G.G. spoke in Arabic and greeted the Sudanese major, carefully following the established rituals. After a lengthy reply from Waleed, the two men babbled on for a few minutes. It was enough for Allston to cool down. They finally reached an end and G.G. turned to Allston. “He says he must confiscate the truck as it is smuggling contraband.”
“What contraband?” Allston demanded.
“Weapons,” Waleed answered in English.
Vermullen headed for the loaded truck, which was still parked in front of the hangar. He ripped off the tarpaulin covering the load. Over half of the crates were clearly marked for the Legion. Vermullen fixed Waleed with a hard stare. For a moment, it was a contest of wills. Then the Frenchman relaxed and looked away. “Let him have it.”
“Why?” Allston demanded. Vermullen jutted his chin towards the hangar. Over a hundred Sudanese soldiers were scattered around the perimeter, their weapons at the ready. In his anger, Allston had lost situational awareness. It was a mistake he would not make again. Waleed shot a look of contempt at Allston and Vermullen, turned and barked a command. Within moments, the loaded truck was moving away as the soldiers followed on foot. Allston burned with anger. Slowly, he regained control and forced himself to calm down. “How are you doing on munitions?” he asked Vermullen.
“We’re getting low,” Vermullen admitted.
“They’re probably taking it to the Sudanese Army dump at Bentiu,” Jill said.
“How do you know that?” Allston asked.
She shrugged. “The truck driver. Some men can’t keep their mouth shut around women.”
Allston pulled a face. “And I thought that only applied to American males.”
“It’s a universal affliction,” Vermullen added. “Leave it for now.” He wasn’t ready to take on Waleed and the Sudanese Army.
NINE
Malakal
Allston stood in the operations office attached to the big hangar and wondered how long the creaky air conditioner in the window had to live. It still managed to keep the temperature down to a relatively reasonable eighty-four degrees but was making ominous sounds. He made a mental note to requisition a new one before the machine’s demise, which was long overdue. A man’s voice crackled over the UHF radio behind the scheduling counter. “UN Flight Ops, this is Dumbo One.” Since he was alone in the office, Alston stretched his arm across the waist-high counter for the remote mike, but couldn’t reach it. “UN Flight Ops,” the voice repeated, now more insistent, “I say again, this is Dumbo One.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a bunch,” Allston muttered. He did an easy arm lift and swung his legs over the counter, landing on the other side.
“You’ll break your neck, Colonel,” Jill called from the doorway. Her voice was cool and reserved as always, the dispassionate observer.
Allston wished he could read her better. He smiled as his slightly misshapen jaw offset to the right and his hazel eyes flashed with amusement. “Piece of cake,” he told her, playing to his fighter pilot image. It normally impressed the ladies, but not Jill Sharp. He scooped up the mike as Captain G.G. Libby finally returned from the latrine. Allston mashed the transmit button. “Dumbo One, UN Flight Ops, go ahead.”
“Roger, UN Flight Ops. Dumbo One is inbound, fifteen minutes out, with a code three. Request priority handling.” A code three was a distinguished visitor equivalent to a four star general or admiral, a cardinal, or a special assistant to the President, someone less than God but much more than a regular passenger.
Allston shot G.G. a look. “Sorry, Colonel,” G.G. replied, “no Dumbos are on the schedule.” Allston tossed the mike to Libby, an unspoken command to deal with it. Since Malakal didn’t have a control tower, Libby checked the meteorological display and keyed the mike. “Dumbo One be advised the wind is calm, altimeter 30.10. Recommend Runway Two-three for landing, no other reported traffic.”
A relieved pilot answered. “Roger, Flight Ops. Request minimum time on the ground for offload and transportation for five passengers.”
“Well,” Jill said, “no code three travels alone.”
Allston gave her chain a little tug. “I think I knew that, Major.” Jill never blinked. “I suppose we should go howdy those folks,” he said. “They won’t appreciate walking in, not in this heat.”
“I’ll get the two six-pacs,” Jill replied. “Their air conditioners are still working and they’ve got room to haul any baggage.” She picked up the phone, spoke a few words in Dinka, and listened to the reply before hanging up. “They’ll be here in five minutes.” For reasons beyond Allston’s understanding, when Jill was involved the locals who worked for the Americans were not on African time, which otherwise meant jacking up the time required by a factor of five. True to her word, the two four-wheel drive pickups with their big crew cabs were waiting outside the hangar in four minutes. Allston and Jill walked out and climbed inside for the short drive to the parking apron. She told the drivers to keep the engines running and the air conditioners on.
The two Air Force officers watched in silence as the C-17 entered the pattern and turned onto the base leg. Allston’s eyes narrowed as the big airlifter came down final and he gauged the approach and landing. “Not bad,” he allowed, paying the pilot a rare compliment.
Libby’s voice came over Allston’s handheld UHF radio. “Dumbo, roll out long and taxi to the parking area at the far end. Transportation is waiting for your code three.” Again, they waited in silence while the C-17 taxied in and a ground crew turned and marshaled it to a stop next to a C-130. The engines spun down and the crew door flopped down. A lone figure deplaned, looked around, and walked towards them.
Allston ran his hand through his short dark hair in frustration. “That’s not the code three. That’s Brigadier General Yvonne Richards.”
Jill was surprised. “You know her?”
“Oh, yeah. She hates my guts and wants my head bad enough to fly sixty-five hundred miles to serve it up.”
Jill was fully aware of his reputation and that Richards was an extremely attractive woman. She gave him the look he couldn’t read. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“Make a strafing run on her? I only met her once, eight weeks ago in the Pentagon. I’m not suicidal, Major.”
“Sorry, sir.” She sat up straight, her eyes wide when she saw the other four passengers step off the C-17. “Is that who I think it is?”
The Dinka driver immediately recognized the actress. “Yes, mum. She comes here many times. She is loved in Africa.”
“So that’s our code three.” Allston shook his head and groaned. “We got better things to do than baby-sit a Hollywood star with White House connections and a clueless one-star. Why would anyone in their right mind come to Malakal?”
Jill opened her door to get out. “It may have something to do with why we’re here.” She paused. “Or maybe it’s about Abyei.”
Allston climbed out of the six-pac to greet Richards as she walked in from the C-17. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the beautiful actress following the general. “Don’t get distracted,” Jill warned. “Richards is all business. Let me handle her as much as I can.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Allston replied. He raked his bush hat to the right angle and walked with measured stride towards Richards. He stopped six feet short and threw her a sharp salute. “Welcome to the 4440th and Malakal,” he said. She returned the salute as Jill joined them. Jill snapped a salute, which the general returned with a little smile.
Richards turned to the actress. “Tara, may I introduce Colonel Allston, the commander of the detachment, and Major Sharp, the detachment’s Intelligence officer.”