Now Fitzgerald was enjoying himself. “Please inform the Guinness Book of Records. Colonel, why did the 4440th relocate so close to Malakal?”
The colonel knew better than to wing it. “I cannot answer that question, sir, nor could anyone I talked to when I asked the same question. We’re working it.”
Fitzgerald considered his options. “Recall General Richards and Major Sharp. Get them here ASAP, no later than twenty-four hours.” He thanked the colonel, giving him high marks for the briefing, and stood to leave. The Secretary of Defense had summoned him and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to his office. It was not a meeting he was going to enjoy.
Mission Awana
Allston huddled with his staff in a corner of the guesthouse’s lounge. The major in charge of Facilities was talking. “The Reverend Person said we can use the mission’s communication center in Mission House for flight ops. I’ve got a team there now, setting up our radios and plugging into their net. The guesthouse has a large kitchen we can use and enough room for a dining hall, plus ten bedrooms.” He unrolled a large-scale chart of the mission. “We brought in enough tents on the trucks to billet everyone else behind the guesthouse. But it is going to be crowded, and we’re going to have to build latrines to handle the overload.”
It was Susan Malaby’s turn. “Maintenance can use the two small hangars at the airstrip, but I’ll need a couple of tents.” She looked at Allston. “Colonel, we’re down to four airframes and I have more people than I need. Can I send some of them home?”
“The same is true for the aircrews,” Dick Lane said.
“Good idea,” Allston said. “Everyone, identify your essential personnel and they stay. Everyone else can go.” He thought for a moment. “We’re on the frontline, folks. Make sure everyone gets the word that it may get very sporting around here.”
“Sporting?” the major in charge of logistics asked.
“Like in real bullets and real danger,” Allston told him.
“Oh, that kind of sporting,” the major replied, totally unfazed.
Lane’s personal communicator buzzed. He glanced at the message. “The com center has a message for General Richards and Major Sharp. They’ve been ordered to report to the Pentagon ASAP. A C-17 has been diverted into Addis Ababa to pick them up.”
“Dick, lay on a Herk to get them there,” Allston said. “Okay, folks, let’s go to work.” He stood and walked out to the veranda to wait for the Legion to arrive. So where are we? he thought, re-evaluating the situation. The Herks made the mission a target for the Sudanese and Toby knew it. So why did he invite the 4440th to use the mission as its base? Was the missionary simply acknowledging the inevitable and fighting for time? Vermullen and his legionnaires were a deterrent, but they had surrendered their heavy weapons to the Sudanese. If they could rearm the Legion, that would make the mission a very hard nut to crack. So how did they do that? He collapsed into a wicker chaise lounge and closed his eyes. Jill’s image emerged from his subconscious and he dozed.
Richard’s voice was there, hard and sharp-edged. “Colonel, stand up when I’m talking to you.” Allston’s eyes snapped open and he came to his feet. Richards was standing in front of him with Jill and Malone immediately behind her. “I’m formally relieving you of your command.” She motioned at Malone. “Take Colonel Allston into custody.”
Malone didn’t hesitate. “Without authorization from AFRICOM, I don’t have the authority to do that.”
“Then get it,” she replied.
“The mission’s communications center is in contact with AFRICOM,” Allston said. He couldn’t help himself. “There’s a message waiting for you, ma’am. Sergeant Malone, please drive General Richards over. It’s too hot to walk.” He motioned for Jill to join him as Malone escorted Richards to the waiting six-pac truck. He waited until Richards was sitting in the truck and out of earshot. “We need to talk. When Waleed confiscated the weapons on that supply truck that brought you back from Djibouti, you mentioned a Sudanese Army supply dump. Where was that?”
“Bentiu.” Like a good Intel officer, she was ready with the details. Bentiu was a large town located 153 miles west of the mission and under Khartoum’s control. It was also in the heart of an oil field and was a combination of an oil boomtown replete with bars and prostitutes, a shantytown filled with refugees, and a Sudanese Army garrison. It also housed a large concentration of Chinese soldiers masquerading as private security guards and pipeline construction workers.”
“Any chance that’s where the Legion’s heavy weapons will end up?”
“I’d say there’s a good possibility they will. The Stingers and Shipons are high-value weapons, and Bentiu is the most secure facility the Sudanese have in the area. Why the interest?”
“Just curious.” He changed the subject. “You need to pack your bag. I imagine the General is reading the message recalling you and her to the Pentagon as we speak.” He sensed she needed some encouragement. “Not to worry, Merlin’s on top of it.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“It’s not like you’ve got a choice. Hurry back.”
“There’s the Legion,” she said, pointing to the first of a long line of trucks rolling into the mission.
E-Ring
The Secretary of Defense motioned the two four-star generals to the leather couch in the far corner of his huge office overlooking the Potomac and let them stew for a few moments while he signed paperwork and memos. Satisfied the delay had made it clear just how angry he was, he joined them and sat in a big overstuffed chair opposite the couch. He puffed on his cigar, enjoying the aroma, but not what he had to do. “Hal, Fitz, I assume you know what’s got me pissed off.” Although protocol dictated that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Harold Misner, United States Army, answer, Misner hesitated and nodded at Fitzgerald to answer.
“Mr. Secretary, I assume you’re concerned with recent developments in the Sudan,” Fitzgerald said, stepping up to take the heat. The Secretary nodded and Fitzgerald continued to talk. “Specifically, I assume you are concerned by the landing of a NSA high-value reconnaissance asset at Malakal.” He had assumed correctly and the Secretary asked how Admiral Chester A. Bellows, the brilliant and irritable head of the National Security Agency, got involved without his knowledge. Bellows was famous for his short fuse and total inability to put up with fools, bureaucrats, and politicians. His temper was legendary, as well as the results his agency achieved. “We’re field testing Eagle Eye,” Fitzgerald replied, “and I asked Chester if he could have one of his platforms monitor the same activities to see if we are missing anything. He happened to have an An-12 in the area and obliged.”
The Secretary puffed on his cigar, laying a smoke screen between him and the two generals. “So why did it land at Malakal just in time to create a diversion for the 4440th to evacuate?”
“I imagine it was maintaining its cover,” Fitzgerald replied. “Did you ask Chester?”
“I did. He gave me the same load of crap. Talk about perfect timing. Just how much coincidence do you expect me, or for that matter, the President to believe?”
The two generals tried to look innocent. “Coincidence does happen,” Misner allowed. He had mentioned the situation at Malakal to the vice admiral over lunch, certain that the crusty old salt’s fangs would come out. Misner then dropped the subject, for what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Like many flag rank officers, he was very adept at playing CYA — cover your ass — with politicians. He didn’t like it but it went with the job.
The Secretary puffed harder on the cigar. “Apparently, that clown you appointed to run the show at Malakal doesn’t understand the tightrope the President is walking with world opinion, the UN, and the Government of Sudan.”