“We saw it,” Richards said. “You were very complimentary.”
Allston grinned “No joke. You should see my e-mail. So far, I’ve gotten three marriage proposals.” He pulled a face, as if he were considering it. “One’s very pretty, one says she’s wealthy, and the other I can’t repeat the offer.” He laughed. “And my kids had to change their cell phone numbers.”
Tara guided them to comfortable chairs on the veranda, and poured them a cool drink from an unusual ceramic pitcher. “I didn’t know you were married.”
“Divorced. But I’ve got two great kids.” The three women were very attentive, all for different reasons, as he told them about Lynne, his tall and beautiful twenty-one-year-old daughter, and Ben his gangly sixteen-year-old stepson. “Lynne’s in college and Ben is currently with his mother in Los Angeles. But he prefers to live with me.” The loud drone of a single-engine airplane caught their attention as it flew low over the mission compound. Automatically, Allston looked up and searched for the aircraft. He quickly found the plane, a high-wing, single-engine turbo prop Pilatus Porter. Tara and Jill studied his face as he took the measure of the pilot, looking for the telltale clues that marked an eagle.
Tara never took her eyes off Allston, sensing something was very different about the man. Then it came to her. He was a raptor, only truly at home in the sky, hunting on the wing. “That’s Dr. Tobias Person,” she said, breaking the spell.
“Toby Person?” Allston asked, suddenly alert. “Short, red-hair, pudgy, early forties, nice guy. He used to be in the Air Force.”
“He’s not pudgy,” Tara said, “but that does sound like him.”
Allston watched as the light plane circled to land at the airstrip located a half-mile to the east of the mission. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured. From the looks on the women’s faces, an explanation was in order. “Toby was the best Weapons Systems Officer that ever strapped on an F-15 Strike Eagle. He was teamed with Gus Tyler, one of the finest officers and pilots in the Air Force. Talk about putting bombs on target.”
Tara couldn’t believe it. “Dr. Person? He’s the most gentle soul I’ve ever met.” She checked her watch. “Why don’t we go meet him?”
“I’ll drive,” Jill said, feeling marginally useful. She wheeled the six-pac through the compound that radiated out in spokes from Mission House at the hub. “Mission Awana,” she explained, “is one of the oldest and most successful missions in Africa, all thanks to Dr. Person. Unfortunately, it is located in the disputed border area. So far, Khartoum has ignored it, but how much longer that will happen is anyone’s guess.”
“It certainly looks prosperous,” Allston said. Within minutes they were at the airstrip where three men were pushing the tail dragger into a hangar. A short, wiry man with red hair waved and walked towards them. Allston got out to meet him. “Toby Person,” he said. “It’s been a long time.” The two men shook hands. Person’s hands were gnarled and calloused, his grip strong.
A big smile split Toby’s leathery features. “Mad Dawg Allston, I heard you were in country. Upsetting any apple carts?”
“No more than usual.” The two men laughed, sharing the memories of when they were young.
“Reverend Person has invited us to lunch,” Tara said, interrupting the two old friends.
“Reverend Person?” Allston said.
Toby laughed. “Well, it sounds better than Parson Person.”
“I thought you were a doctor, like in M.D.”
“That too. Let’s go to lunch. We can talk and get caught up.”
After a light lunch, they took refuge in a large open room inside Mission House, sheltered from the cresting heat of the day. “Reverend Person,” Richards asked, “exactly how stable is the political situation here?” Jill mentally shifted gears into the intelligence mode. She gave the general high marks for probing the area where they were the most vulnerable.
“Not very, General,” Toby replied. “We’re caught in a civil war between the Arab north and Africans in the south. It’s been going on over fifty years and I don’t see it ending soon.”
“I thought that ended when the South Sudan gained its independence and made
Juba the capital.” Richards said.
Toby shook his head. “They may have signed a so-called treaty of independence, but they never agreed on the border.” He unfolded a map and spread it out on the table. He pointed to the mission. “We’re here, on the south bank of the Al Bahr Al Abyad, the White Nile, which Juba claims is its northern border. The Sudanese Army is operating on the north side of the river, and along with the Janjaweed, consolidating its hold.”
“Which is in our area of operations,” Allston added.
“And the prize is oil,” Jill said, leading the conversation in the direction she wanted.
Toby gave her a long look before answering. “Exactly. And the Sudanese want it all.” He used a pencil as a pointer to indicate large areas of land blocked in with squares and rectangles, all in Allston’s area of operations. “These are the oil concessions where oil has been discovered. The reserves are not huge like the Middle East but they’re nothing to sneeze at — about the size of Columbia and Venezuela. The government in Khartoum parceled the concessions out to foreign consortiums, mostly Chinese, and takes eighty percent of the gross. We never see a bit of it down here, and as far as the government is concerned, the Africans are kafirs — unbelievers — and not entitled to a cent. To solidify their position, they’ve used the Janjaweed and the Army to systematically drive the Africans out of the concessions and created an African Diaspora.”
“Enter the United Nations Relief and Peacekeeping Mission, Southern Sudan,” Jill added. “A testimonial to corruption, greed, and sheer incompetence.” Richards shot her a warning look. Jill was to be seen and not heard.
“But the Army and the Janjaweed have left you alone,” Richards said, again asking the very questions Jill wanted to ask.
“So far,” Toby replied. “There’s been some trouble around Malakal, thanks to Major Hamid Waleed. He’s the only Sudanese Army outpost on the southern side of the White Nile. For the most part, he just bullies the Africans, otherwise Juba might get involved, and they know how to fight.”
“I met him twice,” Allston grumbled. “That was twice too many.”
“Unfortunately,” Toby continued, “a Canadian exploration team discovered a large oil reserve in block five, here.” He tapped an odd-shaped, penciled-in area on the map located a hundred miles south of the mission. “Khartoum wants it but Juba has served notice it belongs to them, which is why Khartoum called for jihad against the Africans. Juba” — he pointed to the large town 300 miles south of the mission — “wants to make the White Nile the de facto boundary and Juba their capital.” He pointed to the large town 300 miles to the south of the mission. “The good news is that we’re on the south side of the river, on Juba’s side. The bad news is that we’re caught between the Army and the new oil discoveries.”
Jill put it all together. “Which is why you invited Tara to the mission.”
Although Toby lived in central Africa far removed from the main currents of world opinion, he was a realist. “Publicity works every time.”
“I want to be here,” Tara added. “We’ve got to make a stand somewhere, and I can’t think of a more worthwhile place.”
“I’ll give you the tour,” Toby said.
“I’ll drive,” Jill said, hoping to learn more.
Toby sat in the front seat as Jill drove slowly through the compound, following Toby’s directions. “The mission is really a plantation,” he explained, “but a very modern one. Thanks to the Nile, we’ve over 4000 acres under irrigation and export food, mostly a type of disease-resistant sorghum. We also have some cottage industries that could be commercially successful. But more important, we have the best schools and the largest medical station in sub Sahara Africa. Our hospital has six doctors, two operating rooms, a hundred beds, and a training school for nurses and midwives. Our medical teams vaccinate over 10,000 children a year. It’s taken five generations to create the mission and I’m just the current caretaker.”