Prometheus's Child

1

“Bugger me, they’re at it again!”

Gunfire erupted fifty meters away as Warrant Officer Derrick Martin wiped his hands on his “spotty dots” camouflage trousers and unslung his Steyr F88C assault rifle. Peering ‘round the corner of the bullet-pocked market front, he was glad not for the first time that he had violated orders in carrying his personal weapon in the “blood box” armored ambulance. “Presence” was fine and good when all you wanted to do was impress the locals. It was downright stupid when those same people wanted to nail your hide to the wall like a plaster duck.

The American-made M113 “Bucket” continued burning a block and a half down the littered street, drawing a crowd of African celebrants. Few in the mob were armed, but some realized that the white soldiers who escaped from the light armored vehicle must be on foot. One Australian had not. His body was dragged away from the APC and some teenagers began stripping the corpse.

“They nailed Joji all right,” Martin called to his wounded driver, two meters behind him.

Lance Corporal James Frasier looked up from his sitting position. “What about Dimitri?”

“Never bleeding got out, I reckon.” Martin shook his head, pondering the geographic irony. What were the odds that a Fijian and a Russian would emigrate to Australia only to die in Chad?

It’s Mogadishu all over, Martin thought. Arsehole politicians keep sending Diggers as peacekeepers, then complain when we enforce the bloody peace. He looked around, seeking a hiding spot. Besides his carbine, he was most grateful for the Wagtail radio that the wounded driver dragged in his left hand. The man’s right hand was blistered and raw from detonation of the RPG, as was his right leg. Martin glanced down at his friend. “Jamie, how ya going?”

“I’m about buggered, Derro,” Frasier croaked. He was hurt, winded, and scared. The fact that he addressed a superior by his nickname was an Aussie trait.

Martin ignored the response. “You got anybody yet?”

Frasier hefted the backpack radio. “Nothing yet. I’ve tried the allocated frequencies but this kit is only good for about eight kilometers. Only thing left is the high setting, but it’ll use more juice.”

“Well, give ‘em a hoy. Every bleeding sot in this bleeding pesthole must know where we are by now.”

As Frasier switched channels, Martin realized that the Australians had been seen. Several armed men motioned in their direction from up the street and began jogging toward the market. Martin looked around, confirming that he was out of the mob’s line of sight. Sure enough, a woman waved a cloth from the second floor of a building behind him. She was saying something in Arabic, pointing to him and shouting to make herself heard.

Bloody bitch. Martin swung his Steyr to his shoulder, put the “death doughnut” aiming circle on the black woman’s torso, and took up some of the slack in the single-stage trigger. She saw the 5.56mm muzzle raising toward her and ducked inside, not knowing if the white man had intended to shoot.

Neither did Martin.

Frasier got his attention. “I can’t get through, mate. It’s jammed with calls. Apparently the army and a rebel faction are fighting all over the city.”

Martin safed his F88, slung it again, and leaned down. He raised Frasier to standing and helped him limp down the dirty street, forcing his way through pedestrians with a wave of the Steyr. Along the way,

Martin’s U.N. cap slid off his head but he was glad to be rid of the baby blue “target marker.”

“In there!” Frasier called.

“What?”

Frasier did not reply. He just pointed inside an office with a sign “Importons et Exportons.” Without asking why Martin helped his friend through the door and shut it behind them.

Frasier reached for the telephone. “Please, Lord, let it work. I frigging promise I’ll go see the damned God botherer on Sunday.” He lifted the receiver and grinned through the smoke on his face. “I’ve got a dial tone! What number should I ring?”

“Hell’s toes, I don’t know. Try…”

A middle-aged Arab emerged from the rear of the office. He stopped dead in his tracks, assessed the uniformed strangers, and smiled. “Sir, I can help?” He spoke English with a French accent.

“Too bloody right, mate.” Frasier extended the phone.

Martin responded more formally. “Yes, sir. We sure would appreciate any help. We need to contact our lot at the United Nations compound.”

“Ah, oui.” The dignified businessman bowed slightly, raising a hand to the tie he wore. He accepted the receiver from Frasier, dialed a number, and spoke alternately in French, Arabic, and English. Less than two minutes later he passed the phone back. “This is U.N., ah, house. Person talks not good English. Mostly French.”

Bloody ethnics. Martin nodded his thanks. “Could you please tell him where we are? Ask if we can speak to anybody in the military advisory group.” He tried to conjure the phrase: something like Groupe advisory militaire.

Mr. Haroun, as he introduced himself, was helpful and patient. Perhaps uncharitably, Martin was wondering what the businessman would expect in return for his assistance when a crowd of blacks rounded the corner half a block away. The composition was made for trouble: young, male, and angry.

Martin reached for Frasier and helped him toward the rear of the office. Mr. Haroun, apparently unflappable, remained standing at the desk, phone to his ear, awaiting more response from the functionary in N’Djamena.

Moments later the leading elements of the crowd reached the debris-littered street in front of the storefront. One of the young men leaned down and picked up an object. To Haroun it appeared as a colored rag. Apparently it meant something to the angry rioters.

Then he knew.

He slammed down the phone and paced to the rear of the store. Gesturing animatedly, he made shooing motions. “Allez, allez! You go! Now!”

Frasier looked up, confused. “What’s he…”

“Oh, my God.” It emerged as a low, fervent curse. Martin was peering around the hallway corner, fifteen meters to the front door. He turned back to his friend. “The bastards found my hat. We gotta be off like a bride’s nightie.”

Crashing glass and rising voices echoed through the building. The front rank of rioters reached the outer office, smashing furniture and fixtures. Martin turned his head. “Mr. Haroun, see to him, will you?”

“Derro! C’mon, mate!”

“Can’t do it, Jamie. They’ll catch us sure. You chuff off!”

With that, Martin turned back toward the hallway, already filling with men vocally intent on homicide. There were few firearms but several machetes. Martin looked over the top of his optical sight and began shooting.

2

Peggy Springer buzzed the inner office.

“Mr. O’Connor is here, Admiral.”

Michael Derringer punched the button on his console. “Thank you, Peggy. Please send him in.”

The founder and CEO of Strategic Solutions, Incorporated, sat back and almost physically braced himself. Ryan O’Connor was not even on the third page of a single-spaced list of people the retired admiral wanted to see. It was not as if Derringer disliked the tweedy career bureaucrat; it was more that the ex-naval officer objected to the concept of most State Department dweebs.

Derringer knew the basics: Ryan O’Connor (Brown, class of ‘73; MA international relations) had joined State during the Carter administration and had climbed the GS ladder in pedestrian style. Considering that the earnest Bostonian had retained an Ivy League post-Vietnam view of America — aggressively imperialistic, hopelessly militaristic— Derringer occasionally marveled at O’Connor’s advancement under three Republican administrations.

The door opened and Ryan Michael O’Connor entered in all his Foggy Bottomed glory: charcoal gray suit; power tie; $60 haircut; and $350 monogrammed attaché case.

Derringer pushed himself out of the padded chair and extended a hand. “Ryan, welcome back.” He shook hands, remembering to grip extra hard, and was rewarded with the flicker of a grimace on O’Connor’s face. “Please, sit down.”

Beneath the cordial tone of his voice, Derringer cordially detested O’Connor’s John Lennon glasses. It was a visceral reaction, not unlike the response the former naval officer had toward slouching, slack-jawed youths wearing ball caps backward. A sign of mindless conformity.

O’Connor took a seat and placed his black leather case on his knees. He did not bother to look around, as he knew the layout of the office, having dealt with SSI on occasion. The good admiral’s walls were adorned with the sort of I–Love-Me esoterica common to retired military officers: lithographs depicting “glorious” historic events; signed photos bearing saccharine inscriptions from Very Important Republicans; and all manner of shield-shaped plaques denoting various assignments and commands. O’Connor almost sighed. So little time, so many wars.

He cleared his throat and began. “Admiral, as you know, I’m here on behalf of Undersecretary Quiller. He’s expanding the role of Arms Control and International Security, and I’m his new deputy for human rights issues.”

“How may we help you, Ryan?”

O’Connor bit his lip. He made a point of playing the Sir and Admiral game with the military types, and in turn they addressed him as if he were an adolescent nephew.

“Well… Mike… I know you’re accustomed to working with DoD, but this time State has the ball. You’ve probably seen the coverage from Saharan Africa, especially Chad. Frankly, we’re concerned about things getting even more out of control in the region, and the military doesn’t have the resources or even the expertise to step in, as usual.”

Derringer permitted himself a tight smile. “As usual.” It wasn’t entirely true, but he conceded that SSI and other private military contractors relied on DoD’s perennial shortages.

O’Connor leaned forward, his vest bulging over the case on his lap. “You should treat this as close-hold for the present, but I can say that we are going to be a major player in that part of the world, both for diplomatic and humanitarian reasons.”

“So the U.N.’s really pulling out.”

The GS-14 sat back and blinked. Behind his rimless glasses, his wide-eyed gaze reminded Derringer of an astonished owl. “Well, I did not say that, Admiral. I certainly did not!”

Derringer shrugged. “Very well, then. Forget I mentioned it. But if we’re getting more involved, obviously there’s some sort of vacuum. With or without the blue berets, American interests are going to include PMCs.” He raised a suggestive eyebrow. “Right?”

O’Connor retrieved the moment by nodding while looking down to unlock his attaché case. He withdrew a stapled document and placed it on the desk. “This is a summary of the situation as of last week, with predictions of near- and long-term requirements. Because SSI did such a fine job in Pakistan, Mr. Quiller wants to offer you first refusal on this training contract in Chad.”

Derringer retrieved the paper, which had been left slightly beyond his reach, and idly thumbed through it. “Very well. I’ll take a look and get back to you in a few days.” He plopped the document on his desk pad and folded his hands. “Ryan, I know you’re mainly concerned with human rights. What’s your interest in Chad? I mean, it must have one of the worst reputations on the planet.”

“Well… Mike… we’re not so naive as to think that we can convert the rest of the world to our kind of democracy merely by example. But neither can we affect events there without being involved. You know — directly engaged. When possible, State’s position is to bring about change by helping from the inside rather than exerting force from the outside. As usual.”

Gotcha, sonny. The tight little smile was back on Derringer’s face. “You’re certainly right there, Ryan. I can think of three examples right off the bat.”

“Yes?”

“Germany, Italy, and Japan.”

The elegant attaché case snapped closed. “Good day, Admiral.”

“Good day, Mr. O’Connor.”

3

If you wait long enough, you can see interesting things even in the most barren desert.

However, on the south side of the Chad-Libyan border, in the area known as the Aozou Strip, there is precious little to draw sightseers. The scenery is drab and the climate unattractive, often with a daytime low of ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Wildlife, though varied, is rare. Fortunate spotters might see antelope, gazelle, or ostrich.

The unfortunate might witness murder.

Early in the afternoon, amid swirling dust devils, a well-used Land Rover lurched to a stop in Chad’s Borkou-Ennedi-Tibesti Prefecture. Three men and a woman stepped out; the men dragged two human forms from the rear, feet first. Each of the unfortunates was bound hand and foot and gagged. One had nearly suffocated during the long drive to the remote area.

The tallest of the three captors produced a stiletto and cut the straps securing each prisoner. Both raised themselves from the sand; one even bothered to dust himself off.

Both knew what was coming.

The driver leaned into the back of the vehicle and withdrew two shovels. He tossed them at the men’s feet and merely said, “Dig.”

The older of the doomed men folded his arms. “Why don’t you just be done with it?”

“Because I don’t dig.”

“Well, then, mon vieux, we have something in common. Neither do I.”

The leader of the captors resisted the urge to knife the insolent bastard where he stood. Instead, he rocked back on his heels and regarded the man. He had courage, and one had to admire courage wherever one found it.

Even in the Sahara. Maybe especially in the Sahara.

One of the captors picked up a shovel and swung it in an overhead arc, connecting with the defiant man’s shoulders. The victim staggered, biting off a cry of pain, then sagged to one knee. “There are many uses for shovels,” the assailant said evenly. He looked to his comrades for appreciation. Finding none, he raised the shovel again.

“Etienne!” The leader’s bark stopped the offender in midswing.

The leader turned to the other victim, who stood trembling visibly. “You, dig for both of you.”

The younger man looked to his partner, vainly seeking guidance. There was none — the older prisoner was still gasping for breath, rubbing his shoulder.

After an agonizingly long age — perhaps closer to an eon — the younger man found himself. “I won’t dig, either.” He spit into the dirt for emphasis, though his mouth was cotton-dry.

“Oh, I think you will.” The leader turned to the senior prisoner and, with practiced ease, drew a 9 mm Makarov from his belt and fired into the kneeling man’s cranium from four meters away. Eighty kilos of dead weight pitched face forward, twitched imperceptibly, and expired.

The executioner holstered and kicked the second shovel toward the survivor. No words were necessary.

I can see the hate and the fear in his eyes, the killer told himself. It’s always like this. At least one will always comply.

The doomed survivor sucked in lungs full of arid Saharan air. He looked upward, saw cumulus clouds in the direction of the Atlas Mountains, and tried to control his bladder. Briefly, he thought of running. But where? Even if he escaped, he was literally in the middle of the desert.

With trembling hands, he picked up the shovel and began to dig.

“You see, Etienne? What did I tell you? Some men choose to die on their feet, but most will lick your boots for five more minutes of life.”

It was longer than five minutes, for the spade man was neither strong nor eager to finish his task. But at length he reached a satisfactory depth. “Enough,” the leader said. He drew the pistol again. “You wish to pray?” They always do.

The victim merely nodded, lowered his head, and cupped his hands. He mumbled the ancient words, dredged up from a far-off childhood.

The leader intended for the man to die before the prayer was over — as much a kindness as one could muster at such times. He motioned to the driver, who nodded compliance, raised his own pistol, and began to press the trigger.

“Let me.” It was the woman.

The leader waved a hand. “My God, Gabrielle, you’ve seen men die before.”

She leaned toward him, fists clenched before her. “But I’ve never done it, Marcel! Don’t you understand? I want to know how it feels!”

Mentally he catalogued the progress of the situation. Her insistence on accompanying the killers; her pledge of silence on the drive, which had mostly been honored. Now, however, he recognized the signs: the little-girl petulance, complete with pouting lips.

With an eloquent shrug, the leader drew his Russian pistol and handed it to her. He was going to remind her about the safety but she was familiar with the weapon. She raised the pistol in both hands, flipped the lever, took two seconds to align the sights, and three more to press the double-action trigger.

The 9 mm round spat out, impacted the supplicant’s left temple, and he collapsed into the hole he had dug.

She decocked the weapon and handed it back, butt first. The owner changed magazines and holstered it, faintly shaking his head.

“What?” she demanded.

He leveled his brown eyes at her baby blues. “Curiosity satisfied?”

“It’s nothing.” She shrugged as unconcernedly as possible and reached for a cigarette. She almost managed to suppress the tremor in her hand.

“Congratulations, my dear. Welcome to the club.” He picked up both shovels and handed one to her. “Now you can help bury them.”

Two hundred thirty meters away, partially concealed by a low-lying dune, two men watched the proceedings through precision optics. An observant bypasser would have pegged them in their thirties, though neither’s face was visible. One had draped a sand-colored veil over his head to break up his outline and shield his Zeiss 8x25 binoculars. The other wore a white kaffia with a black diamond design while looking through a ten-power Hensoldt rifle scope.

Both had light-colored Saharan robes over French and Italian military fatigues, and both wore Israeli Army desert boots.

The observer carried a Romanian AKM with Egyptian ammunition. His partner had a British AWC sniper system with an integral suppressor on the barrel. It was loaded with match-grade 7.62x51 manufactured in America.

The mythical observer would have noted that both appeared accustomed to the desert.

When the executioners were finished with their chore, they climbed into their vintage Land Rover and drove off, leaving their handiwork buried in the lee of a dune. The distant witnesses watched them go, headed south across the Mourdi Depression toward Oasis Fada.

In their native tongue the two men discussed their options.

The sniper asked, “Should we check the bodies for papers?”

The leader thought for a moment. “No. No point. Any additional information probably isn’t worth the risk of being seen. Besides, with the homer attached to the Land Rover we can track the Frenchmen wherever they go.” He put his compact Zeiss in its case and consulted his map: Libya lay 165 kilometers to the north. “We’ll walk back to the helicopter and have David call ahead for a jet. I want to be in N’Djamena before tomorrow morning.”

4

Frank Leopole was the last to arrive. He shut the door of the conference room and took the last vacant chair. The SSI brain trust seldom met in full session for other than monthly planning sessions, so the secure facility usually had room left over.

This time was different.

Seated at the head of the polished table, retired Rear Admiral Michael Derringer nodded to Lieutenant Colonel Leopole. The former Marine returned the gesture, taking in the audience. Besides Derringer and himself, Leopole counted five men and four women, including all the heavies. He saw that Derringer’s personal secretary, Peggy Singer, was taking the minutes. That fact was not lost upon the head of SSI’s operations division.

As chairman of the board, Derringer presided at the meeting. He glanced at his Rolex and saw the sweep hand tick through the twelve. The old radio call from his fleet days swam upward to surface in his consciousness: Chocktaw, this is Jehovah. Stand by…execute!

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for all being here on such short notice. The subject of this meeting is important enough to call a special session because we’ll need a consensus to present to the board of directors next week.”

Seated to Derringer’s right was George Ferraro, SSI’s vice president and chief financial officer. To Derringer’s left was Marshall Wilmont, president and chief operating officer, looking haggard as ever. Leopole had no trouble reading the lay of the land: Wilmont occasionally attended planning meetings; Ferraro almost never. They were big-picture men, far more concerned with corporate policy and finances. In the argot of the trade they were bottom-line oriented.

Dominating the atmosphere in the room was the forbidding presence of Lieutenant General Thomas Jackson Varlowe, U.S. Army (Retired). Though retired nearly a decade, he still seemed to wear three stars on his starched collar. Leopole was barely acquainted with him but knew him as one of those generals who never quite adjusted to retirement — sometimes Varlowe even had to open doors for himself. However, he was astute and connected, and for those reasons Derringer had courted him as chairman of SSI’s advisory board.

Leopole’s reverie was broken as Derringer spoke again. “We have been approached by the State Department for a potentially lucrative contract. It involves training in Africa, which is why I’ve asked our training and foreign operations officers to attend.” He inclined his head toward Leopole, who ran operations; former Lieutenant Colonel Sandra Carmichael of international operations; and Dr. Omar Mohammed, the Iranian-born director of training.

“The situation is this: over the past several months the government of Chad has received United Nations assistance with improving internal security against rebel factions that have caused widespread problems. As most of you know, the original U.N. mission there was peacekeeping, officially a neutral presence more intended to keep the warring factions apart than actually solving anything.” Derringer allowed himself an ironic grin. No one in the room had the least difficulty interpreting his meaning. The United Nations was not one of Michael Derringer’s favored causes.

“Well, over the past couple of weeks the peacekeepers took some hard knocks. Both the rebels and elements of the Chadian Army resented their presence, and there were several disputes leading to violence. Some peacekeepers were killed and others were surrounded and captured.”

Ferraro, ever mindful of the cost-benefit ratio, asked the pending question. “Mike, are we thinking of getting involved in Chad?”

Derringer cleared his throat and nodded slightly. “I got a call from O’Connor at State. The secretary has authorized a PMC for a short-term contract to train a unit of the Chadian Army in counterinsurgency. We’re the go-to company for projects that the State Department wants kept below the horizon. That especially applies to Chad.”

“How’s that?” Ferraro asked.

Derringer shifted in his seat, a sign of unusual nervousness. “Well, I did some checking. It turns out that a European watchdog group keeps track of corruption and human rights violations around the world. Chad and Ethiopia are tied for the dubious honor of the most corrupt government on earth.”

Marshall Wilmont was visibly perplexed. “I don’t understand something. Why would State, and presumably the entire U.S. Government, want to support Chad? Something doesn’t fit.”

“Well, you’re right, Marsh. I haven’t told the whole story yet.” He paused for emphasis. Looking at each person in sequence, he said, “Everything said here, stays here. Is that absolutely clear?”

Heads bobbed to the accompanying litany, “Yes, sir.”

“Very well. There’s some high-level horse trading going on because the U.N. is anxious to save itself more embarrassment. The French have agreed to send a replacement peacekeeping force operating with the appearance of U.N. authority but in fact they’ll answer to Paris, not New York. In exchange, our State Department will sign off on a PMC to conduct some of the training.”

Ferraro began to interject. “Mike, I think…”

With a raised hand, Derringer interrupted him. “I know where you’re going. Everybody just hold on until I’ve finished.” He glanced down at his notes and continued. “You’re wondering why France is interested in bailing out the U.N. Well, there’s a couple of reasons. Chad is a former French possession and therefore is still regarded as within France’s sphere of interest. There are also certain, ah, resources in the country that could prove valuable.

“Beyond that, Prime Minister LeBlanc is a Gaullist at heart. He and his cabinet want to increase French prestige, and by volunteering for an apparently humanitarian program, his government figures to score some points. My guess is, they plan to leverage the goodwill in Africa and the Third World generally. That’s likely to translate to more influence, wider markets, and a counterbalance to other powers.”

“Like us,” Wilmont opined.

“Exactly,” Derringer said.

Leopole raised a hand. “Admiral, if the French are going to replace the peacekeepers, why does the U.N. want an American firm involved?”

“Actually, the U.N. doesn’t. At least that’s what O’Connor said, and he’s a big U.N. booster. But in exchange for American support on the Security Council, the administration requires a PMC to be involved. That’s where the horse trading comes in. State wants an American presence in Chad, especially during the transition period while the French are taking over.”

The former Marine nodded his crew-cut head. “Gotcha.” He shrugged. “Well, I don’t see any reason we can’t do it.” He looked at Omar Mohammed. “If it’s going to be a training mission, how long will we plan for?”

“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Certainly our operations and training departments will have to coordinate SSI activities, but the main reason I called this meeting is brainstorming. Before we start planning for Chad, I need to hear arguments pro and con. What do each of you want the board to consider?” He nodded at Leopole again.

“Yes, sir. As far as operations are concerned, we shouldn’t have much problem. A training cadre would be fairly small, and we don’t have any heavy commitments other than the Peruvian contract. I’ll need to huddle with Matt Finch but finding enough personnel won’t be much trouble, depending on specifics.”

Derringer looked at Mohammed. “Omar? Any thoughts on training?”

“Yes, just a couple.” Mohammed rubbed his manicured goatee, gathering his thoughts. Though he spoke almost unaccented English, he used such moments to give the impression he was considering his words. “The biggest consideration will be linguistic. Chad has two official languages: Arabic and French, and finding enough instructors competent in either may be difficult. It’s possible to work through translators, but that is inefficient. And it limits the bonding between teachers and students.”

“Okay, that makes sense,” Derringer replied. “Anything else?”

“Yes, this matter of counterinsurgency. Certainly we can provide qualified instructors, but let us be frank. I suspect that the Chadian Army does not have anything resembling an elite unit. From what I know of the situation, the Army and police answer only to the president, who buys their loyalty with favors and by looking the other way when they abuse the population.”

Derringer sat back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the table. “That’s undoubtedly an accurate statement. But since State is pushing the program and offered it to us, I think we should consider it.”

“Well, sir, I am merely saying that, assuming we take the contract, we need to say exactly what we can deliver. We cannot turn an armed mob into a competent counterguerrilla force in a few months.” He turned a manicured hand palm upward. “If we are going to do a decent job, we may be there for a year or more.”

Derringer gave an ironic smile. “I think that’s what the secretary has in mind.”

Mohammed’s dark eyes widened in comprehension. “Ah, I see. The French connection, so to speak.”

Derringer turned toward Sandra Carmichael. “Sandy, overseas operations are your department. Do you have anything beyond Frank’s general ops comments?”

The honey blond retiree had scribbled a few notes during the discussion. “No, sir. As Frank and Omar said, the main concern is signing up the right people. I can think of two or three good men offhand. For the others, we’ll have to dig around.”

“Very well. Regina, most of our training contracts are pretty low budget. Any reason to think this would be any different?”

Regina Wells, Leopole’s operations assistant, kept her professional hand on the department’s financial pulse. “No, sir. It should be a cost-effective job. Especially if it lasts more than a year. I’m assuming we’d pass along the bonus fees to the client?”

Derringer raised an eyebrow and cocked his head toward Ferraro, the chief financial officer. “George?”

“Well, naturally I’d consult with Ms. Pilong, but SSI policy has always been to add long-term and hardship bonuses to the base fee. The only exceptions have been projects where we wanted to break into a particular market. Besides, I’d think that State would be glad to cover the extra fees. Otherwise we wouldn’t have been offered the job.”

In turn, Derringer swiveled his chair and looked at Corin Pilong, SSI’s legal director. She was deceptively demure: a five-foot-three Filipina with a baby-doll face and a Harvard law degree.

She leaned forward on both elbows, a sure sign that an argument was coming. “Admiral, I am not concerned with contractual matters just now. Everything we have heard so far appears proper and aboveboard. But I must say, I am not in favor of this contract.”

No surprise there, Derringer told himself. He knew Corin Pilong as a donor to humanitarian causes who sometimes considered herself a rare bird in a nest of knuckle-dragging trigger men. “Please elaborate,” he said.

“We have already noted Chad’s terrible human rights record. That bothers me. I would not want to be smeared by association with so corrupt a regime. Beyond that, what guarantees do we have that our training will not be turned against the civilians of Chad?”

Derringer shrugged. “No foolproof guarantees, of course. But if our training is limited to counterinsurgency…” He looked to Mohammed.

“Quite right,” the training officer interjected. “The techniques we would provide are not very applicable to police or civil concerns.” He looked across the table at Pilong. “Frankly, nobody needs any training to beat up political opponents or blackmail people into compliance. From what I’ve heard, the Chadians already have plenty of experience in those areas.”

“Well, maybe so,” Pilong responded. “I’ll take your word for that, Doctor. But I’m also an advocate for this company. What about our reputation? Hasn’t it occurred to anybody that the government wants a PMC to do its dirty work so the military doesn’t get the blame?”

Derringer nodded vigorously. “That is exactly the reason I called this meeting. It’s also why I invoked extreme secrecy at this point. I’d be remiss if I didn’t consider all aspects, the potential benefits against the risks. So I think that Corin is asking the right questions — the same questions that our board will raise.”

After a moment the CEO shoved back from the table. “Very well. I’ll have your comments summarized for distribution at the board meeting. Thank you, everyone.”

In the hall, Leopole and Carmichael stopped at the water fountain. “What d’you think?” he asked.

She winked. “It’s a go, Frank. I understand Corin’s viewpoint, but I’d bet next month’s retirement check that the board will approve.”

He nodded. “Concur. I could practically hear Ferraro’s gears crunching the numbers. This is a low-cost, high-return project.”

“There’s just one thing,” Carmichael said. “Through that whole meeting, General Varlowe didn’t utter one syllable. Isn’t that odd? I mean, he’s head of the advisory board. The admiral didn’t even ask him what he thought.”

“Yeah, I know. That means they both want to take the contract.”

5

“The meeting will come to order.”

Derringer convened the board of directors the morning after his meeting with SSI’s department heads. Mrs. Springer noted the attendees and double-checked each item on the agenda. Thomas Varlowe represented the advisory board, though he was entered in the minutes as Lieutenant General Varlowe.

Strategic Solutions, Incorporated, was structured like many PMCs. The directors all had personal interest in the firm’s success, and in fact most of them had been selected with finances in mind. Several were contributors to the start-up process; most were astute businessmen; all were connected militarily and/or politically. All were approximately patriotic; most fell somewhere between jaundiced and cynical. None would be described as naive.

As president and senior vice president, Marsh Wilmont and George Ferraro already were familiar with the topic at hand. Derringer already had their support and had obtained the proxy of another director, retired Colonel Samuel A. Small, formerly of Air Force Systems Command.

“Let the record show that we have a quorum. Colonel Small is in Europe but he faxed me his proxy. Dr. Craven is attending a conference in Hawaii and could not be reached in time.”

Derringer continued. “Gentlemen — and ladies — we will dispense with old business until a pressing matter is addressed. In fact, I would hope for a fast decision on an opportunity that has come our way. I refer you to the first information sheet in your meeting folders.

“As you see, the State Department has offered us first refusal on a training contract in Chad. The briefing paper describes the background to the situation: the U.N. peacekeeping force is being withdrawn after prolonged conflict among the government and warring factions. The French will send a sizable contingent independent of the U.N., which probably means a more effective presence in the country. Our role will be training selected units of the Chadian Army in counterinsurgency warfare.”

He looked around the room. “Any comments or questions?”

Harrison E. Rowell was a retired brigadier general with excellent connections on the Hill. It was hardly surprising, considering his lengthy service in the Army’s congressional affairs office. “Mike, the paper doesn’t mention the duration of the contract, though the monthly fee looks good enough. How long are we talking here?”

“It’s more or less open-ended, Harry. We didn’t try to estimate the length of the project because State still doesn’t have a handle on that. My guess is that it’ll be at least as long as the French need to stabilize things. Several months, anyway. Likely over a year.”

“Can we sustain enough instructors in a place like that, more or less indefinitely?”

Derringer nodded. “I discussed the salient details with operations and training yesterday. Frank and Omar believe we can recruit enough people with the military and language skills necessary. Matt Finch and his personnel office are already at work. They’re coordinating with our DoD liaison officer as well.”

Reuben J. Frisch, a Ph.D. in international relations, was a notable pragmatist in a crowd of pragmatists. “Admiral, I admit that this looks good on paper — low investment, potentially a nice yield. So I have to wonder: what’s the down side? Other than the obvious, that is.”

“I understand your concern, Doctor. That’s one of the reasons I convened a premature department head meeting yesterday. Marsh and George and I thought that we needed to hear the views of the people who’ll get their hands dirty over there. Colonel Leopole in operations and Dr. Mohammed in training, with some of their subordinates, all agree that we can provide the service requested. If necessary, we can rotate training teams in and out of the country so nobody has to stay for too long at a time.”

Frisch nodded his balding head and adjusted his glasses. “But there are other aspects…”

“Yes, there are. Frankly, one or two of our senior people expressed doubt about being seen as supporting a corrupt, even brutal government. It’s important enough to bring to a vote, which is why I bumped it to the top of today’s agenda. But I’d point out that we’re acting on behalf of the U.S. Government, and we can truthfully say that we’re working with military forces, not the national police.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen. I’d like to clarify something.” Major General Richard D. Jonas had made his reputation in the Air Force’s electronic warfare community. His post-retirement fortune had been made in defense electronics. “I admit that I don’t know much about Chad or the situation there. Just how bad is it? For instance, would our training team likely be in danger?”

Derringer swiveled his chair toward Thomas Varlowe. “The head of our advisory committee is well informed on that situation.”

Varlowe had the facts at the tips of his manicured fingers. “As far as the current situation, the U.N. peacekeeping force is pretty typical: a hodgepodge with a few troops from several countries with at least as many observers as active ‘peacekeepers.’“ With his fingers he etched quote marks around “peacekeepers.”

“There’s troops from Argentina, Australia, Bangladesh, Egypt, France, Ghana, Greece, Italy, Kenya, Nigeria, Pakistan, Poland, and Russia. I’m told that some of those like Argentina, Greece, Italy, and Poland only have a few observers just to run up the numbers for PR purposes. The ones doing most of the patrolling and getting shot at are Muslims and other Africans: Egyptians, Kenyans, Nigerians, and Pakistanis. However, Italy’s and Poland’s contingents have taken casualties and they’re already pulling out.” He shrugged. “And you heard about the Australians. They had a light armored outfit shot up pretty badly the other day.

“Now, the other player is the African Union, which draws on a lot of the same sources as the U.N. for peacekeepers. It’s not terribly effective, and probably will withdraw before the French move in. Consequently, there’s a growing power vacuum. Some areas are more secure than others, and some are under control of various rebel factions.

“Dick, to answer your question more specifically: our teams should operate in fairly secure areas. After all, they can’t do much training if they’re being shot at very often.”

“General Varlowe, does that mean the advisory committee recommends approving the contract?” Beverly Ann Shumard, who knew her way around a boardroom, also knew the value of consensus building. She had learned that as a four-term congresswoman from Pennsylvania.

Varlowe glanced at Derringer, who nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” the general replied. “Of the members I polled, it was six to two.”

“What were the objections, if I may ask?”

“One member was queasy about working with the Chad Government. The other was worried about the military situation, but that was before the U.N. announced its pullout in favor of the French.”

Beverly Shumard immediately went on point. “Uh, when did you ask the board members, General? I mean, we only just learned of the situation this morning.”

“Last week. We…”

“Beverly, that was my doing,” Derringer interjected. “We got a heads-up from our liaison at State. I thought it advisable to start contingency planning in case the contract materialized, but I didn’t expect it this soon.”

Shumard leaned back, tapping her polished nails on the table. “All right.” The tone of her voice was flat, noncommittal.

Rowell sensed a growing tension in the room and decided to deflate it. “If I may, I’d like to address a couple of other matters. First, what’s the down side to this contract? I don’t mean risk to our people, but potential harm to SSI.”

Derringer was about to speak when Wilmont intervened. “That’s a legitimate concern, Harry. We’ve already assessed the corporate prospects, and as you’ll note in the briefing paper, we believe that the risk is minimal while the downstream benefits could be substantial. Worst case: something goes wrong while our team’s over there and we’re implicated in some wrongdoing by the Chad regime. Frankly, and I don’t want this repeated, that would be worse than having some of our men killed. The State Department could fall over itself backpedaling away from having issued us the contract. Consequently we might have trouble getting more work in Africa.”

“But we’re not doing much there right now,” Derringer interjected. “That’s one of the reasons for taking this job. Not only does it open the door for other work in the region, but it actually enhances our reputation at the same time. If we have to spin the contract to Congress or the public, we can always hang it on the antiterrorism hook. It wouldn’t be hard to justify our work as fighting local terrorists, some of whom certainly have radical Islamic contacts.”

“Okay,” Rowell said. “Second question. What plans are there for extracting our people if things go south?”

“As a matter of course, we always have two contingencies for getting SSI personnel out of a trouble spot.” Wilmont was warming to his subject, glad to have something substantive to discuss for a change. “The first is usually priority airline scheduling. With minimal notice, our teams can get aboard most government transportation, and that’s especially so in this case because we’re working for the State Department. The backup plan is having our own assets standing by elsewhere in the region. We don’t have details yet but I’d guess in Egypt; possibly Niger. That’s expensive, but it’s always part of our planning.” He looked around the room, making eye contact with each person. “We have never yet left anyone behind.”

Sensing that the board was swinging his way, Derringer risked a question. “Very well. I think we’re about finished. Any other points of discussion?” He looked at Shumard. “Beverly?”

Dr. Shumard bit her lip — she rarely wore lipstick — obviously unconvinced. “Well, I don’t… no! There is one thing.” Her hazel eyes locked on to Derringer’s. “I’d like to see the contract written so we can withdraw over matters of ethics. I mean, if some of the troops we’re training are involved in abusing people, we should pull out, with no penalty to us.”

Derringer spread his hands, palms up. “I see no problem with that. But we’d have to specify who makes the decision. Presumably it would be this board, but realize that State will have a voice in the matter. After all, we’re working for them. Do we need a vote on Beverly’s motion? Any objections?”

No one spoke; clearly most were disinterested.

“Excuse me,” Varlowe said.

“Yes, General.”

“I don’t want to seem cynical, but I think you should consider something. Let’s face it: the U.S. Government is unlikely to invoke sanctions against a black nation because of the domestic political fallout.” He paused for a moment, emphasizing his point. “Assuming that some of our clients get out of line, how is State going to adopt an ethical standard in Chad that it ignores in Zimbabwe or Sudan or Angola or several other places? They’re also among the most corrupt on earth but they still receive millions in foreign aid, and who knows where the money really goes?”

Shumard was an intuitive counterpuncher, and she replied in kind. “General, no one has ever accused me of being naive, but let’s face facts. If we withheld aid from every corrupt government in Africa or anywhere else, we’d just about isolate ourselves from the human race.”

Varlowe conceded the point with a graceful dip of his head. “Indeed we would, ma’am. Indeed we would.” The tone in his voice said, Not a bad idea, toots. “I’m only suggesting that the board considers the problems inherent in a double standard before concluding this contract.”

“Very well,” Derringer said. “Mrs. Singer, please note Dr. Shumard’s concern. We’ll revisit the subject in our next meeting, before concluding the contract.”

Hardly missing a beat, Derringer picked up the agenda. “Now, under old business, we have the proposal to expand our electronic warfare support program…”

6

“This is the place.” The Chadian guide waved a bony hand as if revealing a marvel.

The three “tourists”—two French, one Belgian — took in the Saharan vista. They were vastly unimpressed.

Felix Moungar sought to improve his guests’ opinion of the region. “We have had two surveys conducted by geologists,” the official explained. As a deputy of the Ministry of Mining, Energy, and Petroleum, he was well placed to know such things.

“You say the surveys were both positive?” The inquiry came from the obvious leader of the trio, a swarthy, heavyset native of Nice. He had a perennial two-day beard, partly in concession to a scar running along his left cheek. It was a souvenir of his time inLa Legion Étrangére.

Moungar nodded eagerly, flashing his white smile. “Oui, monsieur. The last was only two months ago. This remains a worthwhile site.”

The visitors took in the gaping pit, many meters deep and perhaps two-thirds of a kilometer wide. Some abandoned excavating machinery lay about, giving the facility a forlorn, idle appearance.

The Frenchman regarded his guide. “If this mine is still useful, why isn’t it in operation?”

Deputy Minister Moungar raised his narrow shoulders in elegant resignation. “Alas, my friend. There is practically a glut on the world market. But the consortium’s, ah, partners are willing to fund a small start-up because of the secrecy this place provides.”

The explanation only drew a grunt from the former Legionnaire. No more response was necessary: he already knew the identities of the parties, including the silent partners beyond the borders of Chad and France. What they did with the product was no concern of his. He and his colleagues were merely interested in the lucrative contract they stood to conclude for protecting the short-term operation and ensuring the product’s safe shipment.

He glanced at the nearest of his friends. “Etienne, what do you think?”

The tall Belgian glanced around. “Good approaches, no surprises. I suggest using only the main road in and out — better control of access and egress. And random patrols, of course.”

“Of course.” The older man winked at his friend. A covert smile passed between them. He turned to the third visitor. “Paul?”

The youngest of the trio idly toed the sand, musing again that he was far from the green hills of Gascony. “I’ll take a closer look, but from here I see no reason it shouldn’t work out. We should not stay too long, though.”

“I was told there would be another security firm in the area.”

Sideways glances flicked among the three Europeans. Only an unusually perceptive observer would have caught the import.

“We heard the same thing,” said the older man.

Moungar felt the ephemeral awkwardness, then recovered. “Gentlemen, I shall drive you into the pit for your closer examination. But I agree with Monsieur Laroque. We should avoid prolonged exposure inside the pit — with all that uranium ore.”

7

Colonel David Main turned left off Vass Road onto the two-forked Shaw Road and crossed Little River southbound. A bit farther on he came to Manchester, turned left and proceeded to the Cyclone gate. The sign said “Range 14.”

It looked much like the rest of Fort Bragg: a pine forest redolent with moist soil after a rain. Main always enjoyed North Carolina: the scenery was pleasant, the aroma refreshing, and the sounds familiar. Especially the sounds.

The sonic-metallic clatter came to him. Blink-blink-blink-bang-blink. A combination of Bang and Clink when the bullet hit the target. Pulled the fourth one, Main thought. Good cadence, though.

Somebody was shooting falling plates with a pistol. A delightful way to spend an afternoon, for those who cared about such things.

For an ephemeral moment, the pain returned to Main’s consciousness. Almost six years had passed since Cindy’s death. The frustration had been awful, the knowledge that he could do nothing to help her. Nobody could. The tumor that pressed against her brain had been untreatable, and all he could do was hold his son and daughter tight while Mommy died by inches.

Shooting helped. Someday he thought he might write an article about “ballistic therapy.” On those occasions when he could get away he crammed a stack of loaded magazines in his range bag and went to the local club to shoot plates with his custom Kimber .45. It was more fun than the issue Beretta: single-actions were preferable to double-actions with their heavier triggers.

It was odd: with his electronic timer Main noticed that in the two months before Cindy died, he consistently bested his times on five plates at ten yards. He knew the reason, of course: he was venting his anger and grief through the muzzle. In the three to five seconds when he was slaying dragons in the form of eight-inch steel plates, he was completely free of care. Just sight picture, sight alignment, and trigger control. Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop. Five up and five down. I always shoot a little better when I’m pissed.

Then the grief had eased and he was never so fast again.

Main parked the loaned Hummer and stepped out, feeling conspicuous in his dress greens. He could barely put into words how he loathed the black beret, the floppy legacy of a service politician’s effort to declare the entire Army “elite.” Some soldiers called it “the pet beret” because it actually required grooming to fit properly. What an absurd concept: if everybody’s “elite” then obviously nobody is elite. The Ranger tab below his left shoulder testified to David Main’s elite status.

“Hey junior! You lost or somethin?”

Main could not imagine who would possibly wear enough rank to address an O-6 as “junior,” but then the voice carried its own answer. Turning toward the raspy baritone, Main saw a toothy grin approaching in ground-eating strides. The colonel smiled in spite of himself.

“Sergeant Major Alford, I believe.” Main extended a hand.

“Retired sergeant major,” replied the irreverent erstwhile noncom. “And damn glad of it, I’m here to tell you.”

“How you doing, Red?”

“Just fine, Colonel. Just fine.” Alford made a point of touching the silver eagle on Main’s epaulette. “Nice to see they finally recognized a good man for a change. ‘Bout time, too. Hell, it took me nearly four years to make a decent soldier out of you.”

Main shook his head, trying to suppress a smile. He had long since lost track of the times that his onetime top sergeant had provided subtle advice or an emotional kick in the pants to Lieutenant — later Captain— Main. “Red, can we talk somewhere?”

“Sure, let’s take a walk.” Alford called over his shoulder. “Tyler! Stay with Sergeant Drago. You can shoot the Beretta until I get back.”

As more pistol shots clattered on tempered steel, Main regarded his longtime friend. “You still keeping your shootin’ eye?”

Alford ruefully shook his head. “Naw, not really. But I want my grandson to get a leg up on shooting and moving. He’s gonna be Airborne all the way. Doesn’t even want to attend college.”

“How old is he?”

“Fourteen goin’ on twenty-nine, if you know what I mean. I’ve talked to his mother a few times. She’s dead set against him being a soldier like his dad and me, but she’s smart enough to know she can’t refuse him. So she goes along with me. This war on terror — it’s gonna outlast us, isn’t it?”

Main looked down at his mud-spattered shoes. “Yup.”

Alford nodded. “Well, there you go. The boy’s gonna be in it, and I want him to have the basics dialed in before he ever hits Basic.” The former NCO eyed his friend. “How’re your kids, Dave?”

“Jenny’s doing pretty well. Smart as a whip, pretty as her mother. Starts college next year, can you believe that?”

“And the boy?”

“Oh, he’s coming along. He’s big on sports, especially basketball, but I sort of worry, you know? He doesn’t seem to have much focus other than athletics. That’s why I’m thinking of putting in my papers.”

“What would you do?”

Main stopped pacing and turned to Alford. “You recall the PMC that I mentioned a while back?”

Alford stuffed his hands in his field jacket and nodded. “Strategic something?”

“Solutions. Strategic Solutions in Arlington. I’ve been liaison with them for a while, as well as some other contractors. It’s a good outfit with top-notch leadership. Admiral Derringer says I can start work for him at noon tomorrow if I want.”

“Doing what?”

“More of the same — for good money and damn little travel. It’s just about perfect, especially with Brian still in school.”

“Well, sir, how can I help?”

“Red, this is close hold for now. That’s why I called to say I was coming in person.” He allowed himself to smile. “Besides, it’s good to get out of D.C.”

“Hoo-ah that, sir.”

“Strategic Solutions is likely to have a job with the State Department in Chad.”

Alford rocked back on his heels as if struck on the jaw. “Oh… my… God!”

Main chuckled aloud. “All right, you see where I’m headed with this. It’s a training mission: weapons, tactics, and counterinsurgency.”

“And Third Special Forces Group just happens to have the African part of the world! No wonder you came down to Bragg. You’re a damn headhunter, Colonel!”

Main shrugged. “If you want to hunt ducks, you gotta go where the ducks are. I remember somebody telling me that quite some time ago. Sergeant.”

Alford looked around, as if concerned somebody might hear him. “Dave, if the green beanies knew why you’re here, they’d ban you for life. Cripes a’mighty! You’re looking for gold-plated people who speak Arabic and — what? — French?”

“Qui, mon sergeant.”

“You got any idea how tight the Army is about folks like that? I mean, holy shit! Somebody who can explain how to field strip a weapon in freakin’ Arabic?”

“Which is exactly why I’m asking for some leads, Red. Oh, yeah, while I’m here I’ll talk to Third Group’s S-1, and a request is going through channels but that’ll take weeks. Besides, they’re not going to tell me everything they know, and I can’t blame them. Meanwhile, the clock’s running. But you, Sergeant Major Alford, you know who’s who and, more important, who’s getting out or thinking of getting out.” Main raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Alford folded his arms and chewed his lip. “What’s in it for me?”

Main was taken aback. He had never known Charles Ambrose Alford to barter with a friend. “Well, I don’t know, Red. I’m not authorized to offer a bounty… or anything.”

“How about a referral fee?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Damned if I know,” Alford replied. “How’s a grand per head sound?”

Main opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Gotcha!” Alford swung a roundhouse right that connected with Main’s left arm, knocking him off balance.

“You bastard.” Main made a show of rubbing his bicep.

Alford led his former CO back to the firing line. “Hey, you oughta get up here more often. We’ve got a real nice club with matches most weekends.” He grinned his toothy smile again. “We can shoot for beers. Hell, I’ll even spot you, oh, three seconds per stage.”

“I thought you said you don’t shoot much anymore.”

Alford grinned again. “I lied.”

8

The staff meeting included Frank Leopole as head of operations, Omar Mohammed as director of training, and Jack Peters as director of recruiting.

As DO, Leopole chaired the meeting, which was focused on selecting the Chad team. “Okay, people, listen up. Language skill is crucial to this contract: French and Arabic. We still don’t have enough folks who are fluent in Arabic but we’re recruiting some well-qualified guys from under SpecOps’ noses. Fort Bragg and Hurlbert Field will scream bloody murder but hey, it’s a dog-eat-dog business world, you know?”

With no response to the rhetorical question, Leopold proceeded. “All right, I think we all know the obvious choices. Let’s start with J. J. Johnson. Jack, have you talked to him?”

“Yesterday morning. I reached him at his home town in Idaho. He saw the advantages but he’s not real enthused about going to Chad.”

Leopole smirked. “Who is? What’d he say about the bonus?”

“Said he’d think about it. If I don’t hear back by Thursday I’ll call again…”

“Yes?” Leopole sensed that Peters was not finished.

“Well, I really don’t think that Johnson is going to be swayed by money. He’s just not wired that way. I mean, nobody joins the Foreign Legion for the pay! Right now I think it’s a matter of how well he’s recovered from—”

Leopold interrupted. “Oh, I think he’s recovered. I’m just not sure he’ll want to go. Even before the Pakistan op he was talking about settling down, getting a real job, and finding Miss Right.”

“Well, I guess I can understand it,” Peters responded. “I mean, a hitch in the Foreign Legion and then the way the Pakistani terrorists whipped the skin off him.” Peters shook his head. “Poor bastard was practically flayed.”

“But you know what he did, don’t you?” Leopold responded. “He killed a guard, captured another and took him with him, and won a shoot-out with three others. J. J. may seem a quiet, pleasant young man, but I’ve learned something. You gotta watch out for the quiet ones.”

Mohammed interjected in his cultured French accent. “Mr. Peters is right. Men such as J. J. are not motivated by pay but consider this: he joined the Legion as a young man in search of adventure and a chance to prove himself. He has done that, and more. Now, at age thirty or so, he wants to start building something for himself. I know for a fact that he would like to start a family.” He shrugged eloquently. “Perhaps we should send someone to talk to him in person.”

Peters accepted the training director’s assessment. He knew Dr. Mohammed as a perceptive student of the human animal; astute enough to work as a psychologist if he wished. “All right, we’ll do that. And I can sweeten the pot a bit by offering him a supervisory position. With his language ability and military background, he would have instant credibility with our clients.”

Leopole interjected, “Okay, J. J.’s a possible. What about Dave Main’s raid on Fort Bragg?”

Peters’s brown eyes twinkled. “Well, as you can imagine, he wasn’t exactly greeted with open arms. But he dropped a few nickels in the right slots and got some return. We have three prospects: Special Forces guys with French and/or Arabic ability. I’ll know more in a couple of days.”

“When are they available?” Sandy Carmichael was thinking ahead of the game, mentally juggling the increasingly tight schedule with known and possible assets.

“One just got out and sounds like a sure thing. The others have put their papers in. We may have the admiral pull some strings to expedite their release.”

“I was hoping that Dave would turn up more than three.” Carmichael had a lot of confidence in her West Point classmate but she was secretly disappointed that he had not called before his trip to North Carolina. Leopole was looking at her with his head cocked. She tried hard not to blush. Frank knows, damn it. Not quite an office romance, but the next thing to it.

Peters and Mohammed also noticed Sandra Carmichael’s cheeks turn pink. Both inferred the correct meaning.

“Well, it’s still a bit early,” Peters offered. “Colonel Main has one or two other leads to follow.”

Leopole glanced at his briefing list. “All right, then. We still need at least three other trainers. I’d like to have SF people because they make their money training the locals. But if we have to dip into our usual bag, I think we can count on Boscombe and Brezyinski.”

Sandy Carmichael rolled her baby blues. Omar Mohammed permitted himself a smile through his goatee. “Bosco and Breezy. Good boys.”

Peters was only vaguely acquainted with the former paratrooper and Ranger. “Something I should know?”

Leopole, who had worked with both more than once, chuckled aloud. “Some people consider them the Laurel and Hardy of SSI. But they’re good, they’re reliable, and they’re available.”

Sandy said, “I know they don’t speak Arabic, but does either of them speak French?”

“Hell, they hardly speak English!” The former Marine rapped his knuckles in appreciation at his own humor.

Mohammed waved a placating hand. “What is important is their knowledge. They can demonstrate anything the Chadians need to know. With translators, they can manage just fine. Besides, if there’s a problem, there is no one I would rather have along.”

Leopole flipped a check mark on his paper.

“Okay. What about Martha?”

Carmichael sat back in her padded chair, trying to conjure a reason to decline the suggestion.

Martha Whitney: smart, sassy and articulate. She read people well — a product of the Detroit streets. Because Carmichael and Whitney were influential women within SSI, many staffers assumed they were close. It was a reasonable conclusion: both were single mothers— Carmichael with two daughters, Whitney with college-age sons — who had been successful in a previously all-male environment.

Carmichael could not think of a valid reason for voicing opposition, other than the fact that she cordially disliked Martha Whitney. That made Carmichael a member of a big club. “Well, I suppose we can consider her.”

Leopole spread his hands. “What’s to consider, Sandy? My God, she’s smart, she’s capable, she’s qualified. And she’s black!”

“Yeah, I know,” she said resignedly. “That would be an advantage in Chad.”

“Well then?” Leopole allowed the question to dangle in midair.

“Well, for one thing she’s a staffer without much field experience. I mean, she’s very good at what she does but…”

“That sounds a lot like you,” Leopole interjected. He gave Carmichael his patented gotcha grin. “Besides, she has field experience from the Agency. She just hasn’t got her hands dirty in a few years.”

“I’m just saying that in a heavily Muslim country a woman isn’t going to be accepted as an authority figure.”

“She doesn’t have to be in authority Sandy.” Leopole was tiring of the sparring. He thought that he knew what lay behind Carmichael’s aversion to Whitney. The forty-one-year-old Detroit native had proven her worth in CIA covert ops before joining SSI, where her Agency contacts were valuable. Lieutenant Colonel Carmichael envied Whitney’s record as an agent — something Carmichael herself relished, but she knew that she would draw too much attention in the field. Her prom-queen good looks were a detriment in most situations.

Sensing his advantage, Leopole pressed ahead. “There’s something else to consider.Parlez-vous français?”

“You know I don’t.” Carmichael was semifluent in Italian.

“Well, one of her grandparents was Haitian. She passed the government fluency test in French. Eighty-three percent, I think.”

Peters, who had not run SSI recruiting until recently, was barely acquainted with Whitney. “How much of that sassy mouth of hers is legit and how much is insecurity?”

Leopole shrugged. “Damifiknow. But I tell you what: I’ve seen her at work. When things get reeeal tense, she’s pretty damn cool. Jabbers like a blue jay when the smoke clears, but Martha can hack the program.

“There’s another advantage, and for obvious reasons I wouldn’t want it repeated. I mean, she’s an overweight black woman who’s not very attractive. Nobody’s going to look at her and think she’s a threat.”

Carmichael shot Leopole a feminine dart. I am Woman, hear me roar. “That’s pretty shallow, isn’t it, Frank?”

“Tactical, babe. Tactical.”

Omar Mohammed, who had grown to like Frank Leopole despite their initial coolness, decided to intervene on the former Marine’s side. “As long as we are committed to Chad, a black woman would be advantageous. She could be especially helpful in surveillance.”

Leopole nodded his crew-cut head. “Absolutely.”

Peters merely said, “Concur.”

Carmichael threw up her hands, literally and figuratively. “Okay.” She tended to twitch her nose at such moments. Leopole wondered what it was about Sandys — he had never known one who wasn’t downright cute.

Nobody had ever said that about Martha Whitney.

9

“Alex, they are moving again.” The younger member of the surveillance team spoke into his lightweight headset. As the limousine pulled away from the Hotel D’Afrique, he let it go halfway down the block before he kicked his Vespa scooter into gear. He trailed it at a discreet distance, using some of the capital’s traffic to screen his presence.

His earpiece crackled as the carrier wave was activated. “Maintain contact,” the senior partner said.

The limo departed the hotel in the west side of town and took the street parallel to the Chari River, passing the U.S. Aid office just off Gouverneur Felix Eboue. It passed the federal buildings, town hall, and police headquarters along Rue du Colonel Moll, the avenue commemorating a notable French officer who died in 1908, fighting tribesmen near Djirbel.

The scooter tailed the limousine through a dogleg right through the Place de l’Etoile on General de Gaulle. From there it was nearly a straight run up Commandant Curlu, passing the National Assembly on the left en route to the airport on the north side of the capital.

Approaching the passenger terminal, the limo’s brake lights came on. The Vespa driver checked his tail, swerved to the corner just ahead of an ancient Citroen, and stopped beside a taxi stand. He gave the attendant a ten-dollar bill worth about five thousand Chad francs and promised another if the Vespa was still there in an hour or so.

The chauffeur and passengers emerged from the limousine: four men and a woman whom the surveillance operative confirmed as his marks. He turned away from them as they struggled with their luggage, speaking discreetly into his handset. “Subjects arrived at departure. Proceeding normally.”

“Continue observation” was the terse reply.

With the aid of the chauffeur, two passengers and a couple of porters, the luggage was taken to the Air France counter. Following check-in the three travelers exchanged farewells with their hosts, the older man and the woman, apparently his wife. She was fortyish, well coiffed, and gave each traveler a continental kiss: left cheek, right cheek, left.

The Vespa driver noticed that during the parting the older man spoke with one of the travelers with earnest brevity. A heartfelt hug and they parted. The older man and woman returned to the limousine.

The limo had diplomatic plates. Anybody with knowledge of the numbers would have identified it as belonging to the French embassy.

While the surveillance operative walked toward his scooter he made one more transmission. “Subjects departed for Paris.”

As he reached in his pocket to pay the attendant, he was approached from behind. Strong, silent men grasped each arm, took him a few steps to the curb, and shoved him into a waiting van. The door slid shut as the Volkswagen drove away.

10

Leopole asked, “Jack, have you heard back from Main?”

Jack Peters felt a bit defensive; he had ceded some of his responsibility to Sandra Carmichael, head of foreign ops. “Not yet — it’s only been a couple of days. But I told him that we need small-arms and tactics instructors qualified in French and Arabic. The most likely prospects are Special Forces guys since one of their missions is training local people.” He almost said “indigenous personnel” but thought better of it. SSI was not big on Pentagonese.

Leopole twirled the pencil between his fingers. “Well, these days the French part shouldn’t cause much fuss. But Arabic speakers are golden. We might have to call in some markers to get a couple of those guys.” He looked back at Mohammed. “Unless…”

Seated across the room, Omar Mohammed read his colleague’s mind. “Oh, no you don’t. Non. Laa.” He waved a deprecatory hand.

Leopole got the drift, though he spoke neither French nor Arabic. However, Omar Mohammed spoke them fluently, and five other languages besides. Now he was nearing completion of a course in Indonesian.

“Hey, you did just fine in Pakistan on the Pandora Project,” Leopole insisted.

Mohammed almost winced at the memory. “Only because I was the default for Pashto and Urdu.” He shook his head. “Nope, no way, Jose.” The latter phrase, incongruously crafted in Dr. Mohammed’s cultivated tones, drew immediate grins and chuckles around the table. With his dignified manner and elegant Vandyke beard, Mohammed appeared the last person in Arlington, Virginia, who would employ colloquialisms.

Leopole spoke to Peters again. “Jack, I take it that our standby files don’t have anybody with the language and technical skills just now.”

“The people we have on file are qualified either in French or Arabic, or they’re gun guys. Not both, other than J. J. But I’ll see if Dave can get his personnel contacts to move faster.”

Mohammed had a thought: “Where is Alex Cohen? After all, he speaks fluent Arabic.”

Leopole and Carmichael exchanged glances. Without waiting for Leopole, she replied, “Ah, he’s traveling. Besides, I don’t think an Israeli-American would be too popular in a Muslim—”

“Sorry I’m late, everybody!”

Martha Whitney burst into the room. It was odd, Carmichael thought, how Martha inevitably “burst.” Partly it was her joie de vivre; partly it seemed calculated. Martha was a thespian at heart — always “up,” always “on.”

Most of her colleagues thought it noteworthy that Whitney, who hailed from Detroit, usually affected a southern accent. It was as if she went through life doing a decent impersonation of Pearl Bailey. At forty-eight, she was heavier than a few years before, partly the result of bearing and rearing two sons.

“There was a three-car pile-up on 395 just before the Washington exit,” she explained. “I tell you what, baby, it looked pretty bad when I drove past. There was this Subaru with the front end all…”

“Martha, thanks for the traffic report,” Leopole interjected.

Whitney barely registered the mild rebuke. “Well, I was gonna stop on account of my CPR training, you know? But the ambulance just arrived so I kept on a-comin’.”

Leopole made certain that everyone was introduced, then nodded to Carmichael, the tacit message plain on his face. You have the conn. Babe.

“Ah, Martha, we’re discussing a training mission in Chad. We think you could make a contribution so we’d like to discuss it with…”

Whitney arranged herself in the padded chair. “Well, I’m not much of an instructor, y’know. But I’ve worked in Africa before. In the field, that is.”

Carmichael didn’t know whether to take that last comment as a catty dig at her lack of covert ops experience. She decided to ignore it. For now.

“Well, there are other reasons for considering you for this mission. After all, you speak French, and that’s…”

Whitney waved a bejeweled hand. “Oh, c’mon, honey. You think I don’t know why I was hired? Same reason the Company hired me: I’m practically invisible. Baby, I be Stealth Woman. Despite thirty years of women’s lib and sensitivity training, the plain fact is that most folks don’t expect much from a black woman.” She gave a conspiratorial grin. “That includes some black men.” After a dramatic pause and a furrowed brow she added, “No, wait. That includes most black men.”

Jack Peters had never met Martha Whitney. That was obvious to Leopole and Carmichael when he said, “Obviously it would help to have an African-American in Chad.”

Whitney’s cheery face abruptly wrinkled in disdain. She shook her head in one direction and a warning finger in the other. “Darlin’,” she began. “Don’t you be layin’ that PC BS on me. When I hear African-American’ or ‘Eye-talian-American’ or ‘Mexican-American’ that’s like a red flag to the bull, you know? It’s like you’re sayin’ I’m half American. Like maybe I don’t quite measure up, you know?”

“Well, I was just…”

“Now I’m tellin’ you for sure. If you figure you got to describe me racially, well, honey, I’m sorry for you. I’m a woman, and I’m black, so I’m a black female American. That’s an adverb modifying an adjective modifying a noun, and the proper noun is American! But I ain’t never an African-American. If you gotta hyphenate me, then you better remember that I’m an All-American!”

He gulped visibly. “Yes, ma’am!”

It was too late; Whitney was spooled up. “Just ‘cause I can’t show you my pedigree don’t mean that I walk around like my oldest boy, wearin’ his kinte cloth. I don’t know what tribe sold my people into slavery, or even if they ever was slaves. But I figure anything that happened before my people learned to read and write is way beyond my poor ability to add or detract, so let’s get past it, shall we?”

Leopole smiled in spite of himself. Martha Whitney had given an impromptu English lesson and, knowingly or otherwise, had quoted the Gettysburg Address.

Peters stuck out his hand. “Let’s start over. Martha, I’m Jack.”

She shook. “Glad to meet you, honey.”

11

Sandy Carmichael walked into the lobby of the indoor shooting range, toting her concealed-carry purse with her custom Kimber .45. She was a regular at The Bullet Trap; at least monthly, sometimes more. There were better equipped ranges at Chantilly and Springfield but Annandale was closer to SSI, just off Route 495.

“Hi, Ed!” Sandy gave the co-owner her cheeriest cheerleader grin. She took care to pronounce her greeting as “Hah, Ay-ed.” She had learned earlier than most females that a perky smile and a southern accent melted the testosterone in some males and pumped it in others.

Near as she could recall, she’d been about three and a half.

Ed Masterson liked to hint that he was related to the gunfighting Bat, but the frontiersman had carved his single notch three years before Ed’s forebears disembarked at Norfolk in 1879. “Why, Colonel Carmichael. We haven’t seen you around much, young lady.”

“Oh, Ay-ed, y’all’re u-shally workin’ too early for me. I been in here at least twice-et since I last saw y’all.” She waved a deprecating hand, adding, “Ah sway-yer, ya’ll’re avoidin’ me.” She batted her baby blues for effect. No harm in keeping in practice, she told herself.

Truth be told, sometimes it was so easy that it wasn’t even fun anymore. A mid-fortyish single mom with no steady relationship had ample time to perfect her flirting technique — no head tilt or hair flip this time — and poor, lovable Ay-ed was so easy.

Masterson actually blushed, his ruddy complexion contrasting with his pale blue shirt with The Bullet Trap logo. He recovered enough to reply, “Colonel, honey, you surely know how to shine on an ol’ southern boy.”

“Well dip me in honeysuckle an’ pour me full of mint juleps. The cornpone is getting hip deep in here.”

Sandy turned at the familiar voice: the lilting tones, the slightly exaggerated accent.

Martha Whitney.

She stood there, a formidable mixture of Queen Latifah fashion and Aunt Jemima bonhomie. Carrying a combination-lock gun case, Whitney advanced to the counter and nodded to her colleague. “Evenin’, Sandy.”

“Hullo, Martha.” Carmichael managed an ephemeral grin.

Behind the counter, Ed Masterson noted a perceptible drop in the ambient temperature. He knew Sandra Carmichael better than Martha Whitney, whom he had once introduced as “Martha Washington.” He never did that again.

Shoving a registration sheet across the glass display case, he sought to retrieve the situation. “Just sign in, ladies. We’re a little slow this afternoon so I can give you adjoining lanes if you…”

Sandy began, “Well, I was…”

“Why that’d be just precious, Sugar.” Martha smiled hugely, pronouncing the endearment as “Sugah.” She flashed her driver’s license and signed the hold-harmless release without reading it. “Girls’ night out, at the shooting range,” she enthused.

At that moment Sandra Carmichael abandoned any thought of meaningful practice.

“Lanes four and five,” Masterson said, accepting Sandy’s registration slip.

“Thanks, Ed,” she intoned. “Ay-ed” was long gone as she went all squinty-eyed in anticipation of the impending battle.

Watching the two women stride toward the glassed-in shooting bay, Ed mused that it was gonna be a combination gunfight and catfight and, if it strayed to the cafeteria next door, likely a food fight as well.

Taking their positions beside one another, the SSI operatives were separated by a Plexiglas barrier to stop flying brass. Neither spoke as they loaded magazines: Carmichael using Blazer .45; Whitney Wolf 9 mm.

With fewer rounds to load, Carmichael finished first. She activated her remote target console and picked up two targets. “Silhouette or bull’s-eye?”

Whitney suggested, “Why not both, darlin’?”

“Why not?”

From two previous encounters, Sandy knew that she was more accurate but Martha shot faster. The tacit agreement seemed headed for a tie: Sandy would likely take the bull’s-eye contest and Martha the “combat” segment.

They ran their targets out to fifteen meters, pulled on their glasses and ear protectors, and went to low ready. Sandy’s Kimber and Martha’s Glock touched the bench in front of them. “Ten rounds,” Sandy said.

Martha nodded.

“Ready, go!”

Thirty-two seconds and a reload later, Sandy laid down her Kimber, the thumb safety engaged.

Martha finished four seconds later, the Glock 19’s slide locked back.

“You usually shoot faster than that,” Sandy ventured.

“Baby, I’m shootin’ for score this time.”

They reeled in their targets and counted scores. Sandy won, forty-two to thirty-nine. “You got bigger holes,” Whitney observed. “Those.45s turn nines into tens.”

Sandy beamed. “Sure do, Sugar.”

“Well, honey, the first man I killed didn’t know the difference ‘cause I put six out of six in his sorry ass.”

Sandy shrugged. “First man I killed only took two.”

Martha ignored the retort, knowing that her rival had shot two armed intruders in SSI offices less than a year before. “Then the next time… well, the next time I done smoked two of ‘em. I’d tell you ‘bout it but it’s still classified, don’t you know.”

“We gonna talk or shoot?” Sandy taped up her silhouette target and ran it out to ten meters. Martha did the same.

Sandy picked up the Pact timer and set it for delay start. “Five rounds, rapid fire.” She pressed the button and three seconds later the beep went.

Whitney pushed the Glock’s black snout straight out from her body, locked her arms in an isosceles triangle, and went to work on the trigger. Allowing the trigger to reset after each shot, she dumped five rounds into the torso in less than three seconds. The hits were scattered in a buckshot pattern, but they were all there.

Sandy brought the .45 to eye level in a Weaver stance, left elbow low, and took nearly five seconds to put five rounds into a melon-sized group in the target’s solar plexus. “More recoil,” she murmured unnecessarily.

In the lobby a small crowd was gathering, all fascinated, all male. The observers stepped close to the safety glass partition for a better look.

“What’s with the women?” asked a revolver shooter.

“Catfight,” explained Ay-ed.

“Who’s winning?” queried a Sig advocate.

“Looks about even,” the wheelgunner opined.

Sig turned to Masterson. “Well, who are they?”

“Oh, a coupla ladies who work for a Beltway outfit.”

“Dang,” Wheelgunner exclaimed. “I never saw a black gal shoot before.”

“Not like that you didn’t,” Masterson said.

The conversation lagged while the women resumed firing. The next string was timed head shots.

The string after that was strong hand only, fifteen meters.

The string after that was support hand only, ten meters.

“Looks like they’ve done this before,” Sig observed.

Wheelgunner nodded. “Looks like they’re plumb serious.”

Masterson knew something about Colonel Sandra Carmichael, U.S. Army, retired. “Serious as it gets, Earl.”

When the range session ended the crowd parted as the women hung up their earmuffs. The parting words were Whitney’s:

“Hey, girlfriend, your Kimber’s dandy but my Glock is the ultimate in feminine protection!”

12

The United 777 had barely begun debarking passengers when Bosco strode down the jetway. He overtook the first-class passengers, bumping a dignified woman old enough to be his mother and then some. Barely missing a beat, he barked, “Excusemema’am,” took her valise from her without being asked, and solicitously carried it to the security gate.

“Bosco!”

“J. J. my man!”

The two mercenaries exchanged male-bonding hugs accompanied by considerable back slapping. As Johnson stepped back, he grinned conspiratorially. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Bosco looked around. “Like what?” Then the light dawned. “Oh, hell, I ain’t gonna say, like, ‘I love ya, man.’“

With an exaggerated motion, Johnson pointed over Bosco’s left shoulder. The gray-haired lady stood with a bemused expression, her pale blue eyes sparkling at the boisterous pair.

Bosco blushed visibly — a rarity for him — and sheepishly handed back the valise. “Sorry, ma’am. I sorta forgot…”

She patted his muscled arm and leaned close. “It’s quite all right, young man. I heard you say that you love your partner.” She winked. “My godson is gay, too.”

Bosco watched the sympathetic lady walk away his jaw at half mast.

“What’d she say?” Johnson asked.

“Uh… she… uh.” He looked at the carpeted floor. “I couldn’t understand her.”

As they walked to the baggage claim Johnson enthused, “Hey I’m goin’ trout fishing in a couple days. I have a buddy from LaGrande— ex-Marine who says they’re biting real well at Horsethief. I can fix you up with everything you’d need. I hear that Chironomid and Woolly Buggers are workin’ real well.”

Boscombe shook his head in wonderment. “What language is that?”

“Hell, man, it’s fish talk. What do you think it is?”

Bosco shrugged his big shoulders. “Klingon?”

Johnson nudged his friend with an elbow. “C’mon, man. It’s not far north of here. We could have a good time. You catch ‘em and I’ll clean ‘em. Laissez le bon roidement de periodes.”

“There’s that language thing again.”

“It’s, like, ‘Let the good times roll.’“

Frank Leopole rapped his bronzed knuckles on the polished table. The chatter in the room abated.

“Okay. This meeting is about filling out the training team.” He nodded to SSI’s director of training.

Dr. Omar Mohammed was the Iranian-born son of a shah’s diplomat, valued for his versatility. In addition to supervising SSI training, he was an accomplished linguist, having grown up with Farsi, French, English, and Arabic. Now he spoke four other languages besides. He began, “Jack and I contacted David Main. He’s still our DoD liaison, and now that he’s a full colonel he can tap some assets that were less certain before.”

Leopole beamed. “Doc, you’re just determined to see your picture on the hostile targets at Benning, aren’t you?”

The PhD leaned back, hands comfortably clasped behind his head. “It’s all relative. After all, we recruit from the top of the milk bottle so we can skim the cream. Yes, Special Forces soldiers fluent in Arabic are high-value assets, as the saying goes. Which is precisely why we pay them what they’re worth on the open market.” He arched an eyebrow. “Once their obligations are fulfilled, of course.”

Retired Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Foyte caught Leopole’s eye. They were longtime friends and connoisseurs of Tennessee sippin’ whiskey.

“Just a quick question. How good do we want the Chadians to be?”

“How do you mean?” Mohammed asked.

“I mean, considering what their government’s like, do we really want to train these clients to the highest possible standard?”

Mohammed stared at the far wall, visualizing the stories he had heard about the Savak, the shah’s secret police trained by America and Israel. All that had ended in 1979, of course, when Omar Mohammed was still attending Cambridge. Leopole interjected, “That’s more a philosophical than an operational question, Gunny.”

“I respectfully disagree, Colonel.” As Mohammed defaulted to the more respectful term — he might have addressed Leopole by his given name. “I believe they are directly linked.”

Privately, Leopole ceded his colleague’s point. But he did not want to give SSI the impression that he ever held any qualms about accepting a contract. “I understand your concern, Omar. I really do. But let’s be totally honest: it’s more a matter of degree than substance. However long we work with the Chadians, they’re not likely to come up to more than third-class military status. There’s too much of a cultural gap, and if that appears racist, so be it.”

“You seem to be saying, let our team develop these clients to their full potential, even though we know the end result will be inferior.”

“Only by our standards, Omar. By their standards they’ll be six-hundred-pound gorillas.”

Mohammed nodded slowly. “Very well.” As the meeting proceeded, he penned himself a note for discussion with Mike Derringer. What do we owe our clients? Our best or their best? And how do we arrange the distinction?

“Did you ever see A River Runs Through It?”

J. J. Johnson knew that he had just asked a rhetorical question. Jason Boscombe’s taste in cinema ran in two directions: action and skin, not necessarily in that order. Fishing lay far, far down the former Ranger’s list of interests.

“Yeah, I watched it on TV with my mom. She liked it because of the photography and stuff.”

Johnson finished tying a fly to Bosco’s line. The Parachute Adams dangled at the end of the tippet. “Well, I figured you being from Ellensburg, you’d have some fisherman’s blood in you.”

Bosco frowned perceptibly. “I was more into hunting than fishing. My old man liked to go after steelhead, but he and I…” His voice trailed off.

Johnson ignored the tacit message. He knew that Boscombe had seldom returned to eastern Washington after his mother’s death. “Well, the reason I ask about the movie is that it showed fly casting as an accuracy game. That’s the great thing about it: you don’t have to get a strike to enjoy it.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.” Johnson handed the spare rod to Bosco and unreeled a length of line from his own. Standing on the bank, he looked at the calm, gray water and found what he wanted. “Target. Eleven o’clock, fifteen meters.”

Bosco searched in the direction indicated. “You mean that leaf?”

“That’s it.” Johnson whipped his graphite rod back and forth two or three times, then made his cast. The fly alit five inches from the target. “Damn.”

“What do you mean, ‘damn’? Looked like you almost hit it!”

“Naw, too short. I’ll try again.” Johnson made a longer cast next time, placing the fly three inches beyond the leaf.

“You got it bracketed, dude. Fire for effect!”

Johnson grinned. “Well, you don’t actually want to hit your fish. You want to put the fly within a couple inches of his nose so he’ll be able to grab it. But don’t just let it float there. Real bugs don’t act that way. They sort of skitter across the water, like this.” The fisherman gave his rod a series of short, precise strokes that drew the Adams hopping across the surface.

A trout rose to the bait, snapped at the fly, and dived.

“Whoa!” Bosco exclaimed. “You got ‘im, J. J.! Awesome!” He slapped his friend on the back. “How’d you know he was there?”

“Ah, you learn.” He tugged on his rod, enjoying the small adrenaline spike and the tension of the fish fighting on the other end.

He did not admit that the trout had surprised him as much as it did Bosco.

Abruptly the line went slack. “He slipped the hook,” Johnson said calmly. “Didn’t sink it when he took the fly. But we’ll stay with Parachutes for a while, since they’re about the most versatile surface flies around. I’ll change to Woolly Buggers later in the day.”

Bosco hefted his rod and looked around. The reservoir was ringed with tall evergreens, their piney scent filling the morning air. “This is nice, J. J. Better than I thought. Where should I try?”

“Hey, I knew you’d like it here.” He pointed to his right. “Step out on those flat rocks. That way you’ll be clear of the trees when you cast. Remember, back to ten o’clock and forward to two.”

“Gotcha.”

Johnson watched his friend for the first few casts. Like most beginners, Bosco exaggerated the pause at the ten and two positions, but eventually the casts became more fluid and the range increased. During the morning he even got a couple of strikes.

At the lunch break, the discussion turned to shop talk.

Bosco began with more subtlety than usual. “Admiral Derringer’s a fisherman, isn’t he? Does he ever go fly fishing?”

“Don’t think so. Far as I know he’s into deep-sea fishing. He got a near record marlin last year.”

“Yeah, I remember him talking about that,” Bosco replied. He regarded the former Foreign Legionnaire. “Just before we went to Pakistan, wasn’t it?”

Johnson shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. I was still pretty new with the company at the time.”

“Well, Breezy and I really like working for SSI. We’re going to Chad, you know.”

So that’s it. Johnson turned toward Boscombe. “You’re here to recruit me, aren’t you?”

Bosco began to avert his eyes, then riveted them on Johnson’s. “How am I doing?”

Johnson lifted his Coors, took a sip, then set the beer down. “You know, you missed your calling.”

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“Well, you’re a shit-hot recruiter, that’s all.”

Bosco flicked his head as if avoiding a gnat. “J. J., what are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to say, dude, that I’m in. I’ll go to Chad.”

Boscombe’s eyes widened in realization. “You sumbitch! You already made up your mind!”

Johnson winked. “Gotcha.” He thought for a moment, then said, “There’s something you should know. Frank Leopole and Sandy Carmichael, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I’ve had lots of time to think about this kind of work since… the last job.”

Bosco knew enough when to keep quiet.

“I’m going to Chad because it’s a training job,” Johnson explained. “I don’t plan to work in the field again. Ever.”

Bosco set down his beer. “J. J., I think I know where you’re coming from. But if you’re still worried about what happened in Pak…”

“Damn straight it’s about what happened over there. I compromised a mission and put good folks in the crosshairs because… because I…” He swallowed hard.

“Because the bastards tortured you. Is that it?”

Johnson took a pull at his bottle. He hardly noticed it was empty. Finally he managed to speak. “No, man. Not because they tortured me. Because I broke!”

“Well, hell, J. J.. Everybody breaks. Look at all those guys in the Hanoi Hilton. The gooks broke every one of ‘em. It’s not like you’re the only one who ever had too much pain. C’mon, man.”

“No, that’s not quite right, Bosco. Some of them didn’t break. They died before they’d give in.”

Bosco leaned forward and punched his friend’s arm. “Makes my case, J. J. If you hadn’t talked, the ragheads would’ve killed you. You know that. Besides, nobody got hurt because you talked.”

“That was just luck. So I don’t ever want to be in that position again. There’s just too…”

Boscombe was more perceptive than the hey-dude persona he showed the world. Something else is goin’ on here, he told himself.

“J. J., I know you’re prob’ly still having, well, trouble, with what happened there. Bad dreams? Things like that?”

The brief nod again. “Something like that.” He stared into the empty long-necked bottle. He wondered how much he could tell Bosco and keep his self-respect. The scars on his back, buttocks, and upper thighs were physical reminders of the scalding he received at the hands of the Islamist cell in Pakistan, headed by the tormented genius determined to destroy the SSI team sent to find him and prevent the spread of the Marburg virus.

But the emotional scars went bone deep.

Almost without realizing it, Johnson found himself talking.

“I met a girl, Bosco. A really good woman. We knew each other before she got married but now she’s divorced and we ran into each other not long ago. We’re getting serious. I mean… really serious, you know?”

Bosco wondered how to respond when Johnson continued. “It’s like, I keep visualizing what it’s going to be like the first time we go to bed. She’s going to see my scars and if I haven’t told her about it, she’ll wonder why. But if I tell her before, she’ll know that I cracked and she…”

“You think she won’t want to be with you?”

Johnson shrugged. “Maybe. I mean… hell, man, I just don’t know.”

Bosco let a feral grin escape his lips. “Shee-it, J. J., do I have to draw you a picture? Unless you want to spend the rest of your life holding hands with women, tell her the whole story. Maybe it won’t matter. Hell, maybe she’ll want to comfort you. But at least you’ll be over the hump, you know? Either it’ll work out with her or it won’t. If not with her, then with another gal.” He finished off his Coors and set it down. “Next subject.” He belched and added, “Gimme another brew.”

13

Leopole and Mohammed had some news to share.

Addressing the staff, Leopole began, “I’ve heard from some embassy folks in Chad, and I think you all need to know what you might find over there.

“We learned that at least two French PMCs were operating in-country. The frontrunner is called Groupe FGN, which is named for the original three partners. Apparently only one of them is still alive— chap named Geurrier — but he’s largely retired. His family runs the company but the hands-on guy is a hard case named Marcel Hurtubise, ex-Foreign Legion and jack of all mercenary trades. He’ll literally work for anybody, and has, especially in Africa: Sudan, Libya, Algeria, and so on.”

“I wonder how he stays legit with those clients,” Carmichael said.

Leopole gave a sardonic grin. “Well, he also works for the French government. One of his recent jobs was UXB removal in Kosovo, and that sort of work lends respectability. It checks the Humanitarian box.”

Sandy shook her head. “UXB?”

“Unexploded bombs, or ordnance generally. It’s an old Brit term but today it usually means land mines. They’re really un-PC in some circles.”

“Oh, yes. I remember. That was one of Princess Di’s big causes.”

“Yeah. I guess she never heard of the DMZ.”

“Which one?”

“The one along the thirty-eighth parallel. It sort of keeps North Korea out of South Korea.”

Foyte fidgeted. “All right, so how does the French outfit affect us?”

“I don’t know that it does for sure, but there’s something going on. The two senior members of the other PMC disappeared several days ago. The others went home on Air France.”

Foyte emitted a long, low whistle. “You think…”

“Yeah.”

Carmichael leaned forward, her hands clasped. “Frank, I see where you’re going. But there must be other explanations.”

The crew-cut head bobbed. “Sure, lots of ‘em in that area. But we can’t overlook the possibility that there’s been some corporate feuding.”

“Man, talk about cutthroat competition!” Foyte almost smiled. “Are we likely to rub noses with these guys?”

Leopold arched an eyebrow. Dan Foyte’s idea of rubbing noses had nothing in common with Eskimo greetings. “Don’t know, Gunny. But it’s something to keep in mind.”

Foyte accepted that advice and shifted gears. “All right, what can we expect in Chad right now? Who will we work with before the French take over?” The team leader needed to know for planning purposes.

“Well, evidently the blue beanies will leave some folks in place for transition, though the U.N. generally isn’t real happy with the situation. But there’s not much choice. Either they help hand over to us and the French or they leave the place totally on its own, which simply isn’t realistic.”

Leopole looked around the table. “All right, people. It’s crunch time. We need to select a training team leader and his deputy.” He circled something on his briefing paper. His choice had already been made.

Sandy Carmichael saw the motion, knew its meaning, and tacitly concurred. “How about Gunny?”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Leopole replied.

Foyte was genuinely surprised. “Hey I don’t speak French, let alone Arabic.”

Leopole chuckled to himself. Hell, the sumbitch hardly speaks English!

Carmichael conceded, “No way around that. But you’ll have our translators as well as whatever the Chadians have over there. And J. J. Johnson’s fluent in French. You’ve worked together before. You two should make a good team.”

“So he’s going?” Foyte asked.

“Yup.” Carmichael gave a sly grin. “Seems that he took Bosco fishing— and Bosco landed him!”

“That’s not how I heard it,” Leopole replied.

“What do you mean?”

“I called J. J. last evening. He admitted that he already decided to go. Just wanted to have some company so he lured Bosco in. Played him like — well, like a trout!”

14

The kidnapped Vespa driver stirred at the sound of a key in the lock. He had lost track of time, and suspected that was not coincidental. Judging by the fading light through the narrow window, it was evening. Probably the third day.

He rose from the floor where he had been trying to sleep. But his captors kept a bare bulb illuminated in the high ceiling — too high to reach. He was sore, tired, hungry — and frightened.

Two men opened the door and motioned him out. One carried a truncheon and appeared capable of using it. The prisoner accepted the tacit invitation and stepped into the adjoining room. He had been blindfolded when he arrived, and welcomed the view of his immediate surroundings.

Directed to a chair, the man sat and was immediately grasped from behind. Two other thugs secured him with cargo straps around the chest, and abdomen, pinning his arms.

The older man turned from a companion and regarded the prisoner. In French-accented English, he said, “Your passport says that you are David Scourby, an Englishman. We know that you are David Olmert, and you are Israeli. You are working with at least two other Jewish agents, and you have been watching us. You are going to tell us why.”

Olmert’s mind raced. They didn’t know who I was before. That’s why it took three days. But they still don’t know about Alex and the others.

I have to tell them something.

“We were interested in the French security company.”

The inquisitor smiled grimly. His right hand snapped out, striking Olmert’s left cheek. “We know that! We caught you reporting their takeoff!”

Strapped into the chair, Olmert could only glare at his tormentor.

“Who did you report to?”

“To my superior, of course.” And so the game goes, each step leading to the next.

The Frenchman’s left fist struck the bridge of Olmert’s nose.

An ambidextrous bastard.

“Well?” The interrogator spat it out.

Olmert shook off the blow. “Nathan. That’s the name he uses.”

“Your accomplice is known to you by an alias?” Left, right, left. Hard, full-force punches, expertly delivered. This time they drew blood. Olmert tasted the salty tang on his tongue. He knew that his nose was broken.

Forcing himself to focus, he realized that he had seen the thug before. Through a rifle scope — the day the two competing contractors had been murdered along the Aozou Strip.

That knowledge settled over David Olmert like a shroud.

It was time.

“Etienne, call Gabrielle in here.” Marcel’s voice was irritated, petulant.

Etienne Stevin recognized the signs.

Olmert was again strapped to his chair. He looked the worse for wear following a full day of threats, cajolery, and beatings. Not even cigarettes to the soles of his feet elicited full disclosure.

Marcel Hurtubise tolerated Gabrielle Tixier for any number of reasons, not least of which was her sadomasochistic streak. She specialized in humiliation.

Entering the room, the young woman wielded a pair of scissors that she snipped playfully around her face. She wore a sleeveless blouse, tied at the midriff, with a pair of green shorts.

She strode slowly to Olmert, fixing his eyes with hers. She made a point of smiling and saw the fear cross his face. He knows what’s coming, she thought. C’est bon.

She traced the curve of his cheek with the point of the scissors, lingering around the eyes. Then she began cutting his shirt away. Marcel watched impassively; Etienne was less detached. He shifted on his feet and licked his lips.

Gabrielle gave the little-girl pout that she had mastered as a child. It had worked on Papa, up to the point that he became aroused by it. She had fled at thirteen and met Marcel six years later. Yes, he was cunning, violent, and amoral, but he was generally good to her. Sometimes she wondered why; childhood abuse often left victims doubting their own worth.

This was not one of those times.

She waved a manicured finger in the captive’s face. The sheen on his skin told her all she needed to know. Gabrielle Tixier had long since been able to sense the presence of fear.

“You are not very talkative, mon cher. Don’t you like to make conversation with your hosts?” She gave an exaggerated roll of her blue eyes. “Oh! Now I understand. All this male atmosphere. It is so dull, isn’t it?”

She stepped close and placed her hands behind Olmert’s head. She stroked his matted hair with her left hand, cooing at him.

Then, with her right hand, she snipped his left earlobe. He screamed in pain and surprise. “Bitch!”

“There, you see?” She caressed his cheek with her free hand. “It is so much nicer to talk to little Gabrielle. Actually, I am doing us all a favor. I have shown you that we make no idle threats, and perhaps that will save you much pain. Also, it may save us some time. It depends on you, mon petit.”

She held his jaw and snipped the right earlobe as well. Blood trickled down his neck. “Let that be a lesson to you, cheri.”

The pout again. “Now, won’t you tell me what Marcel and Etienne want to know? Please?”

Olmert’s face was reddened with fear and rage. He glared at her with hateful eyes. “Why should I talk? You’re going to kill me anyway.”

“Did I say such a thing? No, of course not. But as I said, you can save yourself much pain.” She curled the ends of her mouth. “Oh, yes. A great deal of pain.”

Slowly, as if choreographed, Gabrielle turned to the two men and nodded. They walked away without looking back. Olmert felt a shudder, a liquid tremor in his bowels.

Gabrielle clicked the scissors again. Without speaking, she began cutting away the rest of his shirt. It was awkward, as he was tied to the chair, but she proceeded with enthusiasm, humming to herself.

When the shirt was gone, she cut a slice from each pectoral. Then she turned to his trousers.

She pulled the tattered remains of Olmert’s pants from beneath him and flung them across the room. Then she leaned over him, allowing her breasts to press against his chest, and carefully snipped through his briefs. First the left side, then the right. The shorts fell away.

Still grasping the scissors, she clasped his head in her hands. Stroking his face, she gave him the little-girl pout. “Won’t you talk to Gabrielle, David? Before I have to cut you…” She glanced downward.

He turned his face away, choking down a sob.

Three minutes later Gabrielle emerged from the room. “He broke, poor boy. They always do, you know. But there is not much to tell. Most of what he said, you already guessed. He is working for a cutout, a private contractor with ties to Israeli intelligence. His field partner is an American. They were at the airport to confirm that the other contractor had left after… well, after their team disappeared.”

Marcel leaned forward. “What does he know about that?”

She shrugged. “I did not ask. You said you wanted to know why they were observing the other firm and who pays them.”

The former Legionnaire rubbed his stubbled chin. “All right. I will ask him myself, but he will not talk about that. He’s not stupid. He knows it would mean a bullet for him.”

“Then…”

“Then he gets a bullet anyway. Whatever he says.”

15

Sandra Carmichael turned off Route 17, taking 644 eastward. Following the signs, she soon came to a private air park. She drove past the sign advertising orientation flights on weekends, May through October.

Terry Keegan was waiting for her. There wasn’t much activity on a Friday morning in April.

Sandy found him where he said he would be: with his head in the accessory section of an odd-looking, cherry red airplane. It had a racy, pugnacious appearance, from its chrome spinner to its round tail. She approached him from behind but he sensed her presence.

“Isn’t it great?” Keegan enthused. “I’m a one-third partner in this beauty. Beech built 781 of them and even though there’s a few hundred still flying, they’re real spendy.”

Carmichael was mildly curious. “Why’s that?”

“Well, this is the Beech Model 17, better known as the Staggerwing because of the negative stagger of the top wing. It’s a classic from the golden age of aviation. It dates from 1932, so it’s an antique. You can fly to any air show in the country and automatically park with the exhibitors so you get to see all the other planes up close. Then you can fly home faster than most current light planes.”

“How fast is it?”

Keegan patted the propeller. “She’ll do an honest two hundred miles per hour straight and level, and she’ll outcruise some Bonanzas. In fact, Staggerwings won a lot of races in the 1930s. But she lands at about forty-five, so there’s not many places you can’t get into.”

Carmichael thought she should feign interest. “How old is this one?”

“It’s one of the last twenty, built in 1947.”

Carmichael looked into the cabin and emitted a low whistle. “Boy, it smells like a new car!”

“Yeah, we had the seats reupholstered last year. Mohair and leather were factory standard, so that’s what we got. Carries five people and all the luggage you can stuff into it.”

“Terry, are we going to fly or what?”

The former submarine hunter could not suppress a smile. “Hey, Colonel, why do you think I asked you to meet me here?”

Having already performed the preflight inspection, Keegan helped Sandy into the right seat, then settled in the left. After priming the Pratt and Whitney R985, he turned on the fuel pump, checked left and right, switched the magnetos to Both, and called out, “Clear prop!” The Wasp Junior settled into a throaty rumble. He waited a few minutes, allowing the engine to reach operating temperature.

The pilot closed his door and, satisfied with the pressure and temperature gauges, eased on some throttle. The Beech rolled toward the downwind end of the grass runway, ess-turning so Keegan could see around the nose.

After a final check, Keegan smoothly advanced the throttle. The tail came up and he tracked straight ahead, nudging right rudder to keep the Beech in the center of the strip. Lift quickly overcame gravity as thrust defeated drag and the Staggerwing galloped off the earth behind 450 horses.

The landing gear retracted into the well with a thump-thump as Keegan adjusted power for cruise climb. Headed northeast, he pointed out Warrenton broad on the port beam with Calverton at ten o’clock. He turned to the Alabaman. “Hey, you’re a military pro. There’s Manassas ahead of us and Fredericksburg down there to the right.” He grinned slyly. “Here there be rebels, Colonel.”

Sandy squirmed in her seat and adjusted the earphones. She appreciated Virginia’s verdant vista, but she had other things on her mind. “Terry, you know we’re sending a training team to Chad.”

“Yeah, I heard something about it. I’m glad I’m not going there!”

She turned her head toward him, removed her sunglasses, and looked into his eyes.

He grimaced. “Oooh no…”

“Now wait a minute,” she interjected. “You wouldn’t have to be there all the time. In fact, you wouldn’t have to be there much at all. We just need somebody in the area who could, you know, help out if need be.”

Keegan laughed, then lapsed into his Irish brogue. “Colonel darling, sure and you’re talkin’ about a dustoff on a hot LZ!”

She conceded, “Well, yeah, something like that. It’s not that we actually think anything will happen, Terry. But you know the admiral’s policy. We never leave any SSI people in a position where we can’t get them out, even if we have to do it ourselves.” Terry can’t refuse the admiral, she reminded herself. She knew that Mike Derringer lived by the creed: loyalty down breeds loyalty up.

Terry nodded, scanning the instruments. “Roger that. Remember me? Last Chance Keegan they call me. As in, Guatemala. As in, Pakistan.”

Sandy thought better of pressing the matter so she changed the subject. “You know, my youngest daughter thinks she wants to fly. But she can’t decide if she would rather go with the Air Force or Navy.”

Keegan recalled the naval aviation axiom. Air Force: flare to land, squat to pee. He decided against expressing his service preference. Instead, he observed, “And you an Army family? What’s the matter with that girl?”

Carmichael curled her lips. “Oh, Emily wants to fly jets. Then she wants to pilot the space shuttle.”

“Ah-ha.” Keegan let it go at that. Privately, he disdained females who only saw the military as a way into NASA. He had never known a woman aviator who wanted to bomb and strafe more than she wanted to fly the damned shuttle.

Finally he turned and looked at his passenger. “Tell me more about Chad.”

16

“Admiral, Colonel Main to see you.”

Derringer waved from his desk, beckoning the Army officer into the office. Derringer raised from his chair, extending a hand across the desk. “Good to see you, David. I didn’t expect you today.”

Main crumpled his beret — he wanted to strangle the poofter garment— and slid into a chair. “I’m sorry for the unexpected visit, Admiral. But something’s come up that I need to discuss with you in person.”

“Sure thing. Fire when ready.”

“Well, sir, I’ve just had a call from my back-channel contact at Bragg. Master Sergeant Alford is wired into the SF community like nobody else I know, and he thinks we should reconsider one of the guys we interviewed.”

“Why’s that?”

Main cleared his throat — an unusual sign of nervousness. “Apparently Staff Sergeant Gayler is under investigation for misappropriating funds and equipment. Alford thinks that’s why the Army cut him loose so quickly.” Main shook his head, silently berating himself. “I should’ve caught it, Admiral. I mean, the Army just doesn’t release an Arabic speaker that easily.”

Derringer braced his chin on a bridge of clasped hands. He surveyed Main’s face, sensing as much as seeing the embarrassment there. “David, it’s not your fault. In fact, I’m not certain this Sergeant…”

“Gayler. Fred Gayler.”

“We don’t know if he’s guilty of anything. You said he’s under investigation.”

“That’s true, sir. But… well, Alford says that Gayler also has a temper. He barely got away with spousal abuse because his former CO covered for him.”

“And you accept Alford’s word implicitly.”

A decisive nod. “I’ve trusted my life with him. He deals in facts, not gossip.”

“Okay, then. Gayler’s out. You’d better talk to Jack Peters so his recruiting records are updated.”

“I’ll do that, sir.” He turned to go. “Oh, I saw Steve Lee in the hall. Is he involved in the Chad mission?”

Derringer perked up. “No, at least not yet. I didn’t know he was back from vacation but he must’ve stopped in to check with my niece. He and Sallie seem to enjoy each other’s company.”

“Shall I send him in, Admiral?”

Derringer unconsciously reverted to his percussion habit. His fingers drummed the desk top: paradiddle-paradiddle-tap-tap-tap. He said, “Yes, please. I’d like to talk to him.”

Moments later Lee appeared at the office door. “Hello, Admiral.”

Derringer rose and extended a hand across the desk. “Come in, Steve, come in!” As they shook, he said, “I lost track of the time. Didn’t expect to see you for a week or so.”

“Oh, you know me, sir. I can only stand so much sun, surf, and bikinis.”

“Maui?”

Lee gave a self-conscious grin. “Actually, I was out in Marana, getting some jump practice. It’d been a while.”

“A parachuting vacation? Well, why not. I hear there’s sunshine in Arizona, too.”

“Yes, sir. Six or eight jumps a day.”

Derringer folded his hands on the desk and looked more closely at Major Steven Lee, U.S. Army, prematurely retired. The admiral saw a fit, self-composed alpha male who looked younger than forty-two. Only the military-issue spectacles hinted at his age.

“Steve, let me ask you a personal question. What do you want to do with your life?”

Lee took three heartbeats to answer the unexpected inquiry. “Just what I’m doing, Admiral. Jumping, shooting, kicking in the occasional door.” The levity in his voice was genuine enough, even if the statement was incomplete. He leaned forward in his chair. “I’ll tell you, sir. Not a day passes that I don’t regret leaving the Army as an O-4. But I had a choice to make and I made it. I tried to save my marriage at the expense of my career. That’s why I like working for SSI. It still lets me do what I was meant to do.”

“Well, I’ve said it before but it bears repeating. You did a fine job in Pakistan. Would you be interested in another contract?”

“Ah, yes, sir. Depending on what it involves. I’m not much interested in security work, you know.”

“No, we’re putting together a training package in Africa. Several months, probably. If you’re interested, ask Peggy to give you the briefing sheet on Chad.”

“Chad! My God.” He laughed. “I haven’t left anything there, Admiral!”

Derringer chuckled in appreciation of the sentiment. “Neither have I, Steve. But you know the State Department pays us pretty well these days.”

“All right, sir. I’ll take a look.”

It was a three-ring briefing, rare even for a fairly small organization such as SSI.

As director of operations Frank Leopold sat at the head of the room, flanked by Sandra Carmichael, foreign ops, and Omar Mohammed, training. The team selected for Chad occupied the first two rows of chairs. Leopold scanned the faces, mostly familiar: Gunny Foyte, J. J. Johnson, Bosco, Breezy, Martha Whitney, and two newbies from Bragg: newly retired NCOs Christopher Nissen and Joshua Wallender.

Michael Derringer slipped into the back of the room. Few noticed, and those who did see him knew his intent. He was there to observe and learn rather than command.

Leopole stood to make the introductions. “This is the first time the Chad team has been fully assembled, though most of you are well acquainted. I want to introduce our two newest members, Staff Sergeants Chris Nissen and Josh Wallender. They’re fresh out of Fort Bragg, both experienced Special Forces operators. Gentlemen, welcome to SSI.”

Martha Whitney turned in her seat and pointedly looked Nissen up and down. Clearly she liked what she saw. “Hey bro,” she beamed.

Nissen fidgeted slightly. His wife, Shawna, could have given Halle Berry a run for her money, and he was not looking to round out his romantic resume.

Leopole added, “Chris is a weapons instructor and medic who speaks pretty good Arabic. Josh is rated in French and specializes in communications. They’re both well qualified for this mission, and we’re glad to have them aboard.”

He turned to the rest of the audience. “Very well. This meeting will familiarize you with most of the background information on the contract. As you know, it’s a training mission, administered by the State Department, to assist Chadian government forces in developing a greater counterinsurgency capability. Since it’s an overseas training operation it comes under Lieutenant Colonel Carmichael and Dr. Mohammed, and I’ll turn it over to them.”

Sandy rose to her feet. “What do we know about Chad?” she asked rhetorically. “Well, I went to the CIA World Factbook site, which is more current than any almanac. Here’s the short version.” She activated her PowerPoint display, beginning with a map of northern Africa.

“Geography: Chad is bounded by six countries: Libya, Niger, Nigeria, Central African Republic, Cameroon, and Sudan. The area is almost 500,000 square miles, nearly twice the size of Texas. There’s mostly desert in the north, mountains in the northwest, arid plains in the middle, and lowlands in the south.

“Chad was a French possession until 1960 but the next thirty years involved civil war and border feuds with Libya. There was a general settlement in 1990 with a constitution and elections in ‘96 and ‘97. But the next year another internal dispute broke out and continued until 2002. The government and the rebels signed agreements that year and the next but there’s still unrest.

“The government’s controlled by one of the minority factions, but it has enough support to stay in power. There’s been widespread reports of human rights abuses including murder, kidnapping, torture, and extortion. Some military and security forces have been named in specific complaints.”

Bosco raised a hand. “Then why are we helping those people?”

Carmichael blinked. Then she blinked again. “Why, Mr. Boscombe, I do believe you are naive.”

Bosco gave an exaggerated flinch. “Uh, yessma’am. Gotcha.”

Carmichael grinned. “Check. It’s the same old story with PMCs. Deniability. The U.S. Government does not want to appear too cozy with an oppressive regime, so DoD and State call us. Since we’re not wearing the uniform of the day, we’re ‘clean.’ “

Bosco persisted. “But like, what’re we really doing? There must be something more than teaching border guards how to intercept bad guys. I mean, they don’t need us to do that.”

Carmichael squinted behind her glasses. Sometimes Bosco actually showed signs of latent intelligence. “Well, we’d have to discuss it eventually so we might as well explain it now.” She paused, looked at Leopold and Mohammed, and received nods in return. She activated her laser pointer.

“The crucial area is here in the north, along the Libyan border. There are uranium deposits there, and nobody wants that material getting to the wrong hands — including the U.N. So our job is actually more than counterinsurgency. It’s interdiction of illicit strategic materials. Which is why our clients need to be more capable than the regular army. They’re likely to run up against some aggressive, capable opponents.” Like ex-Foreign Legion troops who’ll work for anybody.

“Anyway, you’ll receive more briefings as you get closer to deploying. Meanwhile, here’s the background.

“Demographics: the capital is N’Djamena, over here in the far west just beneath the lake, population at least six hundred thousand. The official languages are Arabic and French. There’s no state religion but the population is over half Muslim and one-third Christian, mostly Catholic. Life expectancy runs forty-seven years.

“Chadian rebels have used Libya as a base for cross-border raids, and there’s a long-standing dispute with three other countries over demarcation lines on Lake Chad. More importantly, huge numbers of refugees have entered Chad from Sudan, where there’s an ongoing famine. The region has what I’d call biblical problems: droughts and locust plagues.

“Population is now pushing ten million. There’s a couple hundred ethnic groups with the Saras the biggest, over twenty-five percent. Most of the population is in the southern half or less, since the north is part of the Sahara Desert. There’s about 120 languages and dialects but less than half the people are literate.

“Health concerns: malaria, meningitis, hepatitis, and typhoid, among others. About five percent of the population has HIV or AIDS.

“In short, it’s a mess.

“Government: officially Chad has a bicameral legislature but only the National Assembly is seated. The Senate hasn’t been formed. Anyway, there’s half a dozen political parties. In ‘05 they passed a referendum allowing the president to run for a third term.”

Bosco wrinkled his forehead. “What’s bicameral?”

Johnson gaped. “Geez, man, didn’t you take civics in high school?”

“Hey, I studied football and basketball and cheerleaders. Not necessarily in that order.”

Johnson suspected that Boscombe was playing dumb again, for reasons personal and obscure. “Bicameral, as in bi, as in two, you know? Two houses in the legislature, like Congress and the Senate.”

“Oh. Gotcha.”

Carmichael regained control of the discussion. “The president is basically a strongman, the latest in a long line. The military is more or less loyal to him, as are the police forces as long as they get paid regularly. In turn, the government doesn’t look too closely at how some soldiers and policemen make extra income. In dealing with government officials, always remember that Chad is one of the two most corrupt places on earth.

“Economy: Chad exports cotton to Europe and Asia but only about three percent of the land is under cultivation. So far the greatest export potential is oil, and that’s a growth industry but the country doesn’t have much infrastructure to exploit it. The exchange rate is around 550 francs per dollar.

“Infrastructure: only 267 kilometers of paved highway — that’s, what? Maybe 150 miles. There’s fifty airports or at least landing fields, seven with paved runways. Fortunately cell phones and Internet access are pretty reliable.

“Military concerns: the longest border is with Libya, up here in the north.” She tapped the map, indicating the east-west line. “The Aozou Strip was a disputed area for years, mainly because Colonel Qadhafi wanted the natural resources in the area. That includes the uranium deposits I mentioned. Anyway, Libya occupied the strip in 1972 and there was off and on combat for about fifteen years. In the mid eighties we gave Chad enough help to drive the Libyans out, but they still claimed the strip. Finally, both sides agreed to arbitration and an international court declared that the Aozou belonged to Chad.”

Foyte asked, “What kind of help did we provide, Colonel?”

Carmichael consulted her notes. “Mostly basic stuff: small arms, antitank weapons, medical supplies, even uniforms. I’m told that we put a Hawk antiaircraft battery in the capital but evidently it wasn’t there very long. The biggest thing apparently was training and contract maintenance.”

Bosco nodded. “Some things don’t change.”

“Plus ça change,” Johnson interjected.

Breezy wrinkled his brow. “Say what?”

“Plus ça change, c’est la même chose.” Mohammed nodded toward Johnson. “It means, the more things change, the more they remain the same.”

Huddled in the corner, some of the worker bees commiserated after monitoring the meeting. “Hey,” asked Breezy, “are we gonna have to learn French or something?”

J. J. Johnson tried to imagine Mark Brezyinski getting his tongue around a European language. It just did not compute. He replied, “Well, besides me, our French-speaking liaison used to be with the Agency. She’s a…”

“She?”

“Yeah, she. As in, female. As in, La Belle Dame Sans Merci.”

“Hey, I never read much Tennyson,” quipped Breezy.

Johnson tried to keep a straight face. “Keats would be glad to hear that.”

“Why’s that, dude?”

“Like, he wrote it, dude.”

Bosco went on point. “What’s she look like? I mean…”

Johnson nudged his colleague. “You mean, does she look single?”

Breezy snorted. “Hell, man, he means, like, does she look female!”

Johnson, who had met Martha Whitney, allowed himself a conspiratorial smile. “Affirmative on both counts.”

“Well, when you gonna introduce us?” Bosco demanded.

“Tous en temps utile.” Noting the vacant stares of the two commandos, Johnson added, “At the right time. Dudes.”

17

Daniel Foyte convened the next briefing with Omar Mohammed alongside as SSI’s chief training officer. They sat at the apex of a semicircle of folding chairs.

“Okay” Foyte began in his gravelly baritone. “This briefing will focus on specific mission objectives so it’s more detailed than the overall brief that Colonel Carmichael gave us.”

He referred to his notes, once neatly typed but now littered with pen and ink hieroglyphics. He felt odd sitting; he was accustomed to standing or kneeling from twenty years of addressing Marines in classrooms, tents, oases, triple-canopy jungle, and other venues.

“First a little more about Chad’s military structure.” He turned to Mohammed. “Doctor?”

The urbane Iranian-American required few notes. He began, “The armed forces consist of the army, air force, and gendarmerie, plus more specialized units such as National and Nomadic Guard, which is a border force, the Rapid Intervention Force, and regular police. Presumably the most ‘elite’ unit”—he etched quote marks in the air—”is the presidential guard.”

Chris Nissen raised a hand. Though brand-new to SSI, he was not shy. “Excuse me, Doctor. Does the intervention force deploy outside Chad?”

“Not that I know of,” Mohammed replied. “I infer that it’s an internal unit. For what it’s worth, it was originally formed as the Republican Guard.” After an ironic response from the audience, he added, “Any similarity to the Iraqi organization of the same name is probably intentional.

“Current military spending runs a little over one hundred million dollars. To put that in perspective, it would not buy much over half of an F-22 stealth fighter.

“The military has a draft for twenty-year-olds for three years,” he continued. “Officially, enlistments are accepted at eighteen, but in truth there’s no minimum with parental consent. You will be dealing with men at least in their second tour.

“The Air Force has no combat aircraft: mostly C-130s, An-126s, and even some C-47s. Helicopters are Alouette IIIs.”

Mohammed shifted his weight, speaking extemporaneously. “Now, here’s some background. There’s been speculation over the years why the Reagan administration was so eager to help Chad against Libya. Aside from Qadhafi’s blatant aggression, there didn’t seem much reason for our intervention, even though we were allied with the French. Far as I know, neither of us needed much African uranium, and that caused some raised eyebrows. But I think that the critics overlooked something pretty obvious: if we didn’t need the stuff, other places did.”

Nissen said, “So it was in our mutual interest to keep the Strip out of Libyan hands.”

“Just so.”

Foyte resumed the briefing, turning to his bread and butter: hardware.

“The Chad Army is pretty much a hodgepodge as far as small arms. There’s no standard infantry rifle: depending on the branch and unit there’s M16s, AKs, FALs, Sigs, and G3s. Squad automatics are RPDs, RPKs, and even some old M24/29s.”

Breezy asked, “What’re those, Gunny?”

“They look like the British Bren Gun: a 7.5 mm with top-feed magazine. They replaced the Chauchaut after World War I.

“For the units we’ll train, I’m recommending standardization on the Heckler-Koch system. That means G3s and HK-21s, with obvious advantages: same 7.62mm ammo and the same operating system. That roller-locking action can be hard for low-dedication troopies to maintain but the guns are reliable as tax time. They’ll keep working with minimum maintenance.”

“Why not M16s?” asked Joshua Wallender. “I mean, we know them inside out and they’re easier to shoot than the.30 calibers.”

“Concur, as far as you go. If we could ever use decent 5.56 ammo, something designed to kill people rather than meet some pussy standard in Sweden — which hasn’t fought a war in about two hundred years — I might consider M16s. However, in this case we’re contractors to the U.S. Government, so we gotta abide by its regs.

“But the big problem is that we’re working in Chad. As in, desert. As in, sand. As in, major malfunction. M16s just aren’t reliable enough.”

Wallender ventured another query. “Well, why not AKs? They work everywhere.”

Foyte was slightly disappointed in the new man. A veteran NCO should know the reason. “Because the opposition likely uses them. No point giving the guerrillas more guns and ammo that they can use.”

Wallender seemed to blush slightly. Foyte predicted that he would shut up for a while.

“Now, personally, I trust AKs and I like FALs,” Foyte enthused. “And I really like Sigs. Good sights, good trigger. But FALs aren’t a lot better than ‘16s in the desert and I’ve never used Sigs in that area, so I don’t want to be the one who’s experimenting. So we’ll use G3s and related systems. We’ll get up to speed on those before we leave.”

Mohammed interjected. “If I may add something.”

Foyte nodded.

“Because of the language situation, we should review the course material even if the Chadians will not see it. I can work with the French and Arabic speakers to standardize phraseology.” He glanced at Johnson, Nissen, and Wallender.

Breezy leaned toward Bosco and muttered, “Ignorance is bliss, dude.”

Foyte speared the former paratrooper with a Parris Island glare. “Something to add, Brezyinski?”

Breezy sat upright. “Ah, nosir. Gunny.”

Foyte walked in front of the rostrum and leaned forward, hands akimbo. “Oh, come now, my boy. You would not interrupt Dr. Mohammed unless you had something significant to contribute.”

Bosco smirked behind one hand, enjoying his pal’s discomfiture.

“Ah, I was just remarking to my esteemed Ranger colleague here that I consider myself fortunate not to be bilingual. Sir.”

Foyte squinted as through a rifle sight. “How many times do I gotta say it? Don’t call me ‘sir’…”

“I WORK FOR A LIVING” the audience chimed in.

Mohammed enjoyed the exchange as much as anyone, but decided to make a point. “Gentlemen, regardless of the language, we need to be consistent in our instruction. For example, what is the difference between covering fire and suppressing fire?”

Bosco and Breezy exchanged looks. “Damn’fiknow,” Breezy responded.

Bosco shrugged. “I’m not sure there is any difference. Just terminology.”

Foyte was primed. “Well, for our purposes there is a difference. Covering fire is basically suppressive fire for a specific purpose — getting a squad close enough to engage a defended position, for instance. Suppressing fire is just a straight-up shoot-out. We lay down a heavier, more accurate volume of fire than the bad guys so they stop shooting at us.”

“Fire superiority, in other words,” Breezy offered.

Foyte grunted. The audience took that as an affirmative.

Johnson raised a hand. “Gunny, I don’t mean to seem superior or anything, but are the Chadians going to understand the distinction?”

Foyte’s grimace said that the un-PC question had struck home. “Well, let’s just say that it’s our damn job to make sure they do. By the way, Johnson, how do you say ‘covering and suppressing fire’ in French?”

“Covering fire would be Le feu de bache. Suppressing fire would be Suppression de feu.” Johnson paused a moment. “When you think about it, that makes a lot of sense. The literal translation would be ‘the fire that covers’ and ‘suppression of fire.’“

“Go to the head of the class, Johnson.” Foyte actually smiled at the former Legionnaire. “Now then, we have a lot of other ground to cover. If you’ll refer to your briefing papers…”

18

Strategic Solutions took little for granted. Predeployment planning was thorough for any client, but especially so for overseas business. Aside from contract negotiations — the meat in the corporate sandwich— Michael Derringer kept close contact with his subordinates, none more so than those charged with operations.

Sometimes his supervisory duties trod the thin line between too much oversight and too little. After all, Marshall Wilmont was the chief operating officer, but he had multiple pies in the oven. Never a micro-manager, the retired admiral nonetheless kept his fingers on his baby’s pulse. And SSI was definitely his baby.

At the end of a staff meeting, Derringer took Leopold aside. “Frank, I’ve been thinking about leadership of the Chad team. Don’t misunderstand me: I have every confidence in Gunny Foyte. But I wonder how our clients will relate to a former NCO. They may pay more attention to a retired officer.”

Leopole rubbed his square jaw. Derringer knew the sign: Lieutenant Colonel Leopole was an objective professional. The former Marine was playing mental tug of war between Loyalty and The Mission.

Derringer interrupted Leopole’s reverie. “I’m thinking that somebody like Steve Lee could run interference for our team, leaving Foyte to do the hands-on work.”

Leopole had worked with Major Lee and respected him, though they were not close. West Pointer, Ranger, sniper instructor, HALO parachuting instructor, all the bells and whistles. His Been-There-Done-That sheet contained operations in five countries. Despite the glasses, he had command presence that went over especially well in the third world.

“All right, sir. Lee would do a good job. But I don’t know if he’s available.”

Derringer smiled imperceptibly. He had checked before raising the matter. “I believe he is, actually.” Derringer knew that Steve Lee, twice divorced with no children, was marking time. Derringer thought, He’s like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now. Waiting for another mission.

“I’ll call him,” Derringer continued. “He works all right with Gunny Foyte, doesn’t he?”

Leopold gave an eloquent shrug. “They’re both pros, Admiral.”

Derringer appeared content with that assessment. It was what he bought and sold: professionalism. “One thing, though, Lee doesn’t speak French, let alone Arabic. German, if I remember correctly. So we’ll have to rely on Johnson, Nissen, and Wallender in that regard.”

Leopole grinned hugely. “Don’t forget Martha.”

The admiral returned the sentiment, rolling his eyes. “How could I? She wouldn’t let me even if I could!”

“Speak of the devil. There she is.” Leopold motioned over his shoulder.

Martha Whitney announced her presence with a contralto greeting to Josh Wallender. “Bon après midi, mon sergeant.”

The erstwhile Green Beret returned the salutation with a continental kiss of the hand.“Et à vous, madame. Enchanté.”

Breezy Brezyinski took in the arcane ritual and shook his head. “Man, oh, man. Looks like we can’t take a contract without a female anymore.”

Bosco Boscombe knew what he meant. Dr. Carolyn Padgett-Smith, a medical researcher, had been invaluable on the Pandora Project, hunting down an Islamic cell that spread the Marburg virus in the west. “By the way, any word on CPS?”

Breezy replied, “Last I heard, she was back at work. Don’t suppose she’s doing much rock climbing, though. Not after the exposure she had to that bug in Pakistan.”

With a skeptical glance, Bosco made a mental comparison between the bejeweled, garrulous Ms. Whitney and the athletic, attractive British immunologist. “I tell you what: this lady has a looong way to go in Doc Smith’s league.”

“Well, I don’t reckon there’s gonna be many mountains to climb or Taliban to shoot where we’re going. Besides, Whitney’s gig is language and intel, not operations.”

“Thank God!” Bosco exclaimed. “Queen Latifah meets G.I. Jane!”

Breezy nearly choked while suppressing a laugh. “Sandy Carmichael says Martha’s supposed to blend into the crowd. Like, mingle with the locals when she’s not coordinating with Steve Lee and the Chad liaison officers.”

“Major Lee is welcome to that chore. Big time.”

“Fershure, dude.”

19

The operator called Alexander was resigned to his loss. David Olmert clearly was not coming back. It was as if he had vanished off the face of the earth.

Alexander knew why.

The reason or reasons would likely remain unknown for years; perhaps forever. David had been careless, unobservant, or committed some error of tradecraft. In any case, he was gone.

At a café off the Place de l’Etoile, Alex slipped into a chair beside a distinguished-looking Arab gentleman. Which is to say, the well-groomed diner appeared to be an Arab. They spoke Arabic, keeping their voices beneath the background chatter.

“Etfadel echrab kahwa.” The older man poured some coffee from the pot on his table. “No word?” he asked. He sipped from his own small cup, then absentmindedly brushed his gray goatee. Anyone glancing at him would mark him for a sixtyish businessman; likely a Saudi. In truth he had been born in Jerusalem nearly seventy years ago.

Alexander shook his head. “Wala hayoh.”

Mustafah — for such was his name these days — placed his cup on the saucer. He did not wish to seem callous, but he and his accomplice both knew the lay of the land. One had to expect losses in their profession, and it did not do to take them too personally.

“Permit me to summarize,” Mustafah said. “We know that the preferred French contractor ran afoul of Groupe FGN, which eliminated the competition.”

“Of course! David and I saw it ourselves.”

“And David confirmed that the surviving members of Agents d’Alsace Incorpore’s team left for Paris the day he disappeared.”

“That was the last thing I heard from him. It would be easy to check their arrival at Orly.”

“Maalish,” Mustafah replied. “Never mind.” He toyed with his miniature cup. At length he looked at his colleague. “I have my own theory as to why Groupe FGN is behaving so brazenly. I have not heard yours.”

Alex leaned forward, moving his cup and saucer aside. “My friend, I have not been in the trade nearly as long as you, but I have learned one or two things. For example, I know the danger of drawing the obvious conclusion.”

“Which is?”

“Hurtubise and his killers want to remove any competition for the government contract to guard the uranium mine near the Libyan border.”

Mustafah’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “Obviously they have done so. But to what purpose?”

“Well, apparently not just for the contract. It would be profitable, yes, but they could have underbid AAI without much difficulty.”

“Go on, Alex.”

“It seems clear that FGN has another motive. Maybe I can understand such drastic measures within the mercenary business. But taking David, who was only observing both companies, raises the stakes. I mean, it exposes Hurtubise to Israeli scrutiny. Surely he knows the risk that carries.”

“You mean retaliation.”

Alexander’s eyes glinted gunmetal gray. “I should hope so.”

Mustafah absorbed the sentiment, catalogued it, and continued. “You assume he knows that David works for us.”

The younger man rubbed a bronzed hand through his dark, curly hair. “It strains credulity that he does not. Especially after…”

“After extended interrogation.”

Alexander merely nodded. He did not trust his voice just then.

“Very well,” Mustafah concluded. “Your assessment largely matches mine. With a few exceptions.”

“Yes?”

The Middle Eastern “businessman” leaned back, folding his hands over his ample stomach. “There are always extensions and permutations, Alex. What is known in the West as unintended consequences.

“We can assume for the moment that Groupe FGN considers the risk it has brought upon itself worth the effort. The ultimate reason may be inferred, considering that uranium ore is involved. That makes Hurtubise and company exceedingly dangerous.”

“Sir, with respect. That is nothing new.”

Mustafah inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Remember, my friend. FGN now has the support of this government and likely another.”

Alex furrowed his brow. “Another?”

“Certainly. Chad has no need of uranium ore. There is no way to process it in this backward country. No, the end user is certainly a more developed nation — one hostile to Israel.”

The agent relaxed despite the implications. “Well, the list is long and undistinguished.”

“But don’t you see, Alex? It can only be a country with the ability to use uranium. That narrows your undistinguished list considerably, don’t you think?”

Alexander bit his lip. Looking over his superior’s shoulder, he said, “Two or three. Especially…”

“There is one more thing.”

“Please?”

“Whatever our opponents have in mind — they do not fear us.”

20

Terry Keegan rapped his knuckles on Daniel Foyte’s cubicle. “You wanted to see me, Gunny?”

The erstwhile Force Recon NCO swiveled in his chair, turning away from his computer screen. The miniature office was much like its occupant: austere, uncluttered, utilitarian. The only decor was a Marine Corps logo and a poster of John Wayne as Sergeant John M. Stryker in The Sands of Iwo Jima. “Oh, yeah. Terry.” Foyte habitually referred to people by their surname. He had almost forgotten Keegan’s, though they had worked together twice.

The pilot eased into Foyte’s “guest chair,” a folding metal fixture calculated to keep guests uncomfortable and visits short. “You want to talk about contingencies for Chad.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Affirm.” After a four-count, Keegan realized that Foyte expected him to carry the conversation. If the ex-Navy man had learned anything about Marines, it was the futility of trying to be one of them. The Corps was like the IRA of Keegan’s ancestors: “Once in, never out.”

“Well,” Keegan began, “the admiral always wants a backup in case local exits are blocked. So I’ve been looking at a couple of ways to extract you guys.”

“Fixed wing or helo?”

“Both, depending on conditions. The Chadians have Alouettes, which is a plus. It’s one of my three go-to choppers like the Huey and the Hip because you find it everywhere. Something like fifty countries use Alouettes. Anyway, I try to stay current in them because you never know when you might have to steal one.” He did not smile when he said it.

“Uh, have you ever had to?”

Keegan finally grinned. “I don’t understand the question.”

“Gotcha.”

“Thing is, if we have to extract the whole team, we’ll need at least two choppers, maybe three I’d rather use a twin-engine plane: something that can get in and out of a small field in just one trip. Also, something with enough range to get us out of Dodge on one tank of gas.”

“Like how far?”

Keegan unfolded a map of Saharan Africa. “Well, of course it depends on where we start from. I mean, Chad’s a pretty big place: about a thousand miles north to south, and Libya’s the only northern exit.” He fingered the capital. “For starters, let’s assume we’re near N’Djamena. That’s down here, right on the border with Cameroon. With enough warning, we could easily drive into Cameroon or fly straight across the northern part into Nigeria. That might be advisable, depending on the political situation in those countries. I think Nigeria is pretty friendly.”

“What kind of fighters operate in those countries?” Foyte asked.

“Niger just has some military transports. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the nearest airfield is over here at Zinder, about four hundred miles west of N’Djamena. But Zinder has a six-thousand-foot runway. They speak French but that’s probably the best bet for a friendly reception. The capital is Niamey, and I have a contact there.”

Foyte scanned the map, gauging the distances and geometry. “What do they fly in Nigeria?”

Keegan smirked. “They had Jaguars and MiG-21s but those have been down for a long time. The government wanted to sell them to help finance newer equipment but apparently it didn’t happen. Anyway, Maiduguri is only 150 miles from Chad, and has a nine-thousand-foot runway. Also, they speak English there. Apparently Sandy Carmichael served with the current defense attaché, who’s another West Point gal.”

Foyte merely nodded. After two divorces he had a decidedly unromantic attitude toward females. “Any problems with Cameroon?”

“Well, their Air Force has a few Alpha Jets and Magisters. Not much, really, but they could cause a helo a big-time hurt. However, we’re on pretty good terms with the place right now. The nearest city to N’Djamena is Maroua, less than 150 miles south. It’s a good field: 6,800 feet paved. Garoua is even better: 11,000 feet but maybe 250 miles from N’Djamena.”

The former noncom leaned back, hands behind his head. “Okay. Sounds like you’ve got the threats all doped out. But what about nav aids in that part of the world? It looks like a lot of open space.”

“Well, there’s a saying: the desert is an ocean in which no oar is dipped.”

“Who said that?”

“I think it was T. E. Lawrence. Or maybe Peter O’Toole.”

“Who?”

Keegan should have known that Dan Foyte was not a movie fan. “Ah, he played Lawrence of Arabia. In Lawrence of Arabia.”

Foyte shook his balding head. “Okay. What’s it mean?”

“Just that navigating over featureless terrain is no different than over water. You’re back to time and distance, which is something naval aviators know about. If the nav aids go down, we still have GPS. If that goes down, we fall back on dead reckoning.”

Foyte rubbed his chin, playing the perennial game of What If. “Okay, let’s say we get away from Chad with no big problems. If we’re in a hurry, and haven’t filed a flight plan or anything, how do we know where to land?”

Keegan’s eyes twinkled. “Hey, my attitude about unauthorized landings is that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”

The former Marine gave a grunt that seemed to imply approval. Finally he asked, “Is the admiral going to spring for renting some choppers or a charter jet?”

“Too soon to say, Gunny. But I’ll have at least two prospects lined up before you guys hit Chad. After that it’s a matter of monitoring the situation.”

In truth, Terrence Keegan knew empirically that a pistol barrel in someone’s ear could cut a great deal of red tape when “renting” an aircraft. “Anyway, we have four possible airports from 150 to 400 miles from N’Djamena. All are paved with long runways. Depending on what shakes out, I’ll plan on cross-border hops by helo into Cameroon or longer flights to Cameroon and Niger with Nigeria as second alternate.”

Foyte beamed. “Nice to have options, ain’t it?”

“Freakin’ right, Gunny. Freakin’ right.”

21

“Look at this,” Breezy exclaimed. He straightened the pages from a week-old London Gazette that Derringer had left in the lounge.

“What?” Bosco was barely interested in the news; he was engrossed in his sci-fi thriller.

“Well, it says here that an Aussie just got the Victoria Cross. First time in about forty years.” Breezy paused for effect. “In Chad.”

Bosco turned from voluptuous Carmogian females wielding phased-array plasma weapons in the Second Virgo Galaxy War. “You mean, the guys we’re replacing?”

“Guess so.” Breezy read aloud. “The queen has been graciously pleased on the advice of her Australian ministers to approve the posthumous award of the Victoria Cross to the undermentioned:

“Warrant Officer Class Two Derrick Jasper Martin, the 138th Signals Squadron.

“ ‘Warrant Officer Martin carried out an act of great heroism by which he saved the life of a comrade. The act was in direct face of hostile forces, under intense fire, at great personal risk leading to his death. His valour is worthy of the highest recognition.

“ ‘While engaged in peacekeeping operations near Massenya, Chad, on fourth September, Martin’s vehicle was destroyed by hostile fire that killed two crew members. Nevertheless, Martin pulled his badly wounded driver from the burning vehicle and, exhibiting selfless courage, carried him to temporary safety while employing his personal weapon to suppress close-range fire from local gunmen. Upon reaching temporary shelter in a nearby building, Martin defended his comrade with the greatest determination, accounting for a large number of hostile rioters. Without succor from security forces, with whom he could not communicate, Martin passed his driver to friendly civilians and continued covering their withdrawal until his ammunition was exhausted. When last seen he was retrieving an enemy weapon to continue his extraordinarily gallant fight against overwhelming odds.’ “

When Breezy finished reading, Bosco made no comment, flippant or otherwise. It was unusual for the mountaineering ex-Ranger, SSI’s rappelling expert. His friend asked, “What do you think, man?”

Jason Boscombe seemed to be focused somewhere beyond the wall. Finally he turned to the onetime paratrooper and said, “I think that the Silver Star they pinned on me in Iraq doesn’t amount to that dude’s shoelaces. That’s what I think.”

Neither operator had ever wanted to dissect their stock in trade: courage under lethal stress. It was not what door-kickers talked about, certainly not as much as guns and gear or babes and baseball.

Breezy looked over his shoulder. Nobody was within earshot so he ventured an opinion. “Hell, dude, you’d do the same as that Aussie. So would any of the guys.”

Bosco leveled his gaze at his partner. “Tell me somethin’, Breeze. What’s the most you were ever scared?”

Brezyinski was tempted to toss off a reply about Charlotte Bernstein’s parents returning unexpectedly early one evening, but he checked himself. Bosco really wants to talk. He thought for a moment. “Oh, I dunno, man. There’s been several, you know?” He catalogued the first few that came to mind. “Prob’ly on my fourth qualifying jump at Bragg. I got a streamer and had to cut away from the main. I popped my reserve just in time. Swung twice and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.” He grinned self-consciously. “Wasn’t pretty.”

“But you did what you had to do,” Bosco prompted.

“Well, sure, dude! I mean, it’s not like I had a choice.” He raised both hands palms up, as if measuring two weights. “Live. Die. Live. Die.” He laughed nervously this time. “Some choice!”

Breezy straightened in his chair, facing Bosco. “Well, that’s what I’m saying, man. You, me, the other guys. We’re here because we reacted like we were trained. It’s like Uncle Sugar programmed the last setting into our brain housing unit, and when the computer was about to crash, we defaulted to our survival program. Right?”

Bosco bit his lip in concentration. He nodded. “Affirm. That’s right. But what’s your point?”

“My point is, man, that what we’re talking about was this much time.” He held up a thumb and forefinger, not quite touching. “We really didn’t have time to think, whether it was a bad chute or a skid on an icy road or a gomer swinging his AK on you. We just reacted. But that WO2, he had time to think about it. I mean, he had this much time.” The thumb extended two inches from the trigger finger. “He could think about what he was going to do before he had to do it.”

“I see what you mean,” Bosco said. “But I still don’t think it makes a lot of difference. Like I said, dude. You or me or anybody we know— we’d all have done what that Aussie guy did. I mean, can you imagine yourself walking away from a bud in deep serious?” He shook his head emphatically. “No way, man. Just no way.”

“So you’d rather die than look bad. That what you’re saying?”

“No, damn it, that’s not what I’m saying. I’d just stick with a friend and try to help him out, you know?”

Breezy pushed the point. “Even if you know you’d die.”

Bosco had heard enough. “Damn it, Breeze, what’s got into you?”

Brezyinski crumpled the newspaper and set it aside. “I dunno. All of a sudden I just got a bad feeling about this Chad thing.” He stood up and stretched. “You wanna get a burger or something for dinner?”

Bosco felt a tiny shiver between his shoulder blades. “After your cheerful conversation, I think I want some brewskis.”

“Well, okay. C’mon to my place. We’ll make some poppa-charlie and pop some lids.”

“Sounds like a date, dude.” Bosco was always up for popcorn. None of that diet variety; the more salt and butter the better.

“Sure, dinner and a movie.” Breezy felt better at the light banter.

Bosco perked up. “What’s the movie?”

“Black Hawk Down.”

“Oh, good,” Bosco replied. “I like happy endings.”