“That does not mean you are a free agent. You take direct logistical support from the Air Force and you are to consider yourself part of the Air Force at all times. However, operationally you will respond to the UN Relief and Peacekeeping Mission. As this is part of the White House’s new foreign policy initiatives, you will liaison with my office.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
“There is one more thing,” she said flatly. “You have a reputation for singing rude drinking songs, smoking cigars, and drinking, all of which must stop.”
“I only sing in the shower now, gave up cigars years ago, and hardly drink.”
She frowned. “And womanizing.”
“I did do market studies between wives.”
“Today’s Air Force strongly discourages that type of conduct. Do you understand?”
“Completely.”
“Good. Dismissed.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He threw a sharp salute and beat a dignified retreat, glad to escape the lion’s den.
Outside, Allston checked the time. He thanked the captain escorting him and said he wanted to join a friend for dinner and could find his own way. The captain was glad to escape and took off. The secretary looked at him expectantly, hoping she was the friend. Allston gave her his best grin and ambled down the hall towards the riverfront. He walked into an outer office and was immediately ushered into General John “Merlin” Fitzgerald. The general returned his salute and came to his feet, extending his right hand. “Welcome back aboard.” Fitzgerald pointed to a couch and sat down beside him.
“Dave, I inherited a can of worms on this one and have dropped you into it. I would have never let the 4440th be placed under the operational control of the UN and cannot think of a surer way to hang our people out to dry, especially in an area that is coming apart.” His jaw hardened. “I’m not going to let that happen, but the Air Force has been effectively sidelined. Right now, I only have one dog in this fight — you.” He spent the next eighteen minutes detailing Allston’s marching orders and what he expected.
When he finished, Allston shook his head. “General, this sucks. You’ve got better things to do with your time than have me reporting directly to you through a back channel. You need to set up a special directorate for this type of thing.”
“Unfortunately, that directorate is the Office of Military-Political Affairs that Congress created. I believe you’ve met Brigadier General Richards.”
Allston leaned back and groaned loudly.
TWO
Over South Sudan
Captain Marci Jenkins didn’t know what to make of her new commander. The 4440th had received word he was coming and his reputation had spread like wildfire through the detachment. The reaction was universal — they had been lumbered with a broken-down fighter pilot, the last thing trash haulers needed. The acting commander of the detachment, Major Dick Lane, had bit his tongue and detailed her to fly a C-130 to Bole International Airport at Addis Ababa in Ethiopia and pick him up. Once on the ground, Allston had simply walked up to the waiting Hercules and introduced himself. Surprisingly, he was wearing a gray-green ABU, the Airman Battle Uniform, and not a dress uniform. He wasn’t what she had expected.
The flight from Bole was just over ninety minutes and she asked if he would like to sit in the copilot’s seat and fly the Hercules. He gave her his lopsided grin, settled into the seat, and took control. She was impressed with the smooth and instinctive way Allston flew the C-130. Even Technical Sergeant Leroy Riley, the flight engineer, noticed the way he brought the old bird onto the step with ease, increasing their airspeed and lowering fuel consumption. Most pilots only talked about it, and many denied it could be done. But their airspeed and fuel flow were ample proof it could. “How’s she feel?” Marci Jenkins asked from the left seat.
“Just like old times,” Allston replied.
“I thought you flew fighters,” Marci said.
“I did, until I got my” — he almost said “tit in a wringer,” but caught himself in time — “my sweet young body in trouble and was put out to pasture flying Herks until I retired. It was a great assignment and I love the C-130. It is one fantastic bird, probably the closest thing there is to a four-engine fighter.”
“Not this one,” she cautioned. “It belongs in the Boneyard.”
“I don’t know about that,” Allston replied. He fell silent. By his standards, it was a relaxed flight. They were on a westerly heading, flying at 18,000 feet, and making a groundspeed of 320 knots. The terrain below was a mottled-brown grassland with clumps of low trees and bushes, much as he had expected. Ahead, he saw the green corridor that marked the White Nile as it snaked its way north. It was all he needed to find the airfield. “There, on the nose,” he said. Marci leaned forward and looked over the instrument panel, but couldn’t see what he was seeing. “The air patch — on the eastern side of the dogleg where the river turns north again,” Allston explained, talking her eyes onto the airfield. She checked the GPS and looked again. Her eyes followed the green corridor, still not finding the airfield.
“You got good eyeballs,” Riley said. He was sitting between them and aft of the center console. He liked their new boss, but sensed that Captain Marci Jenkins was not a happy camper. She had worshipped their former commander, Lieutenant Colonel Anne McKenzie. Everyone had liked the popular McKenzie and had despaired at her death, especially Marci, and he understood why the captain would be reluctant to give her allegiance to any newcomer, much less a macho fighter pilot.
“I’ve got it,” Marci said, taking control of the aircraft. She still couldn’t see the airfield at Malakal, but she was the aircraft commander. “Before descent checklist,” she called. It was the copilot’s job to read the checklist and she wanted to see if Allston would stay in the right hand seat and play copilot. He did and started through the checklist.
The flight engineer realized Allston was reciting the checklist from memory. “Damn, Colonel, when did you do that?”
“Do what, Riley?” Allston replied.
“Memorize the checklist.”
“I reviewed the tech manual on the flight over. It all came back.”
“I’d prefer you to read the checklist,” Marci said, establishing her authority.
“You bet,” Allston said. He scrolled down the checklist. Then, “Captain, do you mind circling the area and pointing out the local landmarks?”
“Besides the river and the town, there’s not much,” she answered. “You’ll see it all during the approach.”
“What do you use for an I.P.?” The Initial Point was an easily identifiable geographical reference a few miles from the end of each runway that pilots used to enter the landing pattern.
“We don’t have one,” she replied. “We use the GPS. There’s no control tower.”
Allston made a mental note. He had some work to do. “Thanks for the stick time. I’ll give it back to Bard.” Allston crawled out of the copilot’s seat to let First Lieutenant Bard Green do his job, and strapped into the empty navigator’s seat. He made another mental note. He watched the crew as they entered the landing pattern and landed on Runway 23, to the southwest. The approach and landing were okay but nothing to write home about.
Malakal, South Sudan
Marci rolled out long. “The compound is at the southwestern end of the field,” she explained. Allston stood behind the copilot as they taxied to the end of the 6600-foot runway and turned off to the left into the parking area with a big hangar on the far side. “Let me be the first to welcome you to Malakal,” the loadmaster said over the intercom, “the garden spot of the Sudan, or South Sudan, or whatever.”