Near the end of the tour, Jill asked a key question. “Why doesn’t the United Nations stop the fighting?”
Again, Toby gave her a long look, considering his answer. He shook his head and there was no doubt the missionary knew she was probing for operable intelligence. “And violate Sudanese sovereignty? If the UN got involved simply because the Sudanese were engaged in a little genocide in their own country, what country would be next?”
Allston changed the subject. “How long is your airstrip?”
“We’ve got 4000 feet of macadam and a 1000 feet of hard-pack at the western end and 1500 on the eastern end. An Airbus made an emergency landing once. No problem.” Allston slumped in his seat, deep in thought. It was more than enough for C-130 operations.
A gentle evening breeze caressed Mission Awana and held the pillaging insects at bay. Allston and Jill sat alone on the veranda of the guesthouse and savored the night air. “My favorite time of day,” Allston said. Only the rattling chirps of an unknown bug disturbed the tranquility. “It’s amazing what Toby has done here.”
“He has made a difference,” Tara said from behind him. She pushed through the screen door carrying a tray with the same unusual crock pitcher that gleamed with condensation. She had showered and changed into another, even more beautiful wrap. This one was made of a finer material and flowed over her body, outlining every curve. For a brief moment, a light from inside outlined her figure, leaving little to the imagination about what was not underneath.
A primal urge shot through Allston and he was thankful for the dark. “I was just telling Major Sharp this is my favorite time of day.” An animal call echoed through the night. “That sounds canine.”
Jill heard a tone in his voice that sent tingles down her spine. There was nothing provocative or unusual in what he said, but it was the call of an eagle reaching out in the dark and her body responded. But she knew the call was not meant for her. With a will that surprised her, she said nothing.
“That’s a spotted hyena,” Tara answered. “They really own the night.” She sat the tray down and poured them a drink. “I love this drink,” she told them. “It’s non-alcoholic and so refreshing. In the right hands… it could be a commercial success.”
Jill bit her tongue. It was not what Tara said, but an undertone in her voice combined with the way her body moved that left little doubt the actress was responding to Allston. “That stone pitcher is most unusual,” Jill said. “The way condensation forms.”
“It is unusual,” Tara said. “Some consider it a work of art, and it definitely cools
… the drink. With the right approach… well, who knows?” She sank into a chaise lounge opposite Allston as the night captured them. Again, the call of a hyena split the night, this time farther away. “She won’t be happy until she finds her mate,” Tara explained.
“Do you think so?” Allston asked.
Tara sipped her drink, her eyes fixed on him. “Oh, yes,” she said. They sat in silence as the chirping resumed. “Hyenas run in large packs and are led by a female.”
“So that explains why they are so vocal,” Allston said.
Richards joined them and sat down. “Why who is so vocal?” she asked.
“The leaders of a hyena pack,” Tara answered.
“Who is always a female,” Allston added. “I just learned that.”
“You do have a lot to learn,” Tara said. “About females.”
Allston laughed. “Oh, I hope so.” Jill felt her face flush. There was no doubt they were engaging in verbal foreplay, sophisticated, low-keyed, and beyond anything she had experienced. She was jealous and stifled a sigh. “I’m bushed,” Allston said. “Time to hit the sack. Good night, ladies.”
The three women watched him as he disappeared through the door and turned left toward his room. Tara made conversation for twenty minutes or so and then bid them good night, claiming it had been a long day. Jill’s eyes followed her as she entered the guesthouse and turned left. “Her room is on the other side,” Richards said. “Next to ours.” Her words were clipped and hard. The echo of a faint knock on a door reached the veranda. A long silence came down. Then, “Major, don’t even think about it.” It was a clear warning that Allston and Tara were free to engage in whatever relationship they chose, but not Jill.
“Pardon, ma’am? Think about what?”
“Sleeping with Allston. Do I need to remind you of his reputation and the differences in your rank?”
“I’m well-aware of his reputation and the prohibitions on fraternization,” Jill replied. “His conduct has always been above board and proper.”
“I’m not talking about his conduct, but yours.”
“General, I have done nothing…”
Richards interrupted her. “Nothing indeed.”
Tara was on her second cup of coffee the next morning when Richards joined her. A young and very pretty Nuer took the general’s order and moved gracefully away, giving the two women a cone of privacy. “They do have a sense of style,” Tara said, admiring the way the girl dressed and carried herself.
“Have you seen Colonel Allston this morning?” Richards asked. Tara shook her head. It was not exactly the truth for Tara had left his room just before sunrise.
“Tara, I do apologize, but may I discuss a personal matter?” The actress nodded, not sure what was coming. “Colonel Allston has,” Richards continued, “shall we say, a certain reputation in regards to his personal relationships with women. Many women.” Tara arched an eyebrow but didn’t take the bait. “I just wanted to be sure you understand who you are dealing with.”
“Oh, I understand.” The two women smiled at each other. Richards was aching to know if Allston was true to his reputation, but was afraid Tara would give her an honest answer, which judging by the actress’s quiet response, she certainly didn’t want to hear. Richards had a fine-tuned ability to read an individual’s emotions that she used in her arsenal of weapons to advance her career. It had worked well with all her superiors except one, General John Fitzgerald, the Air Force Chief of Staff.
Jill burst into the room, her face flushed and damp with perspiration. “General, there’s a problem at Malakal, and Colonel Allston is flying back. He needs to speak with you before he leaves.”
“May I join you?” Tara asked.
“Certainly,” Richards answered. “Let me get my hat.” She hurried to her room and was back in seconds.
“General,” Jill said. “Colonel Allston asked that you wear this.” She handed Richards a holstered .45 automatic and belt. Richards hesitated. The weapon was an overt symbol that she was in combat. “The situation has gone critical,” Jill added. The general strapped the weapon around her narrow waist.
The women clambered into Jill’s six-pac and she drove quickly to the airfield where the mission’s Pilatus Porter was waiting on the ramp, its engine running. Allston hurried over to meet them and stuck his head in the passenger’s side window. “I got a call from Major Lane. Waleed and his goons have sealed off the airfield with roadblocks and closed the fuel dump. The UN has ordered us to turn over our C-130s, equipment, everything, and the Legion to surrender their heavy weapons, including their Stinger and Shipon missiles.” He let his anger show. “Jesus H. Christ! Our C-130s can’t defeat a Stinger and the Shipon can kill any tank in the world. The last thing we need is for those fu… “ — he caught himself in time — “is for the Janjaweed to get their hands on a Stinger.” The capability of the US-made missile was well known and the Israeli-developed, shoulder-held Shipon had a dual mode warhead that was deadly against tanks, fortifications, and personnel. “Waleed’s given us until noon tomorrow to comply and evacuate Malakal.”