“General, I learned a long time ago that morale and mission identification go hand-in-hand. That’s what those hats are all about.”
“I am also very worried about the pistols everyone carries.”
“We carry side arms for a reason, ma’am. We were able to rescue those refugees because Riley and MacRay were armed and shot the two goons who stormed the flight deck.”
“But they will be misused, and because a weapon is present and available, a suicide attempt will be successful or an argument will turn deadly.”
Allston didn’t answer immediately. “I’ll deal with that if, and when it happens. But for now, they’ll carry weapons.”
“I understand being armed when you fly, but on the ground? How can you justify that?”
“This is not a peacetime base. General. We’re on the front line in a very nasty little war with real bullets. Earlier, you mentioned standing down for counseling. This is the military, ma’am. We handle the hurt and stress of losing our comrades by honoring them, getting on with the job, and never forgetting who we are and why we’re here.”
“It looks like you’re playing cowboys and… “ She cut her words off in mid sentence.
Allston gave her his lopsided grin. “And Indians,” he said, completing her thought. “It’s okay to be politically incorrect here. In fact, I rather encourage it.”
The General’s head snapped up, her eyes filled with disapproval. “And why is that?”
“Because the last thing any politically correct asshole wants to do is fly the mission and get their politically-correct ass shot off. The Irregulars are committed to the mission because they believe in what we’re doing, and they are willing to put their lives on the line every day. That gives them the right to be as politically incorrect as they want.” He gave her his lopsided grin. “Besides, it’s good for morale.”
“And if I should tell you that I believe we can accomplish the mission and still be politically correct?”
“Tell me that after you’ve flown with us, after you’ve seen starving children, babies impaled on stakes, women raped and mutilated.” He stared at her, waiting for her to take him up on the offer. Her reply surprised him.
“You are a passionate man, Colonel Allston, and it seems you have filled your people with the same passion.”
What is she up to? he wondered. He glanced at his watch. “It’s time for that TV special. Want to see it?” She nodded and he escorted her to the end of the tent that held a large LED TV screen and a huge set of loudspeakers. They sat in the front row as Jill walked to the front and stood beside the screen.
She held a microphone to her lips. “This news story made every major network in the States yesterday. The Armed Forces Network is re-broadcasting it, commercials and all. Please remember we have a very important guest with us tonight, Brigadier General Richards.” A polite round of applause broke out as the screen came to life.
The program opened with a commercial promoting a hemorrhoid cream. “Yep,” a voice at the rear called, “it’s all about us.” Laughter rippled through the Irregulars. They fell silent as an aerial view of the Sahara filled the screen and Tara Scott’s voice explained she was aboard a C-17 inbound to an American airbase in the Sudan. “I love you,” another voice called. The audience quieted as Malakal came into view and Tara explained this was her eleventh visit to Africa. The scene shifted to the cockpit as the C-17 landed and taxied in.
“Lieutenant Colonel Allston and Major Gillian Sharp met us on landing,” Tara said as the camera zoomed in on Jill. Loud whistles and cheers filled the tent as Allston came alert. Jill was extremely photogenic. He glanced at her standing to the side of the TV, her face bright red. She gave him a helpless shrug. Her mouth formed a silent ‘I didn’t know.’
“Within hours of our arrival,” Tara continued, “all hell broke loose.” The scene transitioned to the Nuer hostages huddled on the tarmac. Urgency filled Tara’s voice as carefully-edited and blurred images recorded G.G.’s death and Allston’s reaction. Silence ruled the tent as the camera documented the killing and fighting. The scene transitioned to Tara standing in the hangar filled with the wounded and dying and the tone of her voice changed again, now soft and caring, as she led the camera through the aftermath and to Jill who was examining the weapons and equipment of the gunmen killed in the fighting. “Who were they?” Tara asked.
“It appears they were a suicide squad,” Jill answered. “Fortunately, the French peacekeepers arrived in time, or it would have been a total massacre.”
The scene shifted to the ramp as the Irregulars lined up under the tail of the C-17. “Captain G.G. Libby was the only American killed,” Tara explained, “and the 4440th honored their fallen comrade.” Only Allston’s voice could be heard as he called the Irregulars to attention. The camera focused on Loni Williams as he followed the coffin, saluted Allston, and then presented G.G.’s bush hat to Tara. The scene cut to Tara wearing G.G.’s hat. In the background, a C-130 was taxiing out. “For the men and women of the 4440th, it was business as usual the next day, delivering food and medicine to thousands of starving Africans. They are often called ‘trash haulers’ by the more glamorous fighter pilots, but they call themselves ‘the Irregulars.’
“They are led by an unusual man they call ‘the Boss.’ It would be a mistake to think they are like your neighbors next door. They are not. They are warriors who wear this hat with pride, and they want nothing more than to bring peace to this troubled land, and I am honored to wear their hat.”
The TV screen went dark, and for a moment the tent was silent. Then it exploded in applause, whistles, and cheers. Jill waited patiently for it to subside. Her eyes glistened as she looked directly at Allston. He gave a little nod in return. Slowly the pandemonium died away. “Well, that’s it,” Jill finally said. “I hope your loved ones at home see it.”
Richards caught it all and ran her mental abacus, adding it all up. She stood and walked back to her sleeping quarters, deep in thought. A note was slipped under the door.
Yvonne,
We moved the refugees to Mission Awana, about twenty miles east of here. We’re going to stay at Awana and build a camp that really works and is safe. Thanks for all the help and come see us if you get a chance.
“We’ll just have to do that,” Richards said in a low voice. She hummed a tuneless melody and went to bed. But she couldn’t sleep as she scripted a new scenario.
ELEVEN
Mission Awana, Republic of South Sudan
Tara was waiting on the wide veranda that surrounded the mission’s guesthouse when Jill wheeled the big six-pac pickup around the corner and coasted to a stop. She jumped out and held the rear door open for her passengers. Richards was the first out, closely followed by Allston. He sucked in his breath as Tara came down the steps, dressed in a wrap-around modeled after the sarongs the local women wore. The cloth seemed to take on a magic of its own and shimmered and changed color when she came into the full sunlight. The effect was stunning. “Welcome to Mission Awana,” Tara said, extending her hand. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
They exchanged greetings, and Jill followed the three onto the cooler veranda, feeling very much out of place. The two women were beautiful by any standard and complemented by Allston’s rugged looks. As usual, Tara’s cameraman was recording the event. Jill was about to mention it when Tara motioned at the camera and said, “It’s all about publicity and promotion. Our special was number four in the ratings, and the network wants a follow-up. There’s a rumor that Sixty Minutes is interested.”