Blue Helmets

Chapter 1: A Thin Blue Line

Jonglei State,
South Sudan

A thin blue line separated the refugees from the men on the other side of the fence. A very thin blue line, it seemed to the General.

His 300 or so UN Peacekeepers were spread across the entire perimeter, widely spaced to cover the distance. The few armored vehicles were positioned by the entrances, though the Canadian officer figured that if the militias wanted to get in, they wouldn't need to worry about the entrances, the only barrier was wire strung across the desert. On the other side the militiamen prowled, hefting their weapons and taunting the soldiers. Colburn had no idea how many insurgents paced outside the fence, or sat in Toyota pickup trucks just past it, but they easily outnumbered his meager force. As for the civilians they did their best to stay out of sight, clustering in the tents and inadequate bunkhouses of the camp.

In short, the situation was bad, and getting worse as more fighters arrived and the rebels grew increasingly restless. There was no way the UN forces could stop the militiamen from breaking in if that's what they decided to do. And as for the 1,500 – 2,500 refugees inside (it was quite difficult to keep track, especially in the heady days of the previous week) well, they'd be at the mercy of the gunmen who walked the edges of the camp, glaring at them.

General Colburn turned to one of the lieutenants seated nearby, listening intently to a radio headset, "Any word from command yet?" he asked.

"No sir, just that they say they're aware of the situation."

Colburn grimaced. "I'm really not so sure about that. Keep on pressing them. Explain that the situation is- deteriorating."

Yes, deteriorating is one word for it, thought the general, it'll be something else entirely if we don't get any help up this way.

An Indian corporal appeared in the doorway of the little headquarters building. He saluted. "General sir, there's a man claiming to be the leader of the militia. He says that he's willing to negotiate with you."

"I don't have much of a choice, do I? Where is he?" asked Colburn.

"West entrance, sir." replied the Corporal.

The General made his way across the camp with a few troops, mostly Ghanaians, with a Canadian lieutenant tagging along.

The man waiting to meet him was a taller man wearing a red beret, and a number of patches Colburn couldn't identify. He was flanked by burly-looking men gripping AK-47s, who glared menacingly at the blue-helmeted UN soldiers. The general figured that he must have been a South Sudanese Army defector; there were plenty of them around, personal loyalties shifted as quickly as the alliances between the armed factions in the country. There was really no way of telling which of the myriad rebel groups he belonged to.

"You are the General." said the rebel. Colburn wasn't sure whether it was a question or not.

"Yes, I am." he said.

The other man smiled at him, he seemed to be relishing the moment. "General, I represent the Liberation Movement."

That settled the question of just who the rebels belonged to, not that it made a real difference to Colburn. The only people who could distinguish between the militias seemed to be the militants themselves. Most groups tended to behave the same way. The man continued:

"General, I do not want to hurt you or your men. If you withdraw your forces now, no one will get hurt."

Colburn figured it was pointless asking, but decided to anyway: "And the refugees?"

The rebel grinned again, "We will take care of them General."

The man's tone of voice made the General's skin crawl. Yes, clearly the rebels planned on taking care of the civilians, taking care of them the same way they'd doubtless handled all the others in their drawn-out ethnic feud. His men were the only thing preventing a massacre.