are hurting.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve never seen starving children before.” G.G. handed her a hat and she held it, caressing the brim. “I gotta do something.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Allston said.
She slung the hat over her head, and let it hang on her back. The others quickly fitted theirs and did the same. The sergeant stood tall. “Irregulars, a-ten-HUT!” The five came to attention and threw Allston a salute.
“Welcome aboard,” Allston said, returning their salutes. They quickly filed out, eager to wear their hats outside.
“The hats are working, Boss,” G.G. said.
“It’s not the hats,” Allston told him. “It’s about unit identification and having a mission.” He walked into his office and opened the safe to get his laptop computer. He sat down to answer the mail. As usual, he had over a hundred messages. He scanned them, looking for the important ones. Richards in the office of Military-Political Affairs had sent six pages of detailed and revised Rules of Operations he was to adhere to. However, the important message was a one-liner from Fitzgerald.
Coordinate with and support Col Vermullen to max extent possible.
“What the hell is going on?” he wondered to no one. He warned himself to quit thinking out loud. He returned his computer to the safe and went to the mess tent for dinner.
The knock on Allston’s trailer door came after midnight. “Colonel,” G.G. called. “You’re needed in Ops.” Allston came awake with a rush and sat on the edge of his bed. He turned on the light and checked the time - 0135 hours. He pulled on a flightsuit and staggered to the door. G.G. was waiting anxiously outside. “The French peacekeepers have got their ass in a crack,” G.G. explained, “and a Colonel Vermullen is here talking to Major Lane. They need to talk to you.” The two men hurried for the big hangar. “Vermullen is one big mean-looking dude and his driver is some old Kraut who looks like he was left over from World War II.”
“They’re French Foreign Legion. Sort of like a cross between our Rangers and Special Forces.”
“I wouldn’t want to mess with them.”
The Vermullen waiting for Allston was far different from the uniformed dandy he had met in Addis Ababa. He was dressed for combat and carried a stubby FAMAS G2 assault rifle that had been modified with a day/night optical sight and a laser range finder. A Browning 9mm automatic hung from his webbed equipment belt and two cords led from his helmet, one to a radio/GPS on his belt and the other to the optical sight on his assault rifle. The way he stood and his quiet manner left no doubt that he was a warrior. His driver and constant shadow, Private Hans Beck, stood at his back. “I understand you’ve got a problem, Colonel,” Allston said.
Vermullen pulled a map out of a thigh pocket and spread it out. He pointed to a village. “This is Wer Ping, 305 kilometers to the west of here. I sent a patrol, twelve men and three trucks, to investigate a report the Janjaweed had tortured and murdered the villagers. The patrol was ambushed and are trapped on a road outside the village.” Vermullen drew a small square on the east side of the village. “According to their GPS, they are here.”
Allston automatically converted the 305 kilometers to 190 miles, less than an hour’s flying time from Malakal. The threat was getting closer. “Is Wer Ping a Dinka village?” Vermullen confirmed it was. Allston studied the map for a few moments. “Not much to go on.”
G.G. typed a command into his computer and a high-resolution satellite photograph flashed on the screen. He turned it towards the two men. “Based on those coordinates, it looks like they’re caught on this north/south section of road next to the river.” An expectant look crossed his round face. “Airdrop? If the legionnaires secure the area, we can land on the road to extract them.”
It was obvious Vermullen was thinking the same thing. “All my men are parachutistes and are preparing now.”
Allston made a decision. “Let’s do it. How many troops are we talking about and where are they?”
“I’ll have 120 ready in an hour. They are at our base in Beica.”
Allston was shocked. “In Ethiopia? A hell of a lot of good you’re doin’ there.” He was angry. By positioning Vermullen’s peacekeeping force 200 miles away to the east, the UN had left his small contingent of Americans totally exposed to the threat coming from the west.
“That’s where the UN placed us,” Vermullen replied. “I am aware that you are uncovered here. But then, our UN masters are not concerned with the tactical situation on the ground.”
Allston made a decision. He turned to his Ops Officer, Major Lane. “Dick, lay on two Herks to bring the paratroopers here ASAP. While that’s happening, I want two crews to start briefing for the airdrop.” He ran a mental list of his pilots. “I’ll lead in number one with Bard Green in the right seat. G.G. gets to earn his money and does the airdrop. The aircraft commander for number two is Marci Jenkins. You pick the rest of the crews and hold things together here. If we hustle, we can drop at first light.”
Lane looked doubtful. “We’re winging this. Too many unknowns. It’s gonna get tricky.”
“Demerdez-vous!” Allston said. Vermullen roared with laughter.
Lane was totally perplexed. “Whaa?”
“Demerdez-vous! is the Legion’s unofficial slogan,” Vermullen said. “It means ‘Make Do.’”