“Good morning, sir,” the colonel said, starting the Power Point presentation. “I’m Colonel Robert Banks, chief of the Policy Division of the Office of Military-Political Affairs. As you know, the Air Force lost a C-130 yesterday morning in the Sudan.” A stylistic photo of a C-130 flashed on the screen. “The Hercules was part of the 4440th” — he pronounced it ‘forty-four fortieth’ — “Special Airlift Detachment providing support and flying relief missions for the United Nations peacekeeping force to the Sudan out of Malakal.” He had just told Fitzgerald what he already knew, not the best of beginnings, and missed the narrowing of Fitzgerald’s eyes. But not Richards. The general’s body language told her that he was not hearing what he wanted. Colonel Banks was a key member of her staff she was grooming for command, but he was in danger of suffering a professional death by Power Point. She gave him the high sign to move on.
“There were no survivors,” the colonel continued, “and an investigation team is en route to the crash site.” Again, it was something Fitzgerald knew. “Moreover, the Administration has determined that no change in our peacekeeping operations is warranted because of the crash.” That also was not news.
Fitzgerald’s fingers beat a tattoo on the table. A colonel’s job was to think, evaluate, and react accordingly. This one was wasting his time, and the general firmly believed in three strikes and you are out. “Clear your desk and pack your bag, Banks.” The colonel gulped and stifled a reply. He had been relieved and any chance of command had just gone up in smoke. He walked out with as much dignity as he could muster.
Fitzgerald turned to his staff. “Next.” His chief of staff hit a button to summon the next briefer.
The door opened and a woman entered. Her blue eyes were still wide from learning the fate of Colonel Banks. Her auburn hair was cut short and framed a lovely face. She was short and stocky, big busted and big hipped with an hourglass figure. She would never be fashionably thin, but Renoir would have painted her with admiring gusto. She stepped to the podium and picked up the remote control. “Good morning, sir. I’m Major Gillian Sharp. I work for the African Desk at the DIA as an intelligence analyst, and will be briefing you today on the current situation in the Sudan.”
She cycled to the first display and started to talk. A slight flicker of light caught her attention when the image on the screen behind her changed for no reason. At the same time, she noticed that Fitzgerald was holding a remote control. He pressed the button again, and the display again changed. She waited quietly while he ran through her entire briefing in less than twenty seconds. Satisfied, he nodded, willing to cut a junior staff officer more slack than a colonel. “Go ahead, Major.”
“Sir, as you know, the detachment commander, Lieutenant Colonel Anne McKenzie, was among those lost in the crash.” She announced the names of the other four crewmembers in a way that made Fitzgerald think of an honor roll. “The exact cause of the crash is not known at this time, but satellite photography down-linked two hours ago indicates it might be structural failure.” The general was impressed and he bombarded her with questions. He grunted in satisfaction when she gave him the exact latitude and longitude of the crash site. “Both Abyei and the crash site,” she added, “are in the disputed border area between Sudan and the new Republic of South Sudan.”
Then he hit her with the heavy stuff. “How unstable is the situation on the ground?”
“The recent increase in attacks indicates the Sudanese government in Khartoum has unleashed the Janjaweed in a new, but still low-intensity round of genocide in the area. We are expecting a repeat of the violence in Darfur. Khartoum is fighting desperately to hold on to the area, and the external violence seems to be quieting their internal dissidents, insulating them from the ‘Arab Spring’.”
“Who are the major players? I’m looking for names and faces, Major.” For Fitzgerald, conflict was a personal thing and leadership made the difference between victory and defeat.
She typed a command on the podium’s keyboard, and a photo of an overweight officer wearing a medal-bedecked uniform that stretched over his potbelly materialized on the screen. “This is Major Hamid Waleed, the commander of the Sudanese Army garrison at Malakal. While Malakal is nominally part of South Sudan, the Sudanese have not withdrawn their army, adding to regional instability.” She didn’t remind Fitzgerald that the 4440th was based at the airfield at Malakal. “Waleed was a key player in Darfur.” She quickly recapped how the Government of Sudan had armed Baggara horsemen, the Janjaweed, in Darfur and implemented a program of genocide, murdering African tribesmen. When the task proved too big for the Janjaweed, the government sent in the army with armed helicopters to complete the killing in that part of western Sudan.
The image on the screen changed to a tall, bearded man in a ceremonial robe and riding a magnificent horse. He clutched a gold-plated AK-47 in his right hand. “This is Sheikh Amal Jahel of the Rizeigat, a tribe of the nomadic Bedouin Baggara people. He leads the Fursan, the cavaliers or horsemen of the Baggara, who form the core of the Janjaweed. Unlike Waleed, Jahel is reported to be fearless and commands the absolute loyalty of the Fursan and the Janjaweed. The AK-47 was presented to him by a Chinese peace delegation.”
“How does all this affect our mission in the area?”
“Sir, that is beyond my pay grade, but I can offer an opinion.”
“Offer.”
“First, we are in the process of re-evaluating the threat. If the crash was caused by hostile action, we may have to pull back from the forward relief area and confine our operations to more secure areas. Second, the accident aircraft was delivered to the Air Force in 1976 and was the low-time airframe of the six Hercules deployed to the Sudan. If the crash was caused by structural failure, we may have to ground the remaining five pending an inspection, or replace them with more modern aircraft.”
“And if we can’t do any of the above?”
Her eyes softened. “Then expect more losses, sir.”
“Thank you, Major Sharp. Stay on top of the situation. A daily briefing.” Notes were made all around and she was placed on the schedule. The major set the remote control on the podium as Richards caught her eye and signaled for her to wait in the corridor. She hurried out.
Fitzgerald looked down the table. “The 4440th needs a commander. Any names?” Normally, the selection of a detachment commander would have been made at the wing and numbered Air Force level, far below the Pentagon. But the 4440th was in a unique position and outside the normal hierarchy and chain of command. His staff had been expecting that question and a list with five names was passed to him. He quickly read it and the short description after each name. They were all dedicated, highly educated, competent, and superbly trained professionals who were deathly afraid to say or do anything that anyone might find objectionable. He wasn’t impressed. A name came to him from the time he commanded Air Combat Command. “Lieutenant Colonel David Orde Allston.”
Around the table, fingers danced on BlackBerries to research the name. The lieutenant general who served as Deputy Chief of Staff for Manpower and Personnel studied the readout in front of him. “He made the news last week and certainly had an interesting career. Over two thousand hours flying F-15s, and a top gun at William Tell.” William Tell was the Air Force’s live-fire fighter gunnery competition held every other year. The general quickly scrolled down, scanning Allston’s career. “He was later reprimanded as a squadron commander when a sexual discrimination complaint was filed against him. The charges were dismissed, but he was relieved of command and put out to pasture flying C-130s.” As an afterthought, he added, “He was married and divorced three times, and has a daughter and stepson who live with him.”