Tara Scott was one of those celebrities who truly needed no introduction. She had won two Academy Awards and spent the majority of her fortune on African relief. She was a petite five foot four with dark blonde hair, startling green eyes, and a magnificent figure. She extended her right hand to Allston, instantly captivating him as her ever-present cameraman recorded the scene. “General Richards has told me all about you,” she purred. She introduced the four men with her. Only the cameraman was unarmed and the other three were bodyguards.
Allston gestured at the waiting pickups. “Why don’t we get out of the sun? It’s cooler inside.” Tara smiled at him as she took his hand and climbed into the crew cab. He turned in time to see Richards staring at him. What is she up to? he thought. He held the door for her. “General?” She climbed in for the short drive to the hangar.
The Irregulars were a tight-knit group and word of the actress’s arrival spread like wildfire. Within minutes, everyone who could think of an excuse was gathered in the hangar and craning their necks to get a glimpse of Tara Scott. Vermullen arrived in his battered Panhard utility truck and pushed through the crowd with Hans in tow. Even the old German wanted to meet her.
Richards sucked in her breath when she saw Vermullen. Nothing had prepared her for the shear physical presence of the man. Allston made the introductions and Vermullen snatched off his blue beret. “Mademoiselle Scott, this is indeed a rare privilege. My wife and I were enchanted by your last movie, ‘Flying Blind,’ and your work in African relief has made a difference.”
Tara keyed on his French accent and replied in that language, thanking him for his kind words. Unexpectedly, she turned to G.G. and read his nametag. “Do you go by Gigi?”
The portly captain managed a very lame “Yes, ma’am” and became an instant fan.
“Well, folks, we need to get organized,” Allston said, taking charge. He turned to Richards. “General, I assume we need to talk.” She nodded in answer. “Major Sharp, Captain Libby, please escort our guests to the mess tent and find them billets. The ladies can use my quarters and I can move in with Major Lane.” Within moments, the office had cleared out and he was alone with Richards. He cocked an eyebrow. “How may I help you, General?”
“General Fitzgerald sent me here to evaluate the situation on the ground and report back with recommendations as to our continued involvement. Needless to say, your conduct of operations has raised quite a few concerns.”
“I can live with that. I’ll detail Major Sharp to escort you and run interference. She’s very good at that. But I do have a concern. Why is Scott here? This is a very dangerous part of the world.”
“Colonel, the world has changed and image is everything. We are here in a humanitarian role and Tara reinforces that image. She wants to visit the refugee camp at Abyei.”
“General, Hollywood stars with bullet holes in them are as dead as anyone else.” It was obvious Richards hadn’t heard the news. “The Army of the Sudan wiped Abyei off the face of the earth two days ago. Luckily, we got most of the refugees out the day before.” He waited as the reality of where she was finally registered. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve got to see a very good pilot about a flight. I’ll have someone escort you to the mess tent.”
Wun Kwel, Warab, Sudan
Marci Jenkins tried hard not to think about her copilot, but it was like trying to ignore a five-hundred-pound gorilla sleeping in your bed. Allston was sitting in the right-hand seat and seemed content to be the perfect copilot even as he marked every word and move she made. Her fellow pilots joked how Allston often walked out to a C-130 that was about to start engines, kicked the copilot off, and settled into the still warm seat. It was a very informal test of the pilot’s ability to command a C-130 and carry out their mission, and she accepted it as something a good commander did. There was none of the paperwork that went with a formal evaluation and only a verbal “Good job,” or the dreaded “Ah shit,” which was the last thing the pilots wanted to hear. Marci was brutally honest with herself and admitted she was having an “ah shit” moment. The village where they were scheduled to land and drop off five pallets of food and supplies simply wasn’t there.
“Check the GPS coordinates,” she told Allston, working to keep her voice matter-of fact and calm. Allston gave her a plus mark and double-checked the coordinates loaded into the GPS. He gave her a thumbs up and waited to see what she would do next. “Then we’re here,” she said as she entered a racetrack pattern anchored on the GPS coordinates Allston had just verified. She flew one orbit and disengaged the autopilot to descend to a thousand feet above the terrain. She leveled off and smoothly transitioned into a right pylon turn so Allston could see the ground out his side of the C-130. “It’s the burned-out area next to the road,” she told him. The road was little more than a dirt track and nothing was standing in the blackened area.
“Not much left down there but hot hair, teeth, and eyeballs,” Allston replied. It was one of his expressions that many of the younger pilots had picked up, imitating their commander. Marci chalked it up to a male thing and running with the pack.
“RTB?” Riley, the flight engineer, asked.
“Too soon to go home,” Marci replied. “We got fuel, let’s look around before we head for home plate.” Allston gave her another plus. That was exactly what he would have done. “There’s a rest house about fifteen miles north,” Marci explained. “It’s next to a watering hole along the road. It should be easy to find.” Allston gave her high marks for doing her homework before they flew the mission. “What do you think happened to the village?” she asked.
“Janjaweed,” Allston replied. She smoothly rolled the Hercules out of the turn and climbed to 2000 feet above the ground. She reengaged the autopilot and the flight deck fell silent as they headed north. A few minutes later, Allston saw it. “On the nose. Lots of folks around the watering hole.”
“I got ’em,” Marci said. “I don’t see any huts or animals. How many do you think there are?”
“Couple of hundred,” Allston replied.
“Let’s go howdy the folks,” Marci said. Riley smiled. That was definitely an Allstonism. Marci hand flew the plane as they slowed and descended to a thousand feet above the people clustered around the only water source within miles. Again, Allston gave her high marks for judgment and flying ability. She was one of those true rarities — a natural pilot that became better with experience. “There’s enough room to land on that straight section of road. Before landing checklist.” Allston called out the checklist as they configured for landing. Marci flew a smooth approach and firmly planted the main gear on the hard earth. She rode the brakes and reversed engines, coming to a stop less than thirty yards from the watering hole. The mass of people ran towards the C-130.
Marci called the loadmaster, “MacRay, lower the ramp. We need to backup for takeoff.” It seemed to take forever for the loadmaster to lower the cargo ramp under the tail to the horizontal and raise the door.
“Scanner’s on the ramp,” MacRay called. “All clear in the rear.”
The desperate, starving refugees were almost to the C-130 as Marci backed slowly down the dirt track, away from the mass of people, and gaining the distance they needed for a takeoff roll. They stopped. “Everyone listen up,” she said, her tone changing. “We’re gonna keep the engines running and make this a fast off load. We’re talking Guinness Book of Records. Go-go-go!” She climbed out of her seat and checked out the cargo deck. About a dozen tribesmen had crawled on board at the back and were ripping at the end pallet, desperate to get at the sacks of sorghum. She didn’t like what she saw and bolted for her seat, reaching for her headset.