“Make it happen,” Fitzgerald replied, “but get over there.” He watched her as she rushed out of his office. “Welcome to the real Air Force.” He opened a folder and went back to work. It was an unsigned authorization to provide the 4440th with side arms. He ground his teeth in exasperation. He had down-channeled Allston’s request almost three weeks before and not one officer in logistics had the balls to authorize it. He scribbled his signature in bold letters and wrote ‘Action today. Delivery within 72 hours.’ He crossed out the seventy-two and wrote ‘36.’
Malakal
“It’s unusually cool this morning,” Allston said as he joined Dick Lane and Susan Malaby on the ramp as a C-17 taxied in.
“Right,” Lane agreed. “It must be all of eighty. Down right tolerable. Won’t even break a sweat today.” The two men laughed.
Malaby didn’t join in and was all business. “The C-17 wasn’t on the schedule.”
“Indeed,” Allston replied. I’m hoping Major Sharp is on board.” They hadn’t heard from the Intelligence officer in four days and he was worried. The thought of what could happen to a pretty redhead running around Africa alone was very disturbing. The C-17 swung around and came to a halt, its nose to the runway. The engines did not stop as a loadmaster jumped off the ramp under the tail. He motioned and twelve Security Policemen deplaned as a loader arrived from the hangar. Six pallets quickly rolled off the C-17 as an Irregular signed the manifest. The loadmaster climbed back on board and the ramp came up. Within moments, the big cargo aircraft taxied out and turned onto the runway. The three officers watched as it took off. “That was quick,” Allston said. The big airlifter had been on the ground less than ten minutes.
“And no Major Sharp,” Lane said. “We’re gonna have to go find her, Boss.”
“I was afraid of that. Any suggestions who we send?”
“G.G. speaks Arabic,” Lane said. “He talks to the locals all the time. We could always use a little muscle. Maybe Colonel Vermullen could lend us some of his.”
“I’ll ask him,” Allston replied. He turned to Malaby. “Lay on a C-130, ASAP.” She spoke into her personal communicator, making it happen. “Dick,” Allston continued, “I’d like you to honcho it. Bard Green in your right seat.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Lane replied. Allston liked what he heard and he was getting the responses he wanted.
One of the passengers from the C-17 marched up. He was a big and young-looking security cop. He snapped a sharp salute and introduced himself — Master Sergeant Jerry Malone from Dover Air Force Base, Delaware. Allston returned the salute. “Welcome to Bumfuck South,” Allston said. “Please tell your men we don’t salute in the open. Don’t want someone taking pot shots.”
“Will do, sir. You don’t happen to have a Staff Sergeant Loni Williams here?”
“We do. You know him?”
“In a manner of speaking. We babysat him when he was in our confinement facility.”
“What was he locked up for?” Lane asked.
“Barroom brawl. The Air Force dropped the charges and we released him. A few days later, the Dover police produced a warrant for his arrest for striking a cop. But he was over here by then. We’re still scratching our heads over how he did that.”
“Well, Sergeant Malone,” Allston said, “I’d like to keep him here for awhile.” Malone didn’t understand. “He’s useful,” Allston explained.
“We got a couple of more just like him on ice back at Dover.”
“I can use ’em,” Allston replied. As a commander, he had learned a very inconvenient truth. When things got rough, the best men for the job were often in the slammer.
“Can I take Williams along?” Lane asked.
“You got him,” Allston said. He turned to Malone. “Is there anything else, Sergeant?”
“I need someone to sign for two-hundred side arms.”
“Sign for what?” Malaby blurted.
“For two-hundred Colt .45 semi-automatic pistols with holsters, belts, and ammunition,” Malone replied. “As requested.”
“Is that the Colt they call the Peacemaker?” Lane asked.
“No, sir,” Malone answered. “That was the old Colt .45 six-shooter, sometimes called the Single Action Army. These are the Colt 1911A, forty-five caliber, semi–automatics. These puppies may be old but they’ve got stopping power. You either love ’em or hate ’em, depending on which end of the barrel you’re looking down.”
“Better to be the peacemaker than the target,” Allston added. “Sergeant Malone, get everyone trained and issue them a weapon.”
“Colonel,” Malaby protested, “someone will shoot their foot off.”
“Not after I train them,” Malone promised.
Abyei
BermaNur reined his horse to a halt slightly behind Jahel at the top of a low ridge overlooking the village a mile to the west. The teenager imitated Jahel as he leaned on his saddle’s pommel to wait. A few minutes later, Jahel straightened up and pointed to the north. “There.” Three helicopters hugged the ground as they over flew the horsemen and converged on the village. The Janjaweed tensed as the three Russian-built MI-24 attack helicopters bore down on their target in a vee formation. Jahel turned to BermaNur. “Is your family still there?”
“No, sire. They left with most of the others.” He failed to mention that his mother and sister had flown out on a C-130 with the UN refugee workers the day before. A trail of smoke reached out from the helicopters as they emptied their rocket pods into the village. A series of explosions echoed over the horsemen as the rocket barrage tore the huts apart, killing and maiming the tribesmen who had not escaped.
The helicopters circled to reposition for a strafing run. Jahel sneered at the ugly machines as the burring sound of their 12.7mm Gatling guns split the morning air. “They have no honor, but we are no match for their guns and rockets.”
“But sire,” BermaNur protested, “they are only killing vermin.”
“To have honor, you must face your enemy and look him in the eye when you kill him. There is no honor in this.” He watched dispassionately as the helicopters made repeated passes over the big village, leveling it with high explosive rounds. When there was nothing left to shoot at, they circled over the empty refugee camp and raked it with gunfire. On command, they disengaged and settled to the ground. Jahel reined his horse around and cantered towards the waiting machines. BermaNur followed behind.
Major Hamid Waleed climbed out of the lead helicopter and shoved his thumbs in his web pistol belt as he struck a pose. Rivulets of sweat coursed down his cheeks from under his aviator sunglasses and sweat strains spread across his tight uniform shirt. He stared at two Baggara as they approached. Jahel reined to a halt, but did not dismount. It was the first time the two men had met and they stared at each other, each taking the others measure. Jahel leaned across his pommel. “Salem.”
“And you are?” Waleed demanded in Arabic.
Jahel came erect with a dignity beyond Waleed. “I am Sheikh Amal Jahel of the Rizeigat. I am a cavalier of the Fursan and lead the Janjaweed.” He smiled as if he couldn’t be bothered with Waleed’s credentials. “How may I be of service?”
Waleed caught the implied insult. “And I am Major Hamid Waleed of the Army of the Sudan” — his right hand swept the helicopters — “and commander of these falcons. We finish what you cannot.”
Jahel’s Arabic was not good enough to continue the verbal sparring. “We are not armed to fight the French legionnaires, and we cannot move as swiftly as the Americans.”
“What is your problem?” Waleed replied.
“Because of the Americans, the legionnaires ride the wind. If we are to be your sword and cleanse this land, you must control these infidels.”