The Peacemakers Read Online Free Page B

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.”
    “Some garden,” Bard Green snorted. “Now we got the heat, a hundred to