The Peacemakers by Richard Herman

dolly for return shipment.
    Then pallet after pallet of supplies was offloaded, effectively doubling their stocks of essential parts and supplies. “Can you believe that?” Allston’s Logistics officer said. He actually bounced in excitement. Allston berated himself for being so slow. His troops wanted to do their job and all he had to do was to supply the wherewithal. But could he take them to the next level? He didn’t know, but he had to try.
    A four-man maintenance team got off the C-17 with a pallet of equipment for X-raying the wings. Finally, a strange looking captain wearing a flightsuit walked down the ramp loaded with bags and an old leather suitcase strapped closed with a belt. ‘Mandrake the Magician’ was stenciled on the side of the suitcase in faded gold letters. He seemed to wilt in the heat as he struggled with his load. Sergeant Loni Williams took pity on him and shouldered part of the load. Williams pointed to Allston and Lane and the two made their way across the ramp. The newcomer carefully set the suitcase down. He threw Allston a salute. “Captain Glen Libby reporting for duty.”
    Allston studied the man, not sure if he should send him back. Libby stood five feet six with a potato-like body and toothpick arms and legs. His face reminded Allston of a bulldog. Then it hit him. Libby was a remake of a young Winston Churchill. “Don’t salute outside,” Allston told him, returning the salute. He glanced at Libby’s nametag. There was no star over his navigator wings, which meant he hadn’t been flying that long, and his full name was Glen G. Libby. “What’s the G. stand for?” Allston asked.
    “It’s Glen Gordon,” Libby replied. “Everyone calls me G.G.” It sounded like Gigi and Lane suppressed a chuckle. He considered navigators a hold-over from the past and no longer needed in the modern Air Force.
    Allston’s and Lane’s communicators squawked simultaneously. The gate guard was calling with the news that two Sudanese Army trucks had barged through the gate without stopping. “Well, we better go howdy those folks,” Allston said. He headed for the detachment’s offices but didn’t get far. Two weapons carrier type trucks sped around the corner of the hangar and headed directly for the C-17. Two soldiers stood in the back of each truck manning a machine gun mounted over the cab. The trucks slammed to a halt, and Allston’s eyes narrowed as an army major got out of the lead truck. He was heavyset and his potbelly strained at the buttons on his uniform. A web belt was strapped around his middle with a holster holding a large, well-used automatic.
    “The commander of the army garrison in town,” Lane whispered. “A real bastard.”
    “Major Hamid Waleed, Army of Sudan,” the newcomer announced in a rapid-fire, staccato bark. “Don’t you salute your superior officers?”Allston extended his right hand. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel David Allston, United States Air Force. At your service.” The major ignored the outstretched hand. “And, yes, I do salute my superior officers.” He almost added a ‘Don’t you?’ but thought better of it.
    Waleed flushed at the rebuke that he had not recognized Allston’s rank and was out-ranked. “Colonel Allston,” Waleed said, “I’m here to investigate an unauthorized landing and possible smuggling.” He gestured at the C-17.
    “Just routine resupply,” Allston explained.
    “Still, I must investigate. Orders, you know. As a military man, I’m sure you understand I have no choice.” He spoke to his men in Arabic and gave them lengthy instructions.
    Libby walked calmly over to Loni Williams and spoke in a low voice. Williams nodded and quickly disappeared behind the C-17. The pudgy captain then joined Allston. “I speak Arabic,” he said in a low voice, his back to Waleed. “He just told his men that he wants the engine that came off the Globemaster.”
    “What the hell for? What can they do with it? That doesn’t make