“That’s singing,” Richards said, not believing what she was hearing. A small door leading into the hangar was open and they looked in. It was empty except for a group of women scrubbing the floor and singing. Tara Scott was standing in the interior doorway leading to the offices and waved for them to join her. “What happened to the refugees?”
“We moved them,” Tara explained. “I went through those big tents out back, the ones with all the relief supplies, and took what I needed. After that, it was easy to get organized. We’re setting up a tent city on the road leading to town. All very temporary until we find a better place.” She paused. “There’s only 142 of them,” she added, as if that explained everything.
Richards chose her words carefully, not wanting to offend the actress but determined that she understood the rules. “I believe those supplies were the property of the United Nations.”
Tara laughed. “They’re being used the way they were meant to.” Richards’ body language signaled it wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. Tara tried a different track. “This is Africa, Yvonne. The rules are different here.” She turned to the women who had finished cleaning the hangar. “They are magnificent singers. And so resilient. Excuse me, we’ve got to go.” She called out in Nuer and the women followed her out of the hangar.
Jill came out of Allston’s office. “Good morning. May I help you?”
“We need to talk,” Richards replied. Malaby excused herself and left the two women alone. Jill led the way into Allston’s office where she was working, and Richards closed the door. “I assume Allston has told you why I’m here.” Jill nodded in answer. “Good. Under the circumstances, I think it would be most productive by starting with the incident at Wer Ping.” Without a word, Jill called up her report on her computer. She spun the screen around for Richards to read. Richards scanned the report, her anger mounting with each sentence. “I hadn’t seen this. This isn’t a report, it’s a whitewash. Allston must have used some type of nerve gas.”
“It’s not a whitewash,” Allston said from the doorway.
Richards’ head came up. She hadn’t heard the door open. “This is a private conversation.”
“And my office,” he answered. He walked in and sat down. “Major Sharp, please excuse us.” The Intelligence officer shot him a grateful look and beat a hasty escape. “Please close the door.” He thought for a moment. How did he explain combat to an officer who had never flown an airplane, dropped a bomb, or been shot at? “Ma’am, if you’re interested, I can detail what it would take to employ an airborne-delivered gas or nerve agent of any type.” Richards tried to stare him down. It didn’t work. “First, assuming the Air Force still had chemical weapons in the inventory, which it does not, it takes a special weapons pylon and canisters for aerial delivery. Those pylons and canisters were destroyed at the completion of testing.”
“And how do you know all this?” she demanded.
“Because I was one of the crews who did the testing and I certified their destruction. Second, if I had used a gas or nerve agent of any kind, we would not have been able to land without MOPP, which neither we, nor the legionnaires have.” He assumed she knew that MOPP, Mission Oriented Protective Posture, was the special clothing and equipment needed to operate in a chemical or nerve gas environment. “I dumped jet fuel on the Janjaweed to create the impression that it was a nerve gas and scare them away. It worked. You can interview every swinging” — he almost said “dick” but caught himself in time — “every crew member who was on board my C-130.” He reached for the phone to make it happen as the unmistakable sound of a C-17 taxiing in echoed in the office.
“That’s not necessary,” Richards conceded, “at this time.”
“Please excuse me, ma’am, but I’ve got an important matter to attend to.” He stood up. “We’re sending Capt. Libby’s body home. Please join us.” She heard the pain in his voice and followed him outside where Tara and her cameraman were waiting.
The C-17’s engines were spinning down as the men and women of the 4440th gathered at the tail of the huge aircraft. Without a command, they formed up in two ranks, creating a corridor leading from the Globemaster’s loading ramp to the hangar. Tara’s cameraman raised his camera as a tug drove slowly out of the hangar, pulling a maintenance cart bearing a wooden coffin covered with an American flag. Staff Sergeant Loni Williams walked behind, holding G.G.’s bush hat in his hands. Allston walked to the head of the corridor and came to attention. “Squad — RON” - he drew the word out, his voice firm and in command, concealing the pain that was tearing at him — “ten — HUT!”
As one, the Irregulars came to attention. “Pre — SENT… Arms!” Tara’s cameraman panned back and forth as the Irregulars saluted their fallen comrade. The tow motor reached the waiting aircraft and stopped. “Or — DER… Arms!” The Irregulars dropped the salute but remained at attention. “Pa — RADE…Rest!” The two ranks shifted to the formal at-ease, their feet apart, hands clasped behind their backs, their heads up.
Loni Williams slowly paced the distance to Allston. He dropped his left hand to hold G.G.s bush hat against his thigh and gave his commander the best salute of his career. Allston returned the salute, “Sir,” Williams said, “if I may.”
“Carry on, Sergeant.” Allston said, not sure what Williams had in mind, but instinctively trusting him.
The sergeant walked over to Tara Scott and held out G.G.’s hat. “Ma’am, please accept this. Captain Libby would want you to have it.”
Tara took the hat and held it to her breast. “I know what these mean to you, but why? I’ve done nothing…” Her voice trailed off as tears rolled down her cheeks.
“You’re one of us,” Williams said. He snapped a salute, did an about face, and marched over to the waiting coffin where six security cops were waiting as pallbearers. They carried the coffin on board as a gentle breeze ruffled the silence. Captain Marci Jenkins was the last to board. She would take G.G. home.
Richards sat in Allston’s office and read the two reports on the massacre the day before. The OpRep, or Operations Report, had been up-channeled to AFRICOM and the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon within an hour after the shooting had stopped and the base secured. The IntRep, or Intelligence Report, had followed six hours later and was much more detailed. The general dropped the two printouts on the desk, and stared at Allston and Jill. “Unacceptable.” She tapped the reports. “Too many unanswered questions. Who drafted these reports?”
Allston glanced at Jill. “Major Lane drafted the OpRep and Major Sharp the IntRep.”
“I need to speak to Captain Jenkins about what happened on your airplane,” Richards replied.
“Captain Jenkins is escorting Captain Libby’s coffin. She’ll be made available the moment she returns.”
“And when will that be?”
Allston thought for a moment. “Two weeks at the most.”
“How convenient,” Richards snapped.
“Major Lane and I debriefed Captain Jenkins before she left,” Jill said. “It’s all in my report.” Richards gave her a hard look and didn’t respond. “The gunmen were not Janjaweed,” Jill continued. “They were soldiers. SA — Army of the Sudan.”