Two more shots rang out, this time from the legionnaires who had found the last gunman. An eerie silence ruled the parking ramp. Allston came to his knees and touched the side of his head, finally aware of the blood. Tara Scott was running straight towards him, her cameraman right behind, recording as he ran. She reached Allston and ripped open the first aid kit she was carrying. “Lie down,” she commanded. Her fingers probed the gash. She slapped a compress bandage against his head. “You’ll live. Hold this.” Then she was gone, running for the wounded and dying.
Jill pulled up in a pickup and jumped out. She knelt and quickly examined him. “Thank God,” she whispered. She tied the bandage in place.
Allston struggled to his knees, a little dizzy. He surveyed the carnage around him. Tara Scott was in the middle of it all, organizing everyone around her and performing triage on the wounded and dying.
Vermullen walked through the bodies, looking for the Janjaweed. At one point, he stood and drew his semi-automatic pistol. He turned and aimed at Tara’s cameraman. “Turn your camera off and lay it on the ground.” The cameraman did as he was ordered and stepped back from the camera. Vermullen spoke a few words to the wounded man on the ground. The man snarled an answer and Vermullen squeezed off a single shot, striking the asphalt inches from the prostrate man’s right ear. Vermullen repeated his question. The man spat at the big legionnaire, hitting his pants leg. Vermullen shot him in the head. “You can pick up your camera now.”
Tara was a woman possessed as she commandeered everyone she saw and turned the hangar into a makeshift dressing station, hospital, and morgue. She was everywhere, making sure the wounded were cared for and tending to the children. To get what she needed, she ordered her three bodyguards to rip into the pallets of cargo waiting for delivery to refugee camps and took what she needed. Malaby started to protest but thought better of it. Tara Scott had taken charge and kept at it until order reigned. Only then did she walk into the air-conditioned offices and slump into a chair with her ever-present cameraman still filming. She was not a pampered Hollywood star, but a caring and dedicated human being. She was fatigued to the point of exhaustion, and it was a rare photo op for her cameraman. He swung the lens on Allston when he entered the office. “Thank you,” Allston said. It was not enough, but it would have to do.
“Your bandage is much too big,” Tara told him. She made him sit in her chair and gently removed the compress. “You’ll need a few stitches.” She nodded at her cameraman who went in search of a first aid kit. “Twenty-nine innocent people died out there today and another thirty-eight were wounded because you over reacted.”
“Did I?” he replied.
“General Richards agrees with me.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Jill was standing in the doorway. “Those monsters killed and wounded over two dozen on the airplane and threw them overboard, dead or alive.”
“I didn’t know that,” Tara said, her voice softening. Tara’s cameraman was back, carrying a first aid kit. Without a word, Tara cleaned Allston’s wound and stitched it closed.
“Ouch!” Allston protested.
“You’ll live,” Tara told him. “Regardless of what they did, you caused the bloodbath here.”
Jill wasn’t having any of it. “What about the women they raped on the C-130?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “At least five, maybe more. Two of them were little girls, eight and nine years old. Don’t they count?”
Susan Malaby burst into the room at full-throttle, her standard mode of operation. “Vermullen’s found something he wants you to see.”
Jill’s stare riveted the actress. “You never answered the question.”
Tears welled up in Tara’s eyes. “Yes, they count.” She stood and followed Malaby into the hangar. Allston and Jill were right behind.
They found Vermullen in the corner that had been turned into a morgue. Ten bodies were stretched out in a row. Without a word, Vermullen pointed to a pile of weapons and boots. Jill picked up a 9mm semi-automatic pistol and checked its markings. She looked at the boots and her head came up. “They’re not Janjaweed.”
“Oui,” Vermullen said in a low voice.
TEN
Malakal
The whine of a turbo prop engine cranking to life echoed through the walls of the trailer where Richards was sleeping and jolted her awake. She glanced at the travel alarm clock on the nightstand beside her bed — 6:10 in the morning. She sat up and pulled back the curtain over the small window. Outside, the morning twilight was yielding to the new day and she was vaguely aware of the air-conditioning kicking in. She shook her head, getting her bearings. She was in the spare bunk in Allston’s sleeping quarters, and she glanced at his bed where Tara had dropped her bags. It had not been slept in.
Richards showered and quickly dressed in a tailored set of ABUs. She rolled the sleeves up as she had seen the others do and examined her image in the mirror. She liked what she saw. She stepped outside and the heat hit her, wilting the crisp image. She walked through the compound, surprised by all the activity; the sun was just breaking the horizon and everyone was at work. She walked into the big mess tent and was surprised to see the food line closed. A lone cook asked if he could get her anything. She settled for her usual breakfast — two pieces of toast, a glass of juice, and a cup of coffee. She found a seat and nibbled at the toast. “May I join you?” a voice said. Richards looked up to see Susan Malaby.
“Please do,” the general said. Malaby sat down. Instinctively, Richards knew the lieutenant colonel wanted to talk, and she studied the small, intense woman. Malaby was the new Air Force, totally at home with integrated management and information flows and an excellent manager.
“How’s the assignment here going?”
“We have problems,” Malaby answered. Richards nodded, encouraging her. Malaby stared at her hands. “We’re too fly-by-night… seat-of-the pants decision making… hopelessly old-fashioned. Allston treats Air Force directives as points of discussion to be disregarded at will. Look at the silly hats they wear. And everyone is wearing a side arm like we’re in some wild-west movie.”
Richards knew she had an ally. “I see you don’t wear either.”
Malaby shook her head. “It’s not professional. Our mission is to deliver relief supplies for the UN, not play cowboy. Do you know what Allston calls the base?” It embarrassed her to talk about it and a pained look crossed her face. “He calls it Bumfuck South, and we’re the Irregulars.” Richards was truly shocked. Like Malaby, this was not her vision of the Air Force. Malaby was in full flow and warmed to the subject. “I don’t like everyone carrying a side arm. That’s asking for trouble and we’re setting ourselves up for a suicide or someone going postal.”
Richards finished her coffee. “I need to see what you’re seeing.”
“You don’t want to see the inside of the hangar,” Malaby said. “You’d think it was a slaughterhouse after yesterday.” The two women walked outside.
“After the carnage here yesterday,” Richards said, “I’m surprised it’s a normal work day. Your people were traumatized after seeing so many killed and wounded. They need a down day for counseling.” She checked her watch. She had been at Malakal less than twenty-four hours, and like a good manager, had a programmed response to violence she assumed was good for all situations and circumstances. “How many were killed and wounded?”
Malaby ran the numbers. “In addition to Captain Libby, twenty-nine Nuer were slaughtered on the tarmac and eight Janjaweed gunned down. I heard that another twenty-five Nuer or so were killed on board the C-130 along with two of the Janjaweed. At least thirty-eight Nuer were wounded and are in the hospital.” She paused. “It was a blood bath.” They walked towards the hangar. From inside, a woman’s voice sang out in Nuer and a chorus replied.