Waleed smiled. “The Americans will be punished. Their leaders have no stomach for a fight and they will leave. Without their airplanes, the French will not be able to reach out to harm you.”
“Insh’ Allah,” Jahel replied.
Waleed pulled a folded chart out of his hip pocket. “It is truly as God wills,” he said, unfolding the chart. He pointed to a village one hundred miles to the south. “Can you be there in two days?” Jahel nodded and Waleed smiled. “We will be waiting for you.”
“Insh’ Allah,” Jahel said. “Be careful, commander of falcons. These infidels know how to fight.” He reined his horse around and headed to the south.
Malakal
A volley of small-arms fire echoed from the makeshift firing range the security cops had built on the far side of the compound and woke Allston. He turned over and tried to go back to sleep. Another volley echoed outside his tent-trailer. Automatically, he checked his watch. It was 6:30 Sunday morning and he had slept in. He sat on the edge of his bunk and slowly came to life. What was he going to do about Jill Sharp? Dick Lane had returned empty-handed, and she was still missing after ten days. As best Lane could learn, Jill had interviewed the UN Head of Mission in Addis Ababa about the rescue of the Legionnaires at Wer Ping, and then taken off for Djibouti where she had contacted the US Air Force detachment operating from the airfield. From there, she had disappeared. Where the hell are you? Allston raged to himself.
A knock at his door brought him to his feet. “Colonel!” it was G.G. “A UN supply truck just rolled in with Major Sharp.”
That particular problem went up in smoke only to be replaced with a simmering anger. “Where is she?”
“Waiting in Ops.”
“On my way.” He quickly dressed and pulled on his boots as his anger flared. G.G. was waiting for him outside. Together, they headed for the hangar offices as another volley echoed from the firing range. He noticed that G.G. was wearing a web belt with a holstered .45 automatic and an ammunition pouch. “I see you qualified.”
G.G. shifted the weight of the .45 further back on his hip. “Yep” was all he said as he tilted his bush hat forward. He wore the hat and sidearm with pride.
The woman waiting for him was a far cry from the neat and impeccably uniformed officer he had last seen. Her ABUs and boots were filthy, her hair grimy and matted down, her fingernails broken, knuckles scraped, and a vicious bruise on her right cheek. Only her face and hands were clean. She drew herself to attention and braced for a reprimand. “You’ve been through the wringer,” Allston said, fighting the urge to shout. “What in hell happened?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, “I need five hundred dollars.”
Allston exhaled, his relief obvious. “My second wife always opened a conversation like that.”
“I need to pay off the truck driver. I had to bribe him to get here.”
“You really need a bath, Major. You’re way past your expiration date.” She didn’t reply. “One question. You came in on a UN truck, right?” She nodded. “So why do you have to bribe the driver?”
“Because his load was never meant to get here.” She smiled at the confused look on Allston’s face. “Corruption. By the way, that was two questions. Bath time. Please take care of my driver.”
Allston watched her leave. “Please take care of my driver,” he groused. But for some reason, he didn’t really mind. “G.G. go hit up the APO for five hundred, my account.” The postal clerk was also the unit’s paymaster and informal bank.
“Colonel,” Jill said, “I need to get my report off soonest. It’s way overdue.” A much different Jill stood in front of Allston and Vermullen. She was dead tired but squeaky clean and fresh in a clean set of ABUs. Her hair glowed, framing her face, and her blue eyes were clear. Allston was stunned, for in her own unique way, she was beautiful. He got a grip and chalked his reaction up to the ‘only woman available’ syndrome. Jill plugged her computer into the detachment’s system and the report was on the wires within seconds. “That’s going to stir up a hornet’s nest,” she said. An explanation was in order. She typed a command into her computer and spun it around for Allston to read the report.
“Ah, shit,” he moaned. “Idi, you need to read this.” The big Frenchman read the report without comment. Allston motioned her to a chair. She sat down gracefully, her wide hips almost filling the seat. He stifled an inward groan and looked away. She was too full-figured to meet the beauty standards demanded by Hollywood and fashion magazines, but she was incredibly alluring and he was suddenly aware of an aching void in his life. He forced himself to concentrate. “Okay, what happened?”
Jill related how she had interviewed the UN head of mission and his two cohorts, the Zulu chief and Nigerian general, who she called the three stooges. They had talked around her in French and Swahili, assuming that she was a typical American and only spoke English. Fortunately, she was fluent in both languages. Based on what she heard, she filled in the gaps and was certain the three men were selling UN supplies to the highest bidder on the black market. Her problem was proving it. “From Addis,” she continued, “I went to Djibouti where all UN supplies arriving by ship are offloaded. The Air Force detachment there is a study in frustration and the UN won’t allow them to airlift even a toothpick into the Sudan. It’s all got to go by truck, so I bribed my way onto a UN truck convoy that was destined for Malakal. That’s when it got interesting.”
She recounted how the fourteen-truck convoy was never meant to reach its destination and had lost five trucks in the first two hundred miles. By the time they reached the Sudan border, they were down to three trucks. Two of the trucks disappeared that night and the only way she was able to continue was by paying more bribes. But she ran out of money and had to promise the driver she would pay him even more when they reached Malakal. It had been touch and go and at one point she was certain he was going to abandon her. “It got a little physical, but I convinced him otherwise. Based on what I overheard from the drivers, about one truck in ten reaches its destination. I don’t know how much the three stooges are skimming off the top, but it’s substantial. You should see their homes and cars in Addis.”
“Not to mention their women,” Allston grumbled. “It sounds like the African version of the Iraqi ‘Oil for Food’ scam is alive and well.”
“That’s the good part,” Jill said. “Apparently, the three stooges promised the Sudanese government that the UN peacekeepers would not react to any incident by the Janjaweed as long as they get their kickbacks.”
“Well, we certainly have been reacting lately,” Allston said. “Which is contrary to their game plan.”
Jill nodded. “According to the jungle telegraph, the three stooges popped a few hemorrhoids when you rescued the crew that crashed at the refugee camp.”
“So you heard about that even when traveling in the outback,” Vermullen said.
“The jungle telegraph,” Jill replied, “is very efficient.” She didn’t mention the rumor of a deal cut between the UN commissioners and the Sudanese government over oil.
G.G. knocked at the door. “They’re back,” he sang. “The honorable Major Hamid Waleed and crew.”
“What the hell does he want now?” Allston groused, still angry from the last time they had met.
“The supply truck Major Sharp came in on,” G.G. answered.
Allston jammed on his hat and ran out of his office. “No fucking way.” Vermullen, Jill, and G.G. were right behind him.
“We’re due for re-supply,” Vermullen said.
“If what’s on the truck is yours, you’ll get it,” Allston promised. He slowed when he saw Waleed. “G.G., translate for me. Tell him to get the fuck off my base.”