Free The Peacemakers by Richard Herman Page A

secure line.”
    “I need to take this,” Fitzgerald said. The spook smiled and excused himself.
    Malakal
    Allston walked through the hangar that was packed with maintenance equipment and cargo pallets ready to be loaded on relief missions. He stopped and stared at the engine dolly holding an Allison T-56 turboprop engine parked at the end of a neat row. Where did that come from? he wondered. Outside, he heard a C-130 taxi in. He glanced at his watch. It was the last mission of the day and all his aircrews and aircraft were safely recovered. The unyielding tension that bound him tight yielded a notch and he breathed easier. But it would all repeat itself the next day, and every day after that as long as he commanded the 4440th and sent his aircrews into harm’s way. It was a burden few sane men or women chose to carry, and fewer yet who could do it successfully. He walked into operations.
    Inside, G.G. was sitting behind the counter monitoring the radio, his feet up on the desk, the microphone in his left hand. He keyed the mike. “That’s it for the day, Marci.” He noted the C-130’s landing time on the big tracking board and turned to his commander. “All five birds back, OR, and good to go.”
    “G.G., did you have anything to do with that engine out there?”
    “Guilty. Me and Loni, er, Sergeant Williams, convinced a few misguided souls they didn’t really want it.”
    “How did you do that?” Allston asked. He wasn’t really sure he wanted to know.
    “Magic, sir, pure magic.” G.G. laughed. “I did a few slight-of-hand tricks and then offered to not tell their futures.” He flicked his fingers and produced a big coin from nowhere. “No Muslim wants to know the day he will die.” Now Allston was sure he didn’t want to know any more.
    The office rapidly filled as a sergeant and four airmen filed in. They threw their blue berets on the counter and stood there, big grins on their faces. “We flew with Captain Jenkins today,” the sergeant announced. They had come for their bush hats. G.G. rummaged in a nearby cardboard box.
    “Learn anything?” Allston asked.
    “Yes, sir,” a young airman answered. She looked all of sixteen. “The Dinka are hurting.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve never seen starving children before.” G.G. handed her a hat and she held it, caressing the brim. “I gotta do something.”
    “That’s why we’re here,” Allston said.
    She slung the hat over her head, and let it hang on her back. The others quickly fitted theirs and did the same. The sergeant stood tall. “Irregulars, a-ten-HUT!” The five came to attention and threw Allston a salute.
    “Welcome aboard,” Allston said, returning their salutes. They quickly filed out, eager to wear their hats outside.
    “The hats are working, Boss,” G.G. said.
    “It’s not the hats,” Allston told him. “It’s about unit identification and having a mission.” He walked into his office and opened the safe to get his laptop computer. He sat down to answer the mail. As usual, he had over a hundred messages. He scanned them, looking for the important ones. Richards in the office of Military-Political Affairs had sent six pages of detailed and revised Rules of Operations he was to adhere to. However, the important message was a one-liner from Fitzgerald.
    Coordinate with and support Col Vermullen to max extent possible.
    “What the hell is going on?” he wondered to no one. He warned himself to quit thinking out loud. He returned his computer to the safe and went to the mess tent for dinner.

    The knock on Allston’s trailer door came after midnight. “Colonel,” G.G. called. “You’re needed in Ops.” Allston came awake with a rush and sat on the edge of his bed. He turned on the light and checked the time - 0135 hours. He pulled on a flightsuit and staggered to the door. G.G. was waiting anxiously outside. “The French peacekeepers have got their ass in a crack,” G.G. explained, “and a Colonel