Deployment

By John F. Martin

The world has failed the Darfur region, but devious politicians and generals have figured a way to polish their ow images with no risk. They are going to use the National Guard. Sergeant Major Lucas Grant should have retired. Instead, he joined the Guard.
The National Guard stands ready to provide humanitarian relief wherever they may be sent, but they never expected anything like Darfur. Grant finds himself in another shooting war, worse than anything he has known before. Islamic extremists want the country for Arab Muslims, the Sudanese Liberation Army wants it for African Muslims, and both sides want the Americans out.
And there's a problem with one of their own soldiers.

Based on current events in Darfur, American soldiers face the perils of helping the people no one cares about, and keeping each other alive while they do it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 24, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595602926

John F. Martin

John Martin had a 29 year career with the US Army and the Army Reserve as communicator, infantryman and combat engineer, retiring as a First Sergeant, and a 21 year career with the New Hampshire Department of Corrections, retiring as a Unit Manager, prior to turning his hand to writing. His military service took him all over the world, with an assignment to West Germany, almost 2 years in Vietnam in the 60s, Honduras during the Nicaraguan invasion in the 80s, and the Mexican Border and Africa during the 90s. He has been in the areas he writes about, and uses actual events as jumping off points for his stories.

Book preview

Deployment

Copyright © 2008 by John F. Martin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

The movement below caught his eye. A thin band of smoke rose from one of the far huts. Families were gathered in the open space between the huts of the small village. They had been gathered from their sparse fields to hear the message. It had been given to them before, but they had ignored it. Now it would be delivered with more emphasis. Now they would have no choice but to heed it.

He squinted as he looked across the landscape. The early morning sun glared off the tan, almost white texture of the hills. He looked down on the collection of huts in the valley, shacks really. They were the homes of the subsistence farmers in the valley. These people fought a losing battle against the land. In years when there was enough water, they had no market for their crops. In years of drought they barely survived. Tradition kept them on the land, just as tradition made him a warrior.

His gaze swept over the hills. In his mind he could see back over 13 centuries, to a time when his ancestors swept over these lands and conquered them for Allah. He could see them, their fine horses, their flowing robes and their scimitars flashing in the sunlight, striking down all that opposed them. Those were truly the glory days. He looked at his own weapon. The Kalashnikov was a cheaply made, widely distributed tool, nothing more. It was the symbol of warriors all over the world, but it wasn’t a scimitar. He vowed to get one. Someday, on one of his infrequent trips to Amman or Damascus, he would find one that suited his stature, a fine blade with gold trim, a mother-of-pearl handle that fit his hand. That would be what he carried to show his rank. Enough of these infidel weapons!

Another plume of smoke rose. The wind carried the wails of the farmers in the valley. It was their misfortune, but the thought was with no compassion. They were probably Muslim, or some of them could have been Christian. It didn’t matter to him either way. Everyone in that village was an African, and Darfur was to be an Arab state. These people had the opportunity to leave peacefully, to move into a camp in Chad, or go farther south to the Congo or the Central African Republic. They had chosen to stay. That was their mistake. The only true faithful were the Arabs. All were required to worship Allah, but the Arabs were the select who would dominate. It was written, and that is how it would be. After all, the true language of the Koran was Arabic. How could someone who read it in an infidel tongue truly understand its beauty?

There was more movement below. One of his men came out of the nearest hut, adjusting his robes. He called to his companion, laughing. They exchanged words and the second man went inside. They were enjoying their spoils, the fruits of being a warrior. Another figure burst from the hut. This time it was a woman, her clothes in tatters. She was running away. One of the farmers in the yard began shouting, gesturing with his arms. He ran to catch the woman. He was on the ground as the sound of the shot reached him. The woman turned when she heard the sound. Her hands went to her mouth as she screamed something. Another of his men came from the hut and clubbed her with his rifle, then dragged her back inside. She would pay for attempting to flee.

He signaled his driver to come to him. It was time to leave this place. If his men weren’t finished they could take the women with them. As he drove into the yard he made a small sign with his hand. His men nodded and raised their weapons. The Africans attempted to flee, but they couldn’t outrun automatic weapons. He sat and considered the noise. Bullets, he said to himself, have to be replaced. Without bullets, his guns are just clubs. That would be the beauty of the scimitar. It was always available and always loaded. There was no sound to alert your enemies and it could bring a quick death, another blessing from Allah.

There were more shots from the hut. His men would have no sport at camp tonight, unless they happened upon another farm. His men came out, one with a lantern. He threw it on to the roof, and it joined the others ablaze. Another plot of land had been reclaimed for the Janjaweed. If the government could contain the Sudanese Liberation Army to the south, the entire province would soon be Arab. It was as the prophet wished.

CHAPTER 1

Lucas Grant was not ready to retire. It wasn’t what he had wanted to do, but there was no choice. His health was good. Physically, he could outperform most half his age. His Medal of Honor had guaranteed him a long career. But the rule was, thirty-five years and you were out, and since he was being blamed, they decided to enforce the rule. Thanks for coming and playing, they said, especially through the lean years of low pay and lower morale. Thanks for all the scars you’ve got, and those little aches and pains you get from too many years sleeping outdoors on the ground. Thanks for being there when we needed you, but those days are gone. Go home, if you have one, wherever that may be.

Thirty-five years had taken him all over the world, and now his world closed in on him a little more every day. He could have tried civilian life. His skills were in demand for a while in the post 9/11 world. But he didn’t put up with fools easily, and there were many, usually in charge, with more money than brains, and even fewer ideas. Private security was filling up with untalented amateurs. Most of them with attitudes that tried to intimidate rather than reason. That was a sure recipe for trouble. The politicians found them more palatable, and some even made money from them. It was forcing many of the good people out. Those that stayed were more and more the ticket punchers, who may have gone and bought the t-shirt, but didn’t do anything to earn it. He avoided both groups.

His last job had been coordinating (baby-sitting was more like it) security for a couple of private contractors who thought they could live like they were visiting royalty in Las Vegas. They were loud, obnoxious, and attracted all the wrong kind of attention. When they started to ask the security detail to go out looking for Baghdad whores, the coalition headquarters tried to pull the detail and get them to leave the country. Naturally, they refused, and one of them invoked the name of a prominent politician. While the whole issue was being sorted out, they went out on their own. Iraq was not a good place to be looking for fun, with or without a sponsor, or a multi-national to provide weapons, safe houses, and legitimacy. The coalition forces had wanted them out: they should have gone.

They hired a couple of locals who claimed that they not only could guarantee their safety, they could also introduce them to some of the real players in the Iraqi oil business. They were dead in 48 hours. The terrorists didn’t even bother to videotape it. Just cut their throats, castrated them and left them on a street corner. Someone had to be blamed, and Grant was convenient and politically unconnected.

The letter from the National Guard had been lying around for a few days, asking him to come in for an interview. These things had been coming ever since his return. He didn’t know it, but high ranking friends had been shopping his name around, trying to salvage him until the storm passed. With longer and longer deployments, Guard units were coming home to retrain and reorganize, and re-deploy. Sometimes back to Iraq, sometimes Afghanistan, and once in a while, a plum assignment, Bosnia, where only half the country wanted you dead. His background, his career, the Medal of Honor and all the rest, were supposed to make him a big draw on the speaking circuit, trying to buck up morale, encourage re-enlistment, and maybe draw a few new kids in at the same time. He had rejected all the past offers out of hand, wanting nothing to do with them. But this time he thought about it. They could activate him for a few days at a time, and he could be Command Sergeant Major Lucas T. Grant again. And he knew the feeling of standing in front of a formation, everyone, even the officers waiting for him to speak.

There was an opiate in being a senior NCO, a Command Sergeant Major (CSM) or a First Sergeant (1SG). Most senior NCOs avoided those positions. Being a 1SG could be a pain in the ass, responsible for a thousand little nit-picking details. The same with CSM: always visible, working with a commander, responsible. They preferred the relative anonymity of a staff NCO position, where major responsibility, and problems, could be kicked up to a relatively junior officer, or shuffled down to a junior NCO. They didn’t understand what it was to train, encourage and delegate, to get others to do what they were supposed to do, willingly and competently. It was called leadership. Some had it. The rest were content to be followers.

He picked up the phone and made the call. A squeaky-voiced Lieutenant answered. Once Grant identified himself, the Lieutenant asked if the Sergeant

Major could come by the next morning, at 0800. What the hell, Grant thought, at least it would get him out of the house for a while. A few days of active duty, and maybe he could generate something more long term. The Guard didn’t have mandatory retirement ages. If you could hang on, you could stay until sixty. He asked if they’d like him in uniform. The Lieutenant said that would be fine, the General would appreciate it.

The next morning he left his blouse hanging in the back seat of the car with the decorations facing out. In the past he had found it helped get him out of speeding tickets and a host of other inconveniences that BDUs (the battle dress uniform) would have held him up in. It worked on gate guards too. The young specialist checking traffic in and out focused on his decorations in the back window, and never took the offered ID card. He was directed to a visitor’s space by the front door.

General? What was this about? Usually he’d speak to some Captain or Major, a Public Information Officer, or PIO, listen to his pitch then hang up. It looked like they were upping the ante on him, trying to make sure he wouldn’t turn them down this time. Well, he had already made up his mind to do it. With a General involved he could probably drive a harder bargain and get a better deal, something more permanent. With all the deployments and special projects the Governor kept coming up with they had to be stretched thin and need someone at State level in Plans. Operations and Training. The state governor is the head of the National Guard, except when it’s federalized. Most governors kept a pretty much hands off attitude, unless they needed them for disaster relief. This governor was different though. It was his private army, and he used it as a political tool. Need a park cleaned up? No problem, here’s an infantry company to line up and do it in one sweep. Good for politicking, good for PR.

A Lieutenant met him at the door. From the squeaky voice he could tell it was the same one he had spoken to on the phone. There were no extra patches on his BDUs, no special skills badge, no combat patch on the right shoulder. The way he babbled, he was probably college ROTC. No platoon assignment yet. Doing gopher work for somebody in headquarters. He had the voice and attitude that a parent looked forward to at the end of a hard day, but only irritated others. Grant hoped that whatever he would be doing, this one would be no where around. He was led to a vinyl couch (standard GI dayroom issue, right down to the avocado green color) and told the General would be with him in a few moments. There was that General shit again. Because of the Medal? His Medal of Honor had been awarded almost 35 years ago, for a battle that didn’t have a name, by a president nobody wanted to remember. No, that wasn’t true. Older soldiers and politicians kept bringing it up. Most lying about what they did or telling him what a shame it was he had to go. Pure bullshit.

He looked around the hall for something to occupy his mind while he waited. There was a photo display a little further down of what looked to be the chain of command and the ‘who’s who’ of the State Military Reservation. Things like who the commander and his staff are, the soldier of the month, the re-enlistment NCO, and the Equal Opportunity Representative. That was something Grant never agreed with. A good soldier had equal opportunity. A poor one didn’t. It was as simple as that. If there was a problem with someone up the chain of command, there was an Inspector General. Use the existing system. The only reason a new one was created was because an outsider didn’t understand the system, and the mediocre used that to their advantage.

Then he saw the photo at the top of the pyramid. Major General Alonzo Price Cabot, DSC.

Lien Khe, Republic of Vietnam

Second Lieutenant Alonzo Price Cabot had been leading his new platoon for all of a week, and for all of a week he had been consistently screwing things up. The only thing going in his favor so far was the fact that the enemy hadn’t seen fit to interfere with their little walk through the highlands yet. He was like thousands of other graduates of the Officer Candidate School system. He knew the book solution to every problem, but the problems they found out here were in a different book. Grant had been a buck sergeant then, the product of a system that elevated green troops to leadership positions to cover battle loses. Grant at least had the advantage of six months of on the job training, and a familiarity with this area. And he knew the next patch of woods was booby-trapped. It always had been, it always would be. And this idiot new Lieutenant wanted to walk them right through it, the shortest route to the pick up point.

LT. This is a bad idea. We go around, it takes an extra hour or so, and we don’t risk losing anybody to traps. The troops had a healthy respect for booby-traps. It was something you couldn’t win against.

Cabot wasn’t having any of that. We have orders to get there ASAP. That’s the most direct route.

Some of the men added their voices. ASAP means as soon as possible, not right now. Get the CO on the radio. He’ll tell you to stay out of there.

The CO isn’t here. It’s my call. I say move out!

The GIs knew they couldn’t win that argument, and they were too good, too disciplined to argue any more, or refuse a direct order. The point element moved out. Two hours later, they had almost cleared the woods. Experienced eyes had kept them out of trouble, disarming what they could, bypassing what they couldn’t. They were so intent on booby-traps, they walked right into the ambush. Within moments the three men in the lead element were dead, the next six were wounded, and the rest of the platoon was pinned down. The Lieutenant, up front with the first squad, was wounded in both legs and cut off. Grant, about twenty meters back, reacted automatically and sent out flankers to sweep around the ambush and take them in the rear. He had the rest lay down a base of fire and started forward for the wounded. Their medic was in Bangkok on R&R. There hadn’t been a replacement.

Moving quickly, he got to the first two casualties. Both were serious enough, but they could help each other crawl back. The next man had taken several hits to the chest. His breathing was ragged. Just beyond him lay the LT. Grant called to him. Lay down some fire and cover us. I’ll be back for you in a minute! Cabot looked at him with wide eyes. He was terrified, and it showed, but he rolled over and started firing. Grant got the chest wound back to the main body, taking a round in his left leg. He made two more trips, and was hit again on each one.

The radio operator had died. He left the Lieutenant for last and pulled the other wounded man, unconscious, back. As he grabbed Cabot’s harness to pull him back, the flankers rolled up the ambush position. It was over that quick.

In spite of his mistake, and his refusal to listen to his NCOs, he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for his gallantry under fire, and despite his crippling wounds, he continued to provide cover for his wounded men while exposed, enabling a relief force to rescue them.

Grant got the Medal of Honor.

It was the same face looking out at him. Older, heavier, the hairline receded, but the same arrogant expression as the day he ordered them to march into the ambush. His week with Grants platoon was the only combat he had ever seen. It was enough to carry him to Major General. Grant spent a month in a hospital in Nha Trang, and two more years in-country. Then five more wars, Grenada, Panama, Desert Storm, Somalia and Iraq. In between there were the smaller actions, like the hostage rescue attempt in Iran and advising the Contras. All roads led here.

The General will see you now.

Cabot still looked like his picture. Grant had forgotten how short he was until he came around the desk to greet him. Sergeant Major. It’s good to see you. Thanks for coming in. Can I offer you anything?

Small talk. Well, he was here, might as well let it play out. The longer he listened, maybe the longer tour he could work out. Coffee would be fine, General. I wasn’t aware you had anything to do with the National Guard.

Cabot smiled. "Oh yes. After Vietnam it seemed a shame to waste the opportunity and the prestige of the DSC. I never had a proper opportunity to thank you for not letting it be posthumous. And I want to thank you now. In fact, I only heard you were retired and living locally quite recently. The PIO had been giving me regular briefings on the recruiting and retention effort, but he never mentioned the name of the Medal of Honor winner that was giving him the brush off until last week. I didn’t want to overplay my hand by contacting you directly, so I asked him to make another effort. I’m glad you responded.

I have an opportunity, and a difficult assignment. It may be right for you.

So it was morale building. With the heavy deployment schedule, retention and morale must be taking some heavy hits. For a two star to be taking a personal hand, he must be getting some heavy pressure. General, I am about to be retired. I’m just burning off some terminal leave. But I’ll be honest. It’s probably going to be boring as hell. I would prefer an active billet somewhere in the chain of command, even if I had to be carried over-strength. Over-strength was practice of double filling a position. It was usually used to transition a new man in, or to give a soldier an opportunity to cross train for promotion. Or it could be used to feather bed, to fill a unit over-capacity to give positions to those who couldn’t find one. That way I wouldn’t have to keep rearranging my life every time you needed me for a show the flag speech.

Speech? I’m not talking speeches. Let me explain. He paused as an orderly brought in the coffee. Life was good this high up. The server was a not unattractive blonde Lieutenant. She was tall and well filled out. Even the BDUs couldn’t hide the curves. Thank you, Lois. Could you see that we’re not disturbed for a few minutes? She smiled and left, and Cabot turned back to Grant. This hasn’t been let out yet, but I’m about to be nominated as Chief, National Guard Bureau. That’s a third star.

Congratulations, General, but I don’t see how I can help. Last I checked, flag rank didn’t call for NCO references, and I would probably make a lousy enlisted aide. Well, Grant thought, this wasn’t going to go very well.

Aide? Hell no. Let me explain it. With all the deployments, they need someone who can make it happen with the right people in the right units. That’s where you come in. I have a unit activating in 10 days. They need help. Hell, they need more than help, they practically need a miracle.

Then why let them go? You’ve got enough assets. Can’t you just substitute in another battalion? One man won’t get them up to speed in ten days and have them ready to go through mobilization station. They’ll catch the unquals right away.

It’s not a battalion. That’s the problem. It’s an Engineer Command and Control element. About 150 soldiers, commanded by a Lieutenant Colonel. They’ve never been activated before, and there’s is a lot of political pressure to get them some overseas service. In fact, it goes beyond that. This unit has sort of been like the palace guard. After 9/11 the Governor decided he wanted a quick reaction unit that could get him some of the Homeland Security money. The only problem was, there was no such type of unit, and the Army wouldn’t create one. So the Governor turned to some political friends, and they snuck one in.

How do you sneak in a whole new Army unit? Personnel, equipment, training and payroll. I’m sure the bean counters in the Pentagon would have noticed.

Ah, but they didn’t. In fact, they provided the money and equipment, but they didn’t know it was forming a unit. They thought it was for the state Emergency Management Agency. They even snuck it by me.

I find that hard to believe, General.

I did too, until they handed it to me. Right after 9/11 there was a lot of money being spent with very few controls. All you had to do was work ‘Homeland Security’ into every proposal about ten times and the money just flowed. The head of the EMA was one of my Engineer Majors. Not a very outstanding officer, in fact, he was about to be passed over for promotion for the third time. He started hiring a lot of politically connected people as civilians, who also just happened to have some military standing. You know how it is, if you’ve ever served, the Guard wants you. Very quietly, over the course of several months, he started to get these people back on military rolls. Then, because of the nature of the EMA, he was able to get permission for them to do active military time to support EMA, double dipping with their state pay, and the feds funded it. After that, it was a matter of ‘routine training’ requests to get equipment and support troops assigned, then he got some assets assigned to support EMA. There was enough of a political snowball behind it, that it only made sense to keep the unit together. The EMA is supposed to coordinate all efforts in case of an emergency, so it was a simple matter to get them to be the ‘Command and Control’ authority, since in an emergency most of his employees would be activated. Somehow, they got the designation 289th Engineer Support Command. Chet Perkins, the on-his-way-out Major, had the Governor pull some strings, and he got LTC. He wanted full Colonel, but even the Army wouldn’t go for that. And if I move up to the National Guard Bureau, he’s sure to be nominated for my job, and he’ll get it, along with two stars.

Grant was impressed. Creating your own command hadn’t been done since Teddy Roosevelt and the RoughRiders in the Spanish American War. Private armies in the United States just didn’t happen anymore. How have they managed to avoid qualification requirements. Or mobilization, for that matter?

Cabot’s faced winced. Perkins finally outsmarted himself. He kept his people together for home station training, or sent them to schools so they’d never be available. But he had so many of his EMA people away, he needed to hire more civilians to take their places. He finally got to the point where his military people were redundant, and the civilians on the spot were starting to shine on their own. He was losing his luster, so he had his political friends lobby for mobilization. It worked.

Grant asked, Where do I come in? I don’t know any politicians, and it sounds like this guy can cherry pick who he wants. He may even be smart enough to get through mobilization.

I doubt he’s that smart, Cabot responded, but my third star may ride on how well he performs. And he just lost his Sergeant Major. He got picked up for spousal abuse. He can’t deploy. I want to get you on orders before he can shop around. Are you interested?

Grant thought for a minute. Back to Iraq. With a group of politicians. At least they might know how to stay out of harms’ way. Besides, they were an Engineer unit.

I’ll need some help. There are a couple of retired types close by. If I can track them down and talk them into it, can you get them on orders too?

I don’t see why not, as long as I do it into the National Guard before activation. After that, the rules are different, and I can’t touch a retiree. How long will it take you to find out if they’ll go?

Give me access to the Personnel Command data base and I can track them down this morning. I can get you their info for the orders sometime today or tomorrow. It may be a hard sell to get them to volunteer for Iraq, but I’ll need them.

The General just nodded. Good, the sooner the better. Get them in here and we’ll do the paperwork, I’ll have the waivers prepared. The Governor may have to sign them. And I want to get you in to meet your new boss sometime today. It’ll take him a little while to get used to the idea that he didn’t have his way on this.

Cabot walked Grant to the door and shook his hand. If you’re interested, when I move up to the Bureau I’ll probably need a Command Sergeant Major.

One thing at a time. This may be more than I wanted as it is.

Well, one more thing you should probably know.

That comment hung there for a minute. All along there had been something in the background, some little edge that wouldn’t quite come out. Now it was time for it.

The 289th Engineer Support Command doesn’t know it yet, but their orders have been changed. They won’t have to worry about combat training for Iraq. They’ll be doing humanitarian relief work. They’re headed for the Sudan. The son of a bitch, thought Grant. He walked me into another ambush.

Darfur Province, The Sudan

As a country it had nothing in over a century to be proud of. Independence hadn’t even been a high point. Just one more step on a stairway to hell. It had been in the British ‘sphere of influence’ until an Arab fanatic who called himself the Mahdi had begun a peasant revolution in the 1880s. It was one of those religious despot revolts where you were either for Allah and the revolution, or you were dead. His army swept through the country, finally besieging the city of Khartoum. The British sent a famous General, Charles Gordon to pacify the situation. He had been much acclaimed for his military genius in China, but the Sudanese army then, as now, bordered on useless. All Gordon managed to do was get himself bottled up in the city. The British wanted him to leave, but his grand tactical plan boiled down to a message that basically said Come and get me. The British army tried, and in the manner of the day, it was a gentleman’s march down the Nile. They managed to get within sight of Khartoum just late enough to let Gordon get massacred. Ten years later, they were still fighting in the Sudan. The battle of Omdurman finally finished off the Mahdist revolt. Forty years later they made a movie about it, and somehow they were able to find the same steamboats that had been used in the original battle.

Nobody paid much attention to the Sudan. It was enough of a backwater that the rest of Africa hardly noticed it was dying. The Soviets got involved, and provided more weapons than their army could use, but once they got the contract to build the Aswan Dam, the rest of the Nile had no real strategic value. There were enough Marxist revolts in the Horn of Africa, that its coast on the Red Sea didn’t even offer any value. So the country stagnated. Political unrest, military coups, drought, famine and starvation, but nothing to upset the rest of the region.

Western interest picked up again in the 1980’s and 90’s, when stories started to circulate that slavery was rampant in parts of the country. It became fashionable for American entertainment and news celebrities to raise thousands of dollars (never their own money) and take a camera crew with them as they sought out the slave traders and paid so much per head to free the oppressed. (Grant chuckled to himself when he heard the phrase used. De oppressor libre. It was the Special forces motto) It was a good source of hard currency for the traders, and soon became a cottage industry. One local would offer to introduce the Americans to the local slaveholder and help negotiate the buy-out. Another local, usually a brother or cousin, would round up the rest of the family, add a few neighbors to make it look like a real slave market, and sit in the sun waiting for the photo op. Money would change hands, a speech would be made (that they couldn’t understand) and they’d be sent off to freedom, with a few Sudanese pounds or shillings in their pockets. The real slavers would go out and take an entire village captive, then sell them to the Americans. Instead of money, the newly released slaves would get to live a while longer. In a pinch, real slaves were used, but not too often. If the Americans hung around filming for too long the slaves would scatter. Then they’d have to be hunted down, and recaptured or killed, cutting into the profit margin.

But the country was too chaotic for that business to flourish too long. The next big idea was trying to sell terrorists to the United States. That didn’t work, so the Sudanese government decided to teach the US a lesson by letting the terrorist blow up the US Embassy. In retaliation, the US blew up an aspirin factory. But again, since the Sudan has no strategic value to anyone, no one cared.

All the while, Sudan’s other enemies, nature and the Sahara Desert, were reclaiming large areas of farm and grazing land. In a country that has little water, few trees, and can’t afford fertilizer or irrigation, a prolonged drought can be devastating to those least able to fight it, the subsistence farmer. In the northwest corner, the province of Darfur, bordering both Chad and Libya the African farmers had coexisted with the Arab herders for decades, if not centuries. There was some strife between the Muslims and Christians, but not much, because many of the Africans were converts to Islam. The conflict was to be the land. As the desert took over, the uncultivated grasslands were overgrazed and passed into dirt plots. The herders moved on to the farmland and started to dispossess the farmers, killing them if they resisted. The farmers tried to fight back, but the Arabs were able to get support from the Muslim states to the north, Egypt and Libya, in the form of weapons, ammunition, and most importantly, political pressure on the Sudanese government. What had started as bandits and thugs terrorizing farmers were given legitimacy, recognition and support. The result was the Janjaweed Militias. Thousands were killed, hundreds of thousands were displaced, wandering a country that couldn’t support them. They quickly began to overwhelm the rest of the province. The Sudanese Liberation Army was formed to resist, but they couldn’t match the support the Arabs received. Neighboring countries, not wanting a flood of strangers in their country, strengthened their borders. In Africa, the tribe is important, and outsiders are always seen as a threat. Other parts of the Sudan, heavily influenced by Arab Muslims, started to take their own steps to control the refugee traffic. The government, weak and corrupt to begin with, couldn’t afford to use its inept army to restore order. Neither could they afford, had they been so inclined, the relief effort to help. Food, water, medical supplies and the fuel to transport it were beyond the will of the government. So they turned to the Janjaweed Militias. The terror began in earnest, and the world barely noticed, or cared. Until now. Now, they were denying anything to do with the Janjaweed. Various independent commissions investigated They declared it a humanitarian crisis that required swift action. In the international community, as usual, those who called the loudest gave the least. When the European Union investigated, they found a problem, but not a massive one. Nothing that they felt required immediate action.

The United Nations was supposed to intervene. They called for sanctions if Sudan didn’t act. Sudan had nothing to sanction. The bulk of their imports were food and humanitarian assistance, things that wouldn’t be affected. Member nations had started to pledge support, but what exactly they were pledging wasn’t clear. It was business as usual for the member states. The photo op and strong statements were about all they were good for. This from the agency that had made millions for individual diplomats at the expense of the Iraqi people during the oil for food program. The same agency that kept asking for a larger contribution from the US so they could continue to inflate their own salaries wouldn’t consider committing current operating money to the problem. (And there were no ‘minimum wage’ or ‘entry level’ positions at the UN.) The UN kept extending the deadline. And the United States, the only country the UN could not exist without, was about to step into another humanitarian void. The French were making noise, and mobilizing troops on the border between Chad and Sudan. They had been in Chad for many years and had serious economic interests that would be threatened by regional destabilization. But they were also practical. Why fight a war on your own Franc, or Euro? They were waiting for the Americans to commit troops (and money) before they were going to get serious.

CHAPTER 2

The best thing about the Department of Defense computerized personnel system was that if you had access to it, you could find out anything about anyone who had ever come in contact with the military. All you needed to know was how to ask. The drive to digitize all existing records was almost complete. There were a few fragmentary records from World War 2 and earlier that were still being analyzed for content, and there was a big chunk that had been destroyed in a fire in St. Louis during the 1970’s, but the rest had been uploaded. The worst aspect of the system was also its size, and knowing how to ask for information. There were hundreds of sub-directories that each had their own sub-directories. A wild card search in the wrong area could produce hundreds of thousands of responses, enough to clog a local server with useless files that would have to be verified and deleted. CSM Grant needed help to navigate. The young Specialist assigned to him seemed bored with the challenge when Grant gave him the short list he wanted researched. What exactly do you want, Sergeant Major? Disciplinary records, medical, mental health, civilian arrests, FBI files?

Grant looked over at him. What about current address and phone number?"

That’s all? It’s already printed up over there. He pointed at a laser printer against the wall. I thought you needed some deep digging.

Can you get me a financial background and a credit check?

A few keystrokes and Grant could see a few more pages coming off the printer. He thanked the soldier and sent him on his way. That was another problem with the system. The clerk who needed access to find out you assignment history also had access to all the rest. Very few soldiers had classified sections to their records that needed special access. For the rest, it was all out there.

Sergeant First Class David Sharp was the top of the list. Grant had first served with him in Delta Force in the late 70’s. They had gone to Iranian desert together, and almost got left behind. Sharp had been a fairly young soldier at the time, only 20, but good enough to have qualified for Delta. They had been together again in Mogadishu, and one last time in the mid 90’s in Kenya. Every place they had been could be classified as a shit hole. There was no doubt he would remember all of them as just that.

Sharp had retired in the late 90’s. From his record it looked like he had done little since. His finances seemed solid, it looked like he had come from money. Funny, he never showed it. He always acted like one of the guys, although he had always been quick to help out a buddy in need. His personal life hadn’t amounted to much. Married and divorced twice. The address was local enough, probably two hours away. At least it was the same state. He’d be the first call. He was a planner, the kind of mind that could see all the angles and pick the one with the least risk, or the one with the most chance of success.

The next record was Specialist Jonah Price. What kind of a parent named their kid Jonah? And what was with the Specialist grade. He had been at least a Staff Sergeant in Africa. His boozing must have gotten the best of him. He hadn’t pulled any military records, so there was no way to know until he talked to him, unless he got the whiz kid back on the computer, but it seemed like he had been retired early. He thought about that for a minute, and decided he’d rather let Price explain it himself. Whatever the story, Price had two talents he needed. First he was a genius at field improvisation. If you needed it, he could get it or make it. And, most importantly, he had a knack for languages that let him pick up enough in a hurry to connect with the locals. His Arabic was good. So good he could have been an interpreter, but he kept all his language skills off his records. His current job was on a fishing boat a couple of hundred miles down the coast. It didn’t seem like a long-term commitment. There was no record of a wife.

Last was Ralph Harrison, by far the smartest of the group, Grant included. He did his service, married well, and invested every spare cent he had. When it was time to retire he joked he would use his government check for tips. He had moved in and out of Mutual Funds, real estate, and what he called ‘penny stocks’, start up companies you could buy for a few dollars and sell quickly if they took off. In the days before on-line trading his sense had been uncanny, and the computer age made him richer.

Why do you stay in, Ralph? Grant asked him once.

It gets me out of the house.

He had also retired as a Sergeant First Class. He was a trainer and a motivator, probably the best Grant had ever seen. It was all hands-on with Harrison. Someone else could go over the niceties of the ‘book’. Harrison was result oriented.

He had married when he was 17. He was still with the same woman. She would be the only obstacle to him going along. Because of the money, she had tolerated his ‘hobby’ as she called it, of playing soldier. But she was never part of the wives groups, and had never come to any social functions. He’d save him for last. He lived close. If a phone call wasn’t enough, there was time for a personal visit.

The visit with LTC Perkins could have gone better. Before Grant could make any calls, MG Cabot had dragged him over to the Emergency Management Center, three buildings on the post. Before they went in, Cabot had Grant hang his blouse on a rack in the hall. Better you not overwhelm him all at once. So Grant went in shirtsleeves, with only a name tag and shoulder boards. Perkins was clearly irritated at this unexpected interruption. His plate was full trying to turn over his agency to his Deputy before he was activated, especially considering that there were a lot of key staff going with him. Perkins asked them to sit while he shuffled some papers to one side.

General, I don’t have time for this today. Your Sergeant Major is going to have to make an appointment if he wants to discuss pre-mobilization training targets with me.

He’s not my Sergeant Major, Chet. He’s your new CSM. He’s coming in from the active side just for you operation. I thought you should meet him as soon as possible.

My new CSM? What about Woodson?

He’s gone, you know it. He beat that woman pretty bad. No way he’ll walk on the charges.

Don’t I get a choice?

Cabot smiled, Now. Chet. You’ve got enough going on right now without having to pick a new senior NCO. Grant here is more than qualified. You sit and talk for a while. I’ve got to meet with the Governor. He turned to Grant. Get me all your information ASAP, and we’ll work on the orders. With that he left.

Perkins steepled his fingers and looked over them at Grant. Sergeant Major, I’ll level with you. I have no idea where you come from, but if you’re going to be like the other ‘help’ I’ve been getting lately, I’ve got a surprise for you. I have a first rate outfit. They are primed and ready to go. It’ll be my way, or you will not enjoy this deployment. Am I clear?

Grant stifled an urge to tell this little son of a bitch to go fuck himself. With an effort he responded, Colonel, as far as I’m concerned, it’s always the commanders way, right up until the time he changes his mind.

And what is that supposed to mean.

All due respect, Sir, I have a lot of miles on me. If you know better, that’s fine. If the troops are good to go, that’s fine too. It’ll make my job easier. My role is to advise and assist the commander.

That’s fine Sergeant Major. You just keep that attitude and we’ll do fine. You are dismissed.

Grant saluted and walked out. His consoling thought was that he hadn’t been put on orders yet. This Colonel met every qualification as an ass so far, and he wasn’t in a hurry to see any more. He was putting on his blouse when Perkins came out of his office. One more thing Sergeant Major, I expect ... he trailed off as he saw the display over the left breast pocket. Perkins had never seen some of the badges and ribbons before. Perkins looked at Grant. Then glanced down at his uniform again. Are they all real? I’ve never seen anyone with three Combat Infantry Badges before. And the blue one with the stars. Is that what I think it is?

Yes, Sir. It is. And It’s not three CIBs. It’s five. The Army never got around to approving the design, and I haven’t pushed it.

I heard a story about a Sergeant saving Cabot’s life after he fucked up and got some of his people killed. You that Sergeant?

Yes, Sir, that’s me

I think I may owe you an apology. Would you come back in, please? This was a better attitude. Cabot had been right about the blouse. Shock value was more effective.

Colonel, you were about to say something.

What? Oh, yes, I’m having my key personnel come on board a few days early to get ready. We have an extensive training schedule to work out. Do you want to be part of it?

Yes, Sir. But I’m active duty, so I just need assignment orders. General Cabot should be working those out. And if they hadn’t told you yet, the mobilization team will have their own schedule they’ll expect you to follow. If your operations people don’t have it yet, they can call the mob team and get it faxed down.

CSM, I want to apologize for what I said. I thought you were another anchor Cabot was trying to saddle me with.

I don’t understand. I thought Cabot’s promotion depended on how well you do. Why would he try to screw you.

Cabot doesn’t need this operation. His promotion is a done deal. The problem is this slot. The Governor has a brother-in-law that I beat out for it. The brother-in-law wants to be a congressman, and a general. I’m standing in the way. This is a high profile trip for some of them. A little CNN air time, get to know a few diplomats, and some photo ops rebuilding schools for grateful kids. They think this is going to be a civic action project in an exotic locale.

Grant thought for a moment. I heard some pretty negative things about this unit. Can you clear them up?

Sure. This unit has never mobilized together, done damn little training together, and probably has a way to go before it starts functioning as a team. Cabot and the governor have sent me just about every prima donna in the state to fill my staff and senior NCO positions. The junior officers and NCOs are pretty good, but they have no guidance. I think once we’re all out of state and away from the political influence, we’ll be just fine.

Colonel, I’ve got a couple of people I’d like to bring in. I’ve worked with them before, and I think they could help.

You bring them if it’ll make you feel better. But I’ve got a handle on the situation. If I need anything, though, I’ll ask. Remember this. You may be overquali-fied for anything we’re doing, but I still don’t know you. Let’s see how the honeymoon goes. With that, the interview was over, again. They agreed to meet again the next morning. One thing was clear. The 289th Engineer Support Command was one fucked up outfit, and a lot of the problems wore two stars. But this commander didn’t have much of a clue either.

At the Headquarters building his orders were already waiting for him. He was officially assigned as a Senior Liaison NCO until activation, then assigned as Group CSM. There was a further endorsement waiving the mandatory removal date ‘indefinitely’, meaning when the time came, they could retire him on short notice or let him stay active National Guard. At least it was an option he didn’t have a few hours ago.

He started making his calls. Price would probably be the easy one. All three of his targets had known each other at various times. Getting one might help convincing another. In fact, he hoped to get Price and Sharp before he tried Harrison. It took a while to track down Price. His voice mail said he was out fishing. A cell number was out of range. Several calls later, including the Fishermen’s Union, harbormaster and Coast Guard, he managed to get a ship to shore connection with trawler ‘Atlantic Pride’. An unhappy Captain only put Price on because it was a Coast Guard call.

Luke! What the fuck are you calling me for?

I’ve got a job for you, if you’re tired of the good life.

Good life is right. For the next couple of weeks I get to roll around out here, all the sushi I can eat, and the smell of stale fish. What ‘cha got for me.

Can’t say here, but you’ll be back in uniform, and there may be some Tusker on the horizon. And I’m going for Sharp and Harrison, too. Tusker was a Kenyan beer they had learned to drink warm and in quantity.

When do you need me?

Now.

No can do. This tub doesn’t get back into port to two weeks. Besides, I’m only an E-4 now. I’d hate to start that low on the food chain again.

Say yes and I have two things for you. First, I know a two star. You’re inactive reserve now, so he can bring you back and do a grade determination. No promises on more than buck sergeant, but I’ll shoot for staff.

What’s number two?

You should hear the helicopter any minute now.

You’re an ass hole, Luke.

That may be true, but it’s CSM ass hole to you, Specialist Price.

Sharp was next. He was drunk when he answered the phone.

Dave, it’s kind of early in the day, even for you.

Who is this was his slurred reply.

Luke Grant. I need you to get your head out of your ass and sober up. How long will it take?

Hold on. There was a long pause. Grant could hear water running. What sounded like glass breaking, and he was back.