“They are,” Jenkins said.
“Well, Captain,” Allston said, “I’m glad you’re back. See Major Lane and get on the flying schedule soonest.”
“Will do, sir.” She threw him a salute and hurried out of the room.
He smiled at Jill. “Well, Major, welcome back — finally.” He felt better saying the last bit. Jill returned his smile and made no attempt to account for the eight days it had taken her to reach the mission, much less the time she had spent in Ethiopia. “How are things at Fort Fumble?” Allston asked.
“Normal. One third of the troops haven’t got a clue, one third don’t care, and the other third are confused.”
Allston laughed. “Some things never change.”
Jill chewed on her lower lip. “Sir, ah, there’s something we need to discuss. In private.” He motioned for her to close the door. She did and turned to face him. “Colonel, Marci’s expecting.”
Allston was at a loss for words. “Are you sure?” he finally stammered. Jill nodded in answer. “Any idea who the ‘he’ is?”
Jill gave him the look she normally reserved for the totally clueless. “G.G.”
The answer set Allston back. He blinked. “Why did she come back? She should have asked for reassignment.”
“I don’t know, sir. You’ll have to ask her.”
“I will. And I’m really glad you’re back. To say the situation here is fluid is an understatement. I’m worried about the threat, so talk to whoever you talk to and get back to me with an assessment.”
“Will do, sir.” She turned and left, leaving a trace of perfume in the air.
Allston studied the empty space where she had been standing. She does grow on a guy, he thought. He refused to follow that thought and tucked it away. Still, it kept coming back. “Damn,” he muttered. He concentrated on Marci Jenkins and G.G. How had he missed that? As a commander, it was his job to be aware of any relationship that might compromise his unit’s morale. He had been around the flagpole enough to learn that a pair bonding of any kind chipped away at unit identification and morale. However, they were both captains and had been discreet enough that he was unaware of the affair. Fraternization was never an issue and was a moot point now. Still, Mission Awana was no place for a pregnant pilot. But thanks to Toby, they had excellent medical care. Another thought came to him. How many pregnant women did he see every day working around the mission? He put it aside, called up a file on his computer, and went to work.
He was still at it that afternoon when Dick Lane burst into his office. “Sir, we got a Herk inbound with battle damage and casualties. It’s Bard Green. I’ve scrambled the mission’s fire truck and the medics.”
Allston came to his feet. “Stay here and handle the radios. I’ll be at the airfield.” He grabbed his hat and ran for his pickup. Jill was right behind him. The airfield was over a mile away and he had to drive slowly to clear the mission compound. Then he accelerated, racing for the airstrip. “There it is,” Jill said, “to the west. It looks like a long straight in approach.” Allston was driving and couldn’t twist around to see it. He took Jill’s word, impressed that she understood what Green was doing.
The truck’s radio blared at them. “Bossman, Outhouse.” It was Lane calling Allston from Operations. “Be advised there are 128 souls on board and their primary hydraulics are out.”
Allston relaxed. The C-130 had two backup hydraulic systems plus the auxiliary power unit in the right wheel well. “It’s a precautionary landing,” he told Jill. He slowed and glanced at her. “Where did you learn about approaches?”
Without turning, she said, matter-of-factly, “I pay attention.”
Indeed you do, he thought. Another stray thought intruded. She did have a lovely profile. “Damn,” he grumbled.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He lied. “I’m thinking about the threat. Any updates yet?”
“It’s complicated and I haven’t gotten the total picture yet. But it’s coming together. I’ll brief you later today, if that’s okay.”
He wheeled the pickup to a stop behind the maintenance tents and they got out. Susan Malaby was standing on the parking ramp watching the damaged C-130 come down final. “Gear’s down,” Malaby said. They waited in silence as the Hercules touched down and rolled out. Green made it look normal. “The lieutenant did good,” Malaby conceded. The aircraft taxied in and shut down. Malaby sucked in her breath. The left side of the fuselage aft of the wheel well was perforated with bullet holes and hydraulic fluid was leaking from under the left wing.
“You call that a precautionary landing?” Jill asked.
Malaby was worried. “Not good,” she said. The three walked out to the aircraft as refugees streamed off the back.
“It looks like Bard saved another 100 or so refugees,” Allston countered. “In my book, that’s good.” An inner voice told him they had to do more even though the danger was ratcheting up. The mission’s makeshift ambulance arrived and two legionnaires deplaned carrying a litter with the body of a comrade.
Finally, Bard Green got off with his flight engineer. They walked around the Hercules, surveying the damage. “A legionnaire caught a round,” Green told them. “During takeoff.”
“Where and who” Allston asked.
“Al Araish,” Green said. His face turned hard. “I think the shooters were SA, but I can’t be sure.”
“Major Sharp, your estimate?” Allston asked.
“The good news is that Al Araish is north of the river. The bad news is that Al Araish is only seventy miles away. If it was the SA, they’ll probably try to cross the Nile in force and hook up with Waleed at Malakal.”
Malaby ignored them and examined the holes in the side of the aircraft. “Small caliber machine gun,” she announced. “We got lucky on this one. A heavier weapon with high-explosive rounds would have been fatal.” She thought for a moment. “We need to pull some panels off the wing to check the damage, but we should have her back in commission by tomorrow morning.” Allston was impressed and told her so.
“Major Sharp, let’s go,” Allston said. “We got work to do.”
“Which is?” Jill asked.
“We need a base defense plan. Like soonest. Get all the players together today.” He rattled off a list of names, starting with Jerry Malone, the NCOIC of the security police. “And we need to talk to Idi.”
“He isn’t here,” Jill said. “Most of the legionnaires are training in the field.”
“He never lets up,” Allston conceded. “Let’s make something happen.” Another thought came to him. “How did you know that?”
“That’s what I get paid for,” she replied.
Jerry Malone was on top of it and had the embryo of a defense plan he had been working on since arriving at Malakal. But he had a problem; he only had eighteen cops for day-to-day security. To be effective, they had to augment their number with Irregulars. But that took them away from their normal duties. Another option was to use the legionnaires; however, they were already committed to defending the growing refugee camp and carrying out an intensive training schedule. Mission Awana also had a security force of ten men, but they were used for keeping domestic peace within the mission. They were not trained nor had the weapons for mounting an armed guard.
Allston walked over and studied the chart Malone tacked on the wall showing the minimum defensive posture for the mission. During the day, Malone calculated that six cops could effectively patrol the mission. However, at night he needed twelve cops, augmented by twelve Irregulars, to provide the mission with basic security. “Sir,” Malone concluded, “we’re asking a lot of the Irregulars to meet their normal duties and post out with us under normal conditions. As we increase our defensive posture, we will need even more help from Maintenance, and that means flying will grind to a halt. If that happens, why are we here?”