“Your source for all this?” Allston asked.
“The Air and Army Attaches at Addis.”
“And they arranged for the Paladin?” He was still fishing for an answer.
“Another agency, sir. The marines at Djibouti held a raffle to see who would come. It got pretty hot and heavy.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know the source of the jamming?” Vermullen asked.
Jill shuffled through the photos and found the one she wanted. “It’s a mobile unit, Russian made.” She pointed to a big truck with a canvas-covered bed and a tall mast holding multiple antenna arrays. “They have to stop to erect the mast. It takes about five minutes and they can’t move with the mast erected. That’s when they stop jamming.”
Vermullen studied the vehicle. “It is very distinctive.”
Allston knew what he was thinking. “It should be easy to identify.”
“Especially with the mast up,” Vermullen added.
The radio at the Ops desk squawked. “Outhouse, Outhouse, Gizmo One inbound. Fifteen minutes out.” It was Dick Lane in a C-130. Before they could answer, the frequency was drowned out by a loud squelch.
“Well, they’re not moving now,” Allston said. “We need to take that puppy out.” He looked around the table. “Let’s go move some people.” Another thought came to him. “Toby, let’s air evac out as many of the wounded as we can.”
E-Ring
Fitzgerald’s intercom buzzed. It was his secretary. General Richards was on the line requesting a personal meeting. Fitzgerald savored the thought of ignoring her and letting her stew but he owed her another chance. “In thirty minutes. She’s got five minutes.” His fingers danced over his keyboard as he called up the link to the NMCC. The image in front of him flickered and stabilized as the encryption circuits did their magic.
The duty officer’s image appeared on the screen. “Good evening, General. How may I help you?”
“What’s the latest on the 4440th in the Sudan?” He waited while the duty officer made the handoff.
A young-looking Army lieutenant colonel appeared. He came right to the point. “All contact with the 4440th is lost but we have satellite imagery of the four C-130s and numerous personnel at Juba. Fighting was reported at Mission Awana but has stopped, and the airfield is open.” He checked a computer screen. “We’ll have a Keyhole overhead in twelve hours and will have an update then.” The Keyhole series of reconnaissance satellites had a high-resolution camera that could breakout individuals on the ground. “The Boys In The Basement inserted a Paladin at Awana, and Special Ops will have personnel on the ground to support the peacekeepers in the next thirty-six hours. The situation appears to have stabilized.”
Fitzgerald breathed easier and broke the connection. With a little luck, he’d have the 4440th out of the Sudan by Monday. He called up a file on the quadrennial defense review and shifted his attention to the future of the Air Force. He worked that problem until his intercom buzzed. It was Richards. He took her measure as she entered his office and reported in. “You’re here late for a Friday.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered. “I’m looking for a new assignment.”
“There’s not much going for flag-rank military-political affairs officers.”
“There’s a position in Brussels with NATO that’s opening up.”
“That’s an intelligence function.”
“Yes, sir. I started out as an intelligence officer.”
“But got sidetracked,” he said. He sensed that he was talking to a different person. It was testing time. “I don’t trust you but I did hear your testimony in front of the committee. What you did took guts. You made a powerful enemy today and you can kiss any thoughts of promotion goodbye.”
“I am aware of that. But I need to make a difference, accomplish something worthwhile before I retire. This is my last chance.”
“Why the sudden change?”
She knew it was a fair question. “I saw what Allston did in the Sudan. I totally misjudged him.” Fitzgerald didn’t respond and waited. “All I saw was arrogance and disrespect. He’s profane and crude, and, well, a womanizer, but he saved lives.”
“And he’s aggressive.” Fitzgerald waited, almost convinced. “And?”
Richards had to make the general understand. “I’ve never met anyone like him. I can’t stand him… he’s everything I disapprove of… but the way the Irregulars follow him…” her voice trailed off.
“It’s called leadership.” He made a decision. “Don’t disappoint me in Brussels.”
“Thank you, sir. I won’t.”
Fitzgerald watched her leave, struck by the irony of it all. Because of Allston, she had been challenged and emerged a better officer. An inner voice told him she had changed. But would she revert to type? He didn’t know but the same voice told him it was a chance worth taking. He spun around in his chair and switched on the TV. He settled back to watch Tara’s special on his peacekeepers.
An announcer read a news flash. “This just in from the Hague in the Netherlands. The International Criminal Court has issued arrest warrants for the three UN commissioners in charge of the Relief and Peacekeeping Mission of Southern Sudan. The United Nations has pledged to fully cooperate in any investigation and end the corruption that has marked the relief operation in Addis Ababa.”
“Yeah, right,” Fitzgerald mumbled to himself.
TWENTY-SIX
Mission Awana
D’Na walked down the ramp of Lane’s C-130 closely followed by twenty-two rebel soldiers. She hurried over to her husband and stood close. They talked for a few moments as forty-five walking wounded boarded the aircraft. Stretcher-bearers were next as they carried twelve critically wounded up the ramp. Allston keyed his handheld radio but the frequency was immediately jammed. He ran up the crew entrance steps and climbed onto the flight deck. “What’s happening at Juba?” he asked Lane.
Lane turned around in his seat. “D’Na bribed the right folks and got the field open.” He looked at his watch. “Another Herk is inbound in about forty minutes. There should be one arriving about every forty to fifty minutes.”
“Any more reinforcements coming?”
Lane shook his head. “That’s it. I’ll keep the Herks coming as long as the field is open.”
The loadmaster stood on the flight deck’s ladder. “We’re loaded and good to go,” he shouted over the engine noise.
Lane gave the sergeant a thumbs-up and extended his hand to Allston. “Thanks, Boss.”
Allston was puzzled. “For getting your ass shot off?”
“Naw. That goes with the job. You’re the best man I’ve ever worked for and I’ve done things here I never knew I could do.” They shook hands.
Allston bolted down the ladder and out the crew entrance door. He ran for the battered Land Rover where Williams was waiting. “You should be in the hospital,” Allston told him.
“I’m okay. I just got a gash in the love handle on my left side and lost a lot of blood. They gave me a transfusion. No way I’m gonna hang around a hospital when I can walk.” He drove slowly through the night towards the mission. “Are we gonna make it, sir?”
Allston caught the ‘sir,’ which was not like Williams at all. The sergeant had to be very worried and Allston went with the truth. “I don’t know. Look, you should be in a hospital, not here. I’ll get you out on the next bird.”