“That policy was driven by our lack of credibility with the UN,” the chief of staff replied. “It was a major step in improving our relations, not to mention legitimacy, with the rest of the world.”
Misner was enjoying himself. “We are now living with the results of that decision. In our view, the UN issued that operations order as a deliberate slap at the US by placing the 4440th under a French commander. Further, the UN put every peacekeeper at serious risk by ordering the French to turn over their Stinger and Shipon missiles to the Sudanese Army. The peacekeepers were justified in believing that the Sudanese Army could not, or would not, properly secure them and would give them to the Janjaweed. We concur in that assessment.”
The lawyer from the OLC had one last gambit to play. “That does not absolve Allston from following an illegal order. Either you arrest Allston or we will.” The Speaker’s man nodded in agreement.
Now it was the JAG’s turn. He leaned forward, folded his hands, and fixed the two men with the look he reserved for lecturing incompetent lawyers on obvious points of the law. “Command and control is like sovereignty, you either have it or you don’t, and it cannot be divided. You cannot expect Colonel Allston to serve two masters. Further, if you wish to bring charges against Colonel Allston, you will have to do so through his chain of command, which means you must first indict the French peacekeepers. We do not have the jurisdiction to do that. Further, it appears that the French were simply retrieving weapons stolen from them. If it is all the same to you, we would prefer to represent Colonel Allston in this matter.” He played his trump card. “Of course, Tara Scott will be one of our witnesses.”
“Perhaps you would be interested in this,” Fitzgerald said. He handed them a thin folder. “Here are the current airlift stats. In the last twenty-four hours, the 4440th has flown over fifteen hundred refugees to safety, along with nineteen UN relief workers who were stranded and under attack by the Janjaweed.” He let the political implications sink in. “Further, our intelligence confirms that a large scale genocide is underway and fifteen hundred is a small fraction of what the Janjaweed and Army of the Sudan have killed in the last few days. The situation has deteriorated to the point that we’re flying with armed legionnaires on each sortie.”
The lawyer stood. “We will advise the President and the Speaker.” The meeting was over.
The two generals walked in thoughtful silence back to their offices. Misner motioned for Fitzgerald to join him in private. “We drove a stake in their hearts on that one,” Misner said.
“You can kill ’em but you can’t kill ’em dead,” Fitzgerald said. “Hal, how do you read the Administration on this?”
“It all depends on how committed the President is to reconciling with the UN. He may decide to hang Allston out to dry to accomplish that.” A wry grin split his weather-beaten face. “He may nail our hides to the wall to make it a trifecta. But the political reality is how the public views the situation. Right now, the Speaker appears tone-deaf and the President looks like he’s isolated from the facts on the ground. Thanks to Tara Scott, we’re out in front on this one, at least for now.”
“How deep a pile are we in?” Fitzgerald asked.
“I don’t know,” Misner replied. “But your General Richards isn’t helping. You need to stomp on her.”
“I’m waiting for the right moment. No need to piss off the Speaker twice in one day.”
Al Ubayyid, North Kordofan, Sudan
Jahel tried to relax into the helicopter’s leather-covered seat but wearing a ceremonial robe and holding the gold-plated AK-47 upright between his knees made it difficult. BermaNur sat in the seat opposite and twitched nervously, uncomfortable in his borrowed robe and panicked by his first ride in an aircraft. Jahel gave him a reassuring look. It was the Sheikh’s second time in a helicopter; Waleed had invited him for a ride in one of his MI-24s to interrogate a Fursan suspected of spying for the Americans. But the man had protested his innocence so the MI-24 landed with one less passenger. But this helicopter was totally beyond the MI-24, quieter, air-conditioned and much more comfortable. He knew the crew was Chinese, which did not surprise him, but not the make nor type of the aircraft, which was French. He glanced out the window as the pilot circled the capital of North Kordofan.
A flight attendant wearing an exquisite headscarf that accentuated her eyes and beautiful face joined them. She spoke in Shuwa, the language of the Baggara, another mark of respect. “We will be landing soon. Would you like to circle the airfield first to announce your arrival?” Jahel swelled at the compliment and told her to make it happen.
BermaNur could not contain his excitement as they flew over the airport on the southern end of the large town. He tried to count the tanks, artillery, armored personnel carriers, and trucks lined up for inspection. “There’s over a thousand men,” he said as their helicopter landed next to three MI-24 attack helicopters. The flight attendant opened the passenger door and bowed them out.
Waleed was waiting for them in his dress uniform in the arid heat. He saluted the two Baggara and invited them to join him in the back of a small truck designed for review. Jahel handed BermaNur his AK-47 and climbed up the steps to the truck. Waleed stood beside him as they drove past the men and equipment on review and took the salute. They continued to the northern end of the airdrome where a complex of glistening white tents were surrounded by even more soldiers. The truck stopped in front of the largest tent and Waleed invited Jahel to enter while he waited outside. Inside, four Asian men, all in civilian clothes, were waiting with two Sudanese generals. Aides from both groups hovered in the background, ready to be of instant service. An interpreter stepped forward and made the introductions, his Suwa, Arabic, and Chinese faultless. He ended by escorting the men to a circle of divans and overstuffed chairs arranged on a priceless Persian rug. Jahel was given the seat of honor and BermaNur stood behind him, the AK-47 at the ready.
Refreshments were served before the ranking Sudanese general stood and went through the formal opening statements. He turned the meeting over to the second general who stood beside a large computer-driven screen. “You are all aware of the attack on Bentiu by the French Legionnaires and their American lackeys. It will be avenged.” The civilians nodded in approval with hard looks, their faces frozen. The general turned to Jahel, “I will lead the forces you have seen outside.” A map came on the screen and he tapped the target, 265 miles to the south. “But we must cross the Al Bahr Al Abyad before it floods. Unfortunately, the floods will come early this year and we must move now. In order to be successful, we must hold the French in place. To that end, it falls to the Fursan of the Baggara to lead the attack and kill this man.” A photograph of Allston flashed on the screen.
BermaNur snapped to attention as Jahel lifted his head and spoke. “The honor is mine.”
Mission Awana
Jill knocked on the door jam and motioned Marci Jenkins inside. Allston looked up, glad to see the two women had finally returned. They reported in with sharp salutes. “I hear I missed all the fun,” Marci said. Allston returned the salute and asked about G.G.’s funeral. “G.G.’s parents almost adopted me,” the captain said. “He was their only child and I cannot tell you how proud they are of him.”
“I’ve recommended him for a Silver Star,” Allston said.
Marci beamed at him. “His family will appreciate that. Mrs. Libby said they were thankful for the time they had together. She wished it was more, but it was enough.” There were tears in her eyes.
“The Libbys sound like wonderful people,” Jill offered.