“Not a problem.” Lane glanced at the document and looked at Allston, his eyes wide. “I hadn’t seen this. Sum-bitch.” He showed Allston how to scan the single page and encrypt it for transmission.
“Our masters in Addis Ababa laid this on me the second day I was here,” Allston explained. “It’s our get-out-of-jail-free card.” He changed the subject. “How’s it going with Sixty Minutes?” Thanks to Tara, they had made the world news and CBS had sent a film crew and a reporter to interview the actress for the Sunday news show. Allston had detailed Lane to take care of the film crew while he and Vermullen dealt with the Bentiu operation. The major had done a good job but Allston sensed Jill would have done it better. He wanted her back, the sooner the better.
“Tara has them eating out of her hand,” Lane answered, “and they can’t get enough of Toby. Sixty Minutes is running a special Sunday afternoon, New York time, devoted to the Sudan. The producer wants to end the show by doing a segment from here. They’re going to broadcast Toby’s evening church service live,” he checked his watch, “which starts in an hour. Tara asked for you to be there.”
“Do I have to?”
“It might be a good idea, Boss.” Allston nodded. Tara had pulled some powerful strings to make it happen and he owed her. “Good call,” Lane said.
Air House, Fort Myer, Maryland
It was a rare Sunday for the Air Force Chief of Staff. He was kicked back in his den and enjoying the basketball games on TV. His wife had not seen him so relaxed in weeks and protected the moment, determined to make it last. She was used to him watching two games at once but was surprised that he also kept replaying the clip from the early Sunday morning Meet the Press talk show. In her estimation, it had been a disaster for the Air Force but he wasn’t upset in the least. The TV program had triggered a conference telephone call with the Secretary of Defense and General Misner, and he had replied with calm and reassuring words. “No need to disturb the President prematurely on this,” he counseled. “We’ll sort it out in the morning in the situation room. The President can decide then how he wants to respond after he’s seen all the facts.”
Frustrated, his wife waited until commercials were playing and asked him a direct question, wondering why he was taking it all so calmly. Fitzgerald only smiled as his fingers played on the remote control and the clip from Meet the Press replayed. The Speaker of the House was responding to a question about the raid by the UN peacekeepers on the town of Bentiu in the Sudan. “As you know,” the urbane and handsome politician said, “we are in the Sudan to support the UN Relief and Peacekeeping Mission. The raid on Bentiu by the 4440th was not authorized. Not by our National Military Command Center, not by AFRICOM, nor, according to my sources, by anyone in the UN. It appears we have a loose cannon on our hands.”
The general pounded the arm of his chair, which was much closer to his normal self. “I know where that came from!” He let the clip play out.
“I intend to get to the bottom of this,” the Speaker continued. “I assure you, the right questions will be asked, and” — Fitzgerald joined with him in chorus — “heads will roll in the Pentagon.”
Fitzgerald gave his wife a hungry look. “He’s not going to like the answers.”
“But you will,” she replied.
“One can always hope.”
She wasn’t convinced. “Some idiot will screw it up.”
“Not to worry.” He reached for the remote. “Isn’t it time for that Sixty Minutes special?” He touched her hand and changed channels.
Most of the program had been pre-recorded at Mission Awana, and played exactly as he had been briefed. The TV reporter started by recapping the genocide and violence in the Sudan with scenes of destroyed villages and wounded Africans. He then introduced Tara as a one-woman tour de force, forcing the world to take note of the ongoing tragedy. She led him on a walking tour of the mission leading to the hospital where Toby was tending patients. “This is the largest and most successful hospital in this part of Africa,” Tara explained. After a tour of the wards, Tara led the reporter to the runway where a C-130 was landing. They watched as it taxied in and discharged 128 refugees.
“In the last forty-eight hours,” she explained, “the Irregulars of the 4440th have flown over a thousand refugees to safety here. Their aircraft is the venerable C-130 Hercules, the workhorse that has served the Air Force for over fifty years.” She handed her bush hat to the reporter. “The men and women of the 4440th wear these hats with pride. For them, it is the symbol of what they do.” The reporter asked her what they did with the refugees and she continued on the tour, showing him the large camp outside the mission where the refugees were housed and fed. “As soon as we can,” Tara explained, “we transport them to refugee camps in the south where they are safe. But it’s a slow process.”
The reporter asked about the French peacekeepers. Footage of the legionnaires came on the screen as Tara did a voice over. “There are only two hundred of them. They are led by Colonel Pierre Vermullen of the French Foreign Legion. This is the tenth time he has been on a peacekeeping mission in Africa and he’s a legend in this part of the world.” A scene of the legionnaires parachuting out of a C-130 played on the screen. “The C-130s give the Legion the mobility it needs to be an effective force and Colonel Vermullen always leads the way.” A clip of Vermullen with his men played without comment. From the shouting, it was obvious how the legionnaires felt about their commander. “His men would follow him through the gates of hell and most of them say he will ask.” She checked her watch. “Sunday evening is my favorite time of the week.” She gave him a radiant smile. “Have you ever been to a church service here?”
The screen faded to an announcer in New York. “Our final segment,” she said, “is a first for Sixty Minutes. When we return, we will be live from Mission Awana in the Republic of South Sudan.”
Fitzgerald hit the mute button as the commercials came on. “Now it gets interesting,” he told his wife.
Mission Awana
A reluctant Allston made his way to the rustic amphitheater on the side of a low hill facing north. He found a place on the rough plank benches as a soft evening breeze broke the heat of the day. He spoke to the family next to him and they shared their dinner of bread, cooked vegetables, and a cool drink of herb tea. More families wandered in and found places under the canopy of fronds and tree branches as they unpacked their dinners. Their numbers kept growing and Allston estimated the size of the crowd at over a thousand. Many of them were recently arrived refugees and everyone was talking, laughing and eating. A trickle of Irregulars wandered in and found places on the benches. They pushed their hats back, letting them hang on their backs. Soon, more arrived. “It is nice when you join us,” the mother of the family said in heavily accented English.
Allston smiled in answer. “When does it start?”
“When the time is right,” she replied. “We’re on African time here. Be patient.” A song leader stepped to the front and started to sing. One by one, the families stopped eating and joined in, repeating his words. Soon, all were singing and they were a congregation. The woman motioned to the TV camera set off to one side. Tara was there with the reporter. Tara scanned the crowd and waved at them.
Allston was transfixed. “It’s beautiful. I wish I understood the words.”
“It’s a local dialect,” the woman explained. She translated, “We give thanks, Oh Lord, we give thanks. We give thanks for our food, we give thanks for each other.” A lone man sang out and, again, she translated. “I give thanks for tomorrow.” The congregation repeated it and another man gave his personal thanks. Again, the congregation sang back. The song continued for almost ten minutes before it died away and the families went back to their dinners.