Prometheus's Child

22

The door opened and Chadian wind blew Saharan dust into the Airbus A-320.

Breezy recoiled. “Geez, you can smell it in here already.”

Bosco’s attention was focused elsewhere. He had been playing visual patty-cake with one of the Air France flight attendants for the last 650 kilometers.

“What’d you say?”

“Never mind,” Breezy replied. He opened the overhead compartment and grasped his valise.

The rest of the SSI team exited in orderly fashion but Breezy had to retrieve his errant partner by the collar.

“Hey, dude,” Bosco protested. “I was just makin’ progress. Her name is Nadine. She used to be a figure skater. Get that? Figure skater. Not ice skater.”

“Like there’s a difference?”

Bosco lowered his Oakley shades from atop his head and flashed a white smile. “Well, sure. I mean, she speaks fluent English, you know? She emphasized it: fig-ure skater. As in, girls with figures.”

“I’d say she came to the wrong part of the world, dude. Not much ice around here.”

With a fond look over his shoulder, Bosco allowed himself to be steered toward the Airbus’s forward door. Nadine waved bye-bye with a coquettish smile.

Breezy wasn’t sure, but he thought the brown-eyed blond winked at him.

Daniel Foyte assembled the SSI crew inside the passenger terminal while Steve Lee searched for the reception he had been told to expect. Bosco was still craning his neck for another glimpse of Nadine when the assistant attaché appeared.

A tall, black U.S. Army officer strode down the corridor. “Gentlemen, you must be the training team.” The voice carried Georgia tones mixed with Barry White resonance.

“Yessir,” Foyte replied. He kept his tone respectfully noncommittal. Tardiness was not a military virtue — certainly not a Marine virtue, anyway.

The officer extended his hand. “I’m Major Roosevelt. Matt Roosevelt, defense attaché. Colonel Posen of the military advisory group expected to meet you but he got a last-minute call from the ambassador. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

“Dan Foyte,” the gunny said, giving the Army man an ooh-rah handshake, extra crispy with mustard on top. He quickly introduced the others, taking care to dwell on Martha Whitney. “She and Major Lee are going to be our liaison with the Chad ministries.”

Whitney had already gone on point. She noticed that Major Roosevelt’s left hand was unencumbered by any rings.

The attaché, being a well brought up young man, did not offer his hand to a lady. Martha, being polite by her neighborhood standards, slapped him on the forearm. “Pleased to meet you, Major baby. We’re gonna see a lot of each other, I can tell.” She beamed at him. “I bet they call you Rosey.”

Roosevelt did not see her wink at Foyte. The former Marine tried to keep a straight face, wondering when Whitney would treat the major to her African-American speech.

If Roosevelt sensed something passing between the two SSI delegates, he decided to ignore it. Instead he explained, “Most travelers are required to register with theSûreté Nationale, the National Police, within seventy-two hours. But because you’re officially with State, you can skip that. I’ll escort you through Customs and then we’ll drive to your compound.”

“Thank you Major,” Foyte replied. “But we need to wait for Major Lee.”

“Oh, is he still aboard the plane?”

Foyte was formulating a diplomatic reply when Whitney interjected, “Oh, no, darlin’. He’s runnin’ around lookin’ for our reception committee!” Leaning close, she whispered just loud enough to be overheard. “West Pointer. You know how tight those academy boys are wrapped.”

Roosevelt shook his head imperceptibly, as if avoiding a persistent insect. When he found his voice he said, “Yes, ma’am. I surely do. Class of ‘93.” He flashed the ring on his right hand.

Without missing a beat, Whitney batted her big brown eyes and touched his arm again. “Oh, I think that’s so stylish. May I see it?”

Major Matthew Roosevelt had just learned the first thing about Martha Whitney: she could not be embarrassed or flustered.

At that moment Lee arrived, momentarily wondering why Whitney was holding hands with a stranger. As he approached, Lee realized that she was examining the man’s USMA jewelry.

Foyte made the introductions. As the two West Pointers shook hands, Whitney reluctantly released her grip on the attaché.

“Welcome to Chad,” Roosevelt exclaimed.

“Thanks,” Lee replied. Trying to minimize Whitney’s representation as an SSI member, he sought to talk shop. “Ah, you know, I was surprised to see we have an attaché office here. Is that new?”

Roosevelt nodded. “Affirmative. Usually we just maintain an advisory group, but the way things are going in the region, it was decided to upgrade the staff. We also have an Air Force rep out of Cairo who rotates between here and Niger.”

As the group gathered its luggage, Whitney was distracted long enough for Roosevelt to give Lee the visual equivalent of the West Point secret handshake. “Tell me something,” the attaché muttered. “Is she always like this?”

Lee grimaced. “Yeah, pretty much. Martha would flirt with the Pope and call him ‘honey.’“

Roosevelt’s eyes widened. “Hey, I think I’ll invite her to the next diplomatic reception!”

François Kadabi was a tall, slender bureaucrat with an easy command of French, English, Arabic, and several Chadian dialects. He extended a long, bony hand and purred, “Ah, Major Lee. So good to meet you.” The deputy secretary motioned with his other hand. “Shall we have some tea?”

Lee disliked the man immediately, so he smiled broadly. “My pleasure, sir. And thank you. I would enjoy that.”

Settled at the marble-topped table, the two officials regarded one another as a servant poured. Kadabi dismissed the man with a flick of the hand, as if shooing away a bothersome pest.

Once they were alone, the Chadian immediately set down his cup and leaned forward. “Major, I shall do you the honor of speaking plainly.” He gave an ingratiating smile. “That is, if you do not object to candor so soon in our… relationship.”

The American nodded slowly. “Certainly, sir.” He paused. “After all, honesty is the best policy.” His tone dripped with irony.

Kadabi seemed to relax. He leaned back, grinning whitely, his head rearward. “Ah-ha! I thought so!” The bureaucrat actually slapped a knee. “You Americans and your sense of humor! You say one thing but your voice and your face speaks the opposite.”

Before Lee could respond, Kadabi was leaning forward again, all angular urgency. “Major, I believe that we both know the ways of politics and politicians.” He shrugged eloquently. “For myself, I live in the world of politicians, of course, but I am merely a facilitator. My country, poor as she is, badly needs the services that your firm can provide. But I wanted this opportunity to explain something to you.”

Lee felt his initial frostiness receding. He thought: I’ve been wrong before. Just can’t remember when.

Francois Kadabi was rubbing his elegant hands together, apparently unconsciously. “Much as we need you, I believe that you should hear the truth. There are, I fear, people in this nation and in the government who do not wish you to succeed. Their motives are plain — jealousy and money. Always money.”

Lee turned his head as if studying the specimen more closely. Which in fact was the case. “Sir, I had a pretty thorough briefing before I left Washington and I’ve met with our attaché here. He explained the, ah, rivalry that exists between the army and the security forces. But if there’s more to it, I’d be grateful for your views.”

Kadabi folded his hands beneath his chin. “Major Lee, this after all is Africa. On top of the political rivalries that exist everywhere, there is our own set of complications. Some are historic, some are tribal. But you are charged with forming an elite unit — a truly elite unit — and that makes certain persons nervous. Yes, quite nervous.”

Lee did not want to assume too much of Mr. Kadabi’s education, nor too little. He ventured an historic comparison. “The praetorian guard syndrome?”

“No, not exactly.” Kadabi abruptly rose, turned to his desk, and produced a folder. “A praetorian guard owes its allegiance to the head of state, keeping that head upon its throne.” He grinned archly. “Or, more precisely upon its shoulders.”

Steve Lee seldom changed his mind quickly. He was aware that his opinion of François Kadabi represented an exception.

“This country has two or three praetorian guards. Maybe more. But your unit is undoubtedly going to be technically competent and capably led. That means it could be seen as a threat.” His eyebrows arched. “You see the implications, of course.”

Lee stood to face his new ally. “Sir, I am most appreciative of your candor. But let me ask: how can our counterinsurgency force be a threat to the power structure? For one thing, we’re not political — we’re operational. For another, we’re probably going to be operating well away from the capital.”

Kadabi gave another ingratiating smile, this time with some warmth. “Major, you are correct. But please indulge me if I say that you are taking the military man’s perspective. I must account for other factors.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Consider this: when your contract is completed, you will return to America. But your force will remain, and it may be seen as a virus that could multiply and spread. For that reason, I share my concerns with you.”

Immediately, Lee knew that the African was right. “Then we have a lot more to discuss, sir. I mean, I’d like to know who we can trust to…”

“Trust!” Kadabi raised his eyes to the paneled ceiling. “Major Lee, you and I may trust one another, I believe. Outside this room… I would be far more cautious. Yes, far more cautious.”

Lee sat down again, demonstrating his willingness for further discussion. “Well, as long as there’s enough tea to keep my throat wet, I’ll be glad to talk, Mr. Kadabi.”

The minister unleashed his slippery grin again. Pointedly glancing at his Swiss watch, he said, “It is still rather early in the day, my friend. But, ah, shall we change to something more… convivial?”

Before Lee could answer, Kadabi pressed the buzzer on his desktop. The servant reappeared, bearing a bottle of iced champagne.

The American’s expression opened visibly. “Ah, Mr. Kad…”

Kadabi raised his slim right hand again. “Please. From now on I am Francois.”

“All right… François. I’m Steve.”

“Now then, Steve, this is a decent ‘89. That is, if you do not object.”

Lee shook his head slightly. “Not hardly, sir. Er, François. Usually I’m partial to single-malt scotch.”

“Very well, Steve. I shall remember. For next time.”

23

Major Matthew Roosevelt wasted no time in the orientation briefing. “There’s a lot of crime in the city,” he began. “We do not recommend going anywhere alone, especially after dark.”

Breezy raised a hand. “What about packing?”

Roosevelt’s eyes widened. “You mean, carrying a concealed weapon?”

“Well, sure. Most of us have pistols.”

Roosevelt rubbed his jaw. “I’m not sure. I mean, I understand your desire to defend yourself. But—”

Lee interrupted. “Major, I think we can claim diplomatic status. I mean, we’re contracted to the State Department and we have ID to that effect.”

Lee’s intent was clear: if any SSI people had to shoot for blood, they would invoke immunity.

Roosevelt walked to the door and made a point of closing it. When he returned to the head of the room he inhaled, held his breath, and let it out. “All right, look. You did not hear this from me. I’ll deny it if anybody quotes me, okay?”

Lee nodded. Foyte uttered an “Ooh-rah.”

“I hardly go anywhere without my Hi-Power. But if I ever had to use it, I’d probably be out of the Army by noon the next day, if I wasn’t in jail. What I’m saying is, I’d go a loooong way around the block to avoid having to shoot somebody.”

“Certainly,” Lee replied. “We’ve been in that situation before.”

The assistant attaché surveyed the audience. “What do you guys carry?”

Foyte responded. “We settled on nine millimeters, Sigs and Glocks. We brought a couple cases of Romanian ammo so any brass we leave behind will be untraceable. If we need more, nine mil’s easy to get.”

Roosevelt grinned despite himself. “Gunny, you are one sneaky son of a… gun.”

“Roger that, sir.” Foyte managed a deadpan expression.

“Any nonlethal stuff?”

“Like what?” Bosco asked.

“Pepper spray, Tasers, that sort of thing.”

Foyte and Lee glanced at Martha Whitney. She almost blushed. “Maje, honey, I got both. I also got two knives including a switchblade.” She flashed her Aunt Jemima grin. “And, Sugah, Ah knows how to use all of ‘em.”

Roosevelt ignored the endearment and nodded gravely. “Well, if you can disable an assailant without killing him, there’ll be a lot less paperwork.”

Steve Lee and Dan Foyte entered the American embassy on the south side of Avenue du Gouverneur Felix Eboue, about four hundred meters west of Rue Victor Schoelcher. They were close enough to the embankment to smell the ambience of the Chari River.

Matt Roosevelt and Colonel Brian Posen were waiting for them.

Posen showed the SSI men to a secure meeting room and wasted little time with formalities. Taking the chair at the head of the table, the chief of the advisory group looked at Lee. “I understand your meeting with Kadabi went pretty well.”

Lee glanced at Foyte, who realized that a mere NCO counted for little. It was not the first time.

The erstwhile West Pointer squirmed slightly and, with a sideways glance, said, “Well, Colonel, as I was telling Gunny Foyte, I found Mr. Kadabi both friendly and forthcoming.”

Posen nodded, hands folded before him. “That’s fine, Major. Fine. As far as it goes.” He chewed his lip for a moment. “Let me warn you, though. If François Kadabi is acting friendly, it’s because he wants something. Oh, he’s not entirely disingenuous. He can be genuinely helpful, but in our experience it’s only when he sees an advantage for himself.”

Lee nodded. “Very well, sir. What’s that mean where we’re concerned?”

Posen nodded to Roosevelt, who swiveled in his chair. “Steve, I was taken by your mention that Kadabi warned you about jealousies within the Army and security forces. Ordinarily that’d just be common sense in a place like this. But we know that Kadabi pulled strings to get the liaison job with SSI. Apparently he called in one or two markers.”

Beneath his breath, Foyte began whistling “The Marines’ Hymn” when Lee kicked him beneath the table. In a rare gesture of interservice harmony, Foyte shifted to “The Caisson Song.”

“All right,” Lee replied. “What’s the significance?”

Roosevelt flipped his notebook. “He went over his department head to make sure he worked with you. It took a little pull because of the diplomatic connection on our end, but he got it done. He’s working with an upper-level manager in the natural resources ministry.”

Lee shrugged. “So?”

“So,” Posen interjected, “that gentleman is a cousin of Kadabi’s. He deals with Chad’s uranium exports.”

Lee and Foyte exchanged raised eyebrows. Lee asked, “Then why weren’t we told about that before?”

“Steve, I just found out about it myself,” Roosevelt replied. “Apparently it was worked out a couple of months ago but they’re keeping it quiet. For obvious reasons.”

Foyte decided that he had endured enough of being ignored. Looking at Roosevelt, he asked, “Sir, I’m just a retired jarhead noncom. What’s obvious about it?”

Roosevelt fielded the question before Posen could visibly take offense. “Ah, excuse me, Gunny. I was speaking about the connection between the counterinsurgency force you’ll be training and the country’s uranium deposits. One of our main Co-In concerns is keeping those assets out of rebel hands. In other words—”

“In words a Marine can understand,” Foyte interrupted, “you don’t want this Kadabi character making deals with his cousin while SSI’s clients provide his muscle for him.”

A question occurred to Lee. “Who’s the cousin?”

Posen shook his head. “Excuse me?”

“Kadabi’s cousin. Who is he?”

Roosevelt consulted his notebook again. “Moungar. Felix Moungar.”

“Does he have authority in security matters?”

Roosevelt thought for a moment. “He might. But if he doesn’t, Kadabi sure does. Their main advantage is a lot of information and mutual back scratching.”

Foyte whistled aloud. “Then it’s like we discussed with Frank Leopole before we left. We damn well better decide just how well we’re gonna train these boys.”

Roosevelt grimaced. “Ah, Gunny, I would caution you against describing black men as ‘boys.’“

Foyte opened his mouth, then pressed his lips together. Political correctness and racial sensitivity ranked in his esteem somewhere between women’s lib and communism. He merely nodded, staring into the assistant attaché’s brown eyes.

Lee retrieved the situation, deftly saying, “Your point is well taken, Matt, but Gunny’s question still stands. We discussed it before leaving, but of course it’s not an SSI decision. So… just how well is this new outfit to be trained? For that matter, how much training can it really absorb?”

Roosevelt and Posen exchanged glances. The senior officer took up the subject. “The background is in your briefing packet,” Posen began, “but I’ll summarize.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Most of the men you’ll deal with have field experience within the past couple of years. Many of them have combat experience. All of them speak French, many Arabic as well. They come from units that have received training from U.S. or French instructors, and that combined with what you’ll teach them is expected to result in a two-tiered mission: greater operational capability and providing a cadre for domestic training as well.”

Lee replied, “Yes, sir. That’s my understanding. We were told that we’re going to build up to battalion strength.”

Roosevelt made a politely skeptical sound, not quite a snort. “Well, yes, officially. But actually the unit is going to look more like a reinforced company: about 240 men at first. It’s commanded by a lieutenant colonel because that’s commensurate with a battalion.”

Foyte ventured another opinion. “Then we’ll be operating in platoon strength most likely.”

“Well,” Roosevelt responded, “we don’t expect you guys to operate with them, but you might provide, ah, advice on occasion. But essentially yes, they’ll probably deploy with thirty to forty men most of the time.”

Lee smiled to himself but Roosevelt caught the look. “Something on your mind, Steve?”

The West Pointer leaned back, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Oh, I was just thinking — that’s how we got involved in Vietnam.”

J. J. Johnson was the lead briefer, but he did not relish the task. He much preferred instructing to lecturing, but his fluency in French military terminology made him the hands-down favorite for delivering the SSI Counterinsurgency Brief. It was essentially boilerplate, distilling the conventional wisdom of Co-In philosophy for use almost anywhere the company might operate.

Facing a room full of Chadian Army officers, Johnson introduced himself, minimizing his Legion background by referring the audience to the SSI personnel sheets in their packets.

In his Parisian accent, the American began by apologizing for duplication of any subject matter that the Chadians might already have studied. Privately, he felt that probably few had ever given ten minutes’ thought to counterinsurgency doctrine, but he did not want to alienate potential allies. It was dogma with SSI to avoid the appearance of condescension toward any clients.

Johnson had practiced the presentation with PowerPoint and a flip chart, depending on local facilities. He was pleased to see that the electronic option was preferred, at least in the elevated ambience of the security offices. He inhaled, focused, and began to summarize the six points.

“Premier: Identifiez qu’il n’y a aucune solution purement militaire. Recognize that there is no purely military solution. Nearly all insurgencies are caused by dissatisfaction with the status quo, for whatever reason. Therefore, while military methods might gain a temporary advantage, political and economic measures must go hand in hand.

“Deuxième: Obtenez l’intelligence fiable. Obtain reliable intelligence. That’s often easier said than done, gentlemen. There are many sources of information on rebellious factions, including disaffected members of those groups. But you should beware of relying too heavily on prisoner interrogations. Torture seldom provides reliable intel, especially for long-term plans. Instead, consider infiltrating the groups, paying informants for accurate information, and bribing marginally committed rebels.

“Troisième: Établissez une politique coordonnée de gouvernement à tous les niveaux. Establish a coordinated government policy at all levels. This of course is beyond the military’s control, unless the army runs the government. But it is essential to have all agencies and organizations working toward the same goals with a consistent approach. If insurgents see the agriculture department as being lax while the health agency is hardcore, they will only want to deal with agriculture.

“Quatrième: Séparez les insurgés de leur appui. Separate the insurgents from their support. In some cases physical separation can prove successful, as the British did in Malaya in the 1950s. In Vietnam the so-called strategic hamlet concept was employed with less success, partly because the locals still needed to return to their villages and farms. A better method is political and economic separation: make it in the interest of the population to support the government rather than the insurgents, especially where the rebels are not of the same ethnicity.

“Cinquième: Neutralisez ou détruisez l’organisation insurgée. Neutralize or destroy the insurgent organization. That requires a closer look at the second principle: intelligence. Once you know where to find the rebels, you can make plans for military action. Or you can employ financial or other methods, such as making it difficult or impossible for insurgents to move about.

“Sixième: Prévoyez une stratégie continue soulignant la stabilité politique. Provide for a continuing strategy emphasizing political stability. This principle is related to the first. Once you have gained the upper hand militarily, keep up the pressure on the insurgents by continuing successful policies and expanding others, such as food, medical, and financial aid. In time the combination of these factors will drive the insurgents away.”

With that brief preview, the American turned to his audience. A Chadian lieutenant colonel raised his hand. “Mr. Johnson, I wish to ask about specifics in our current crisis.”

Johnson nodded. “Certainly, sir.”

The officer, who bore a nasty scar on his chin and left cheek, clearly had seen combat. “Our concern is not so much with local dissidents as with outsiders. They make little pretense of caring for the Chadian people. Mainly they wish only to cause us problems, to spread our troops too thin and expend money on more security forces.” He arched an eyebrow. “When the enemy lives in Libya and Sudan, which of your principles apply?”

It was an unexpectedly astute question, and Johnson glanced toward Steve Lee, sitting in the third row. A slight nod of the head. Your call, J. J.

“Well, in that case, sir, it depends on the specifics, as you say. If the insurgents are operating on their own, obviously the local population is far less a factor. In that case, it’s no longer really an insurgency.”

Johnson stopped speaking French and turned to Lee. “Major, is it safe to say that State and our attaché would have to approve if we became involved in repelling cross-border attacks?”

Lee stood briefly, knowing that some of the Chadians understood English. “Mr. Johnson is correct. Our team is limited to a training and advisory capacity. Any operations beyond those positions would require approval of U.S. Government agencies and probably renegotiation of our contract.”

Johnson summarized the team leader’s response.“Toutes les opérations au delà de ces positions exigeraient l’approbation des organismes gouvernementaux des États Unis et probablement de la renégociation de notre contrat.”

After the briefing, Johnson sidled up to Lee, both pretending to appreciate the local tea and wafers. “Boss, what do you make of the colonel’s question? Are they asking us for help beyond the Co-In contract?”

Lee squinted behind his glasses. “I don’t know, J. J., but we damn well need to find out.”

“Hey, I’m just a multilingual grunt. Want me to ask him one to one?”

Lee nodded. “See if you can steer him over here. Maybe we can get some straight answers if nobody else is listening.” He tipped his cup to his lips, barely feeling the hot liquid, staring straight ahead.

“Something else?” Johnson asked.

“Oh. Well, I was just thinking. This coming after my meeting at the security ministry the other day. I’ll tell you what, J. J.: I think we’ve stepped into something more than we expected over here.”

24

“There is another team. American this time.”

Etienne Stevin delivered the news dispassionately, as was his wont. It was one reason that Marcel Hurtubise valued the man: he was immune to panic. Whenever his time came, he would die with a far lower pulse than most men, that seemed certain.

It also meant that Stevin lacked a certain amount of imagination, excepting a sentimental romanticism about dying as befitted a Legionnaire. But such men were valuable nonetheless.

Hurtubise swiveled in his padded chair and laid down La Chanson de Roland. The mercenary seldom tired of reading the ancient account of the Battle of Roncevaux. “Tell me.”

Stevin detoured to the refrigerator, extracted a beer, and slid into a straight-backed chair. He twisted off the cap in one swift motion. His hands were large, powerful, experienced.

“I do not know the full number yet, but at least six. Paul and I saw that many get off the bus at the training compound. He stayed to watch them but others stayed aboard. I followed the bus awhile, but it didn’t stop before I lost it in a traffic jam.” He drained one-quarter of the beer and wiped his mouth. “You know how these niggers drive.”

“What about Paul?”

“He can take a taxi or maybe Gabrielle…”

“No!” Hurtubise regretted the sharp tone. Not because of concern for Stevin’s feelings — the man hardly possessed any — but because it was not wise to indicate any undue concern for the young woman. He thought quickly a well-developed habit. “She needs the Renault for an errand this afternoon.”

Stevin’s face remained impassive. If he suspected any worry about “Gabby’s” relationship with the attractive, cheerful Gascon, he did not betray it. Besides, what anyone else did was of no interest, as long as it did not affect his health or his income.

Hurtubise asked, “What do you think about the new team? How do you know they’re Americans?”

Another long draught from the bottle and it was nearly empty. Stevin smacked his lips and thought for a moment. “They came from the American embassy. You remember the woman you hired a few weeks ago? I checked the letter drop in the park and found this.” He pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket and passed it to his boss. “She’s a good investment, that one.”

Hurtubise read the note and set it aside. He would burn it when he was through. “Well, since she’s a translator she sees most of the things that would interest us. And she’s been reliable before.”

The leader of Groupe FGN’s team rubbed his stubbled chin. “Obviously this is a training team, but it could be involved in security operations as well. The question is, who are they training, and for what purpose?”

“Paul might have something when he gets back.”

“Probably not much if he has to wait outside the compound. I’ll wait to see what he says. Then if necessary I’ll see some of my Legion comrades.”

“You think they will be working with the Americans?”

“Possibly. But at least they’re another set of ears.” Hurtubise almost smiled. “A wonderful thing about La Legion, my friend. You’re never really out of it.”

25

Foyte held sway during the planning session.

“Okay, people. Listen up.”

The gossip and horseplay quickly abated as the operators turned toward the senior delegate. “Major Lee and Ms. Whitney are at the embassy again,” Foyte began, “but here’s what we’re gonna talk about today.” He turned to the white board propped on an easel at the head of the room.

“The course Steve and I laid out has been approved by the Chadian CO, Lieutenant Colonel Malloum. We’re going to start with individual skills, which the good colonel assures me won’t take long.” Foyte cocked an eyebrow by way of tacit comment. “After that we’ll start working at the squad level, which I think is where we’ll devote most of our attention. Fire and movement stuff. You guys can do that in your sleep but that’s why I want to focus on it a bit later. What we take for granted, our clients might have to work at. Anyway, at the upper end we’ll hope to bring it all together with platoon exercises.”

Johnson ventured a question from the front row. “Gunny, I’ve talked to a few of the troops already. I don’t get much of a fuzzy feeling about their interest in mundane stuff like commo or supply. What’s your take on that?”

“Odd you should ask,” Foyte said. “Malloum understands the need for those things, and others besides. For instance, there’s a serious shortage of medics. Not enough for each platoon yet. Oh, some of these boy… guys… have some practical experience, but not much book learning. The Chadians are going to select some candidates and maybe transfer in some others who haven’t ‘volunteered’ yet for an elite unit.” He looked at the recently retired Staff Sergeant Nissen. “Chris is our resident corpsman and he’s working up a syllabus for that class.”

Nissen raised in his seat. “Ah, Gunny, in the Army we’re called medics.”

Foyte deadpanned a response. “Right. As I was saying, Chris will start training some corpsmen. He speaks Arabic so that’s a big plus.” The former Marine unzipped an evil grin. “Staff Sergeant Nissen, how do you say ‘sucking chest wound’ in Arabic?”

Nissen feigned concentration for a long moment. “Inshallah.”

“Isn’t that like ‘the will of God’ or something?”

“It certainly is, Gunnery Sergeant. It certainly is.”

Foyte and Johnson coordinated initial weapons training with the battalion sergeant major. He was a short, stocky man of indeterminate age and a sober disposition.

Sergeant Major Hissen Alingue Bawoyeu told Johnson, “Some of these men have little practice with their rifles. Perhaps they should begin by lying down to steady their aim.”

Foyte thought for a moment. “I’d rather have them shoot off a bench or table. There’s less recoil that way. When they’re prone, they feel the recoil more and are likely to flinch.”

Johnson translated for Bawoyeu, who seemed unconvinced. At length the Chadian asked, “A quelle gamme devrions-nous enregistrer nous fusils?”

Johnson said, “He wants to know what distance you recommend for zeroing.”

“Oh, two hundred yards. Er, meters.”

After more back and forthing, Johnson announced, “They don’t have a two hundred-meter range. At least not anywhere nearby. The most they have with a decent backstop is about sixty-seventy meters.”

Foyte pondered for a few seconds. “Tell him that should be okay. We can zero at twenty-five yards and that’ll be close on at two hundred.”

“He wants to know how that’s possible. He says some of his men may not understand that a bullet can shoot to point of aim at two distances.”

The gunny silently ground his emotional teeth. “Jeez, an infantryman doesn’t know the difference between minimum and maximum ordinate?”

Johnson gave a smirk. “In words of one syllable, yup.”

Foyte gnawed on that information for a long moment, then decided that he had seen worse. “Well, I’ve known military trained snipers who don’t know how to use a shooting sling. Hell, my cousin — the one our family doesn’t talk about — joined the Army. He said he met soldierettes who thought magazines came loaded at the factory.” Foyte gave a down-home kind of grin. “Prob’ly the same kinda kids who think milk comes from cartons.”

Sergeant Major Bawoyeu tried to return the advisors to his own problems. Gaining Johnson’s attention, the NCO asked what Foyte perceived as a complex question. Finally Johnson nodded and turned back to Foyte.

“Our colleague here wants our recommendation for squad automatic weapons. I told him we’d have to check with the front office. What do you think, Gunny?”

“Well, as I see it, we have two choices: HK-21s and maybe the new.308 caliber PKMs.”

Johnson agreed. “That makes sense. Both use the same cartridge as the G3 rifle.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to have different ammo for our rifles and SAWs. The HK burns a lot of ammo, though. I think the cyclic is over 800 rpm, but it’s semi, three-round, and full auto. Anyway, it takes some technique to shoot well. As I recall, it pulls high and right so you need a seven o’clock or seven-thirty hold. In fact, if you’re not solidly behind the gun, it pushes you back.”

Johnson replied, “We can confirm that with some range tests. But I like the idea of the same trigger group and bolt for the rifle and MG.” He translated for Bawoyeu’s benefit, and the Chadian asked a question in turn.

“He asks, ‘What about the PKM?’ I think he has a point. Obviously it’s reliable, based on the AK-47.”

“We’ll have to see what links they use,” Foyte replied. “The PKM extracts the round from the links rather than pushes them because the original Russian cartridge has a rimmed case. But it’s more controllable than the HK; runs around 650 to 700 rpm.” He made a point of looking Bawoyeu in the eyes.“Très bien,” Foyte managed.

For the first time in the Americans’ experience, Sergeant Major Hissen Alingue Bawoyeu actually smiled.

26

“What did you learn?”

Paul Deladier slumped into a padded chair that, unlike the vintage wine he sipped, had not improved with age. He regarded his boss, then replied, “There is more to the American team than we thought.”

“Well?” Hurtubise was never known for his tolerance.

“I managed a chance meeting with the black woman. I tailed her from the American embassy and talked to her for a few minutes. She said she’s a temporary stenographer, but I don’t believe her.”

“Why not?”

Deladier mussed his dark blond hair and swirled the wine in its glass. “Well, for one thing, Etienne and I have seen her with the training team. There is no reason for her to associate with them unless it’s social, which is unlikely.”

Hurtubise swung his legs away from the kitchen table. He was becoming more interested in his young colleague’s opinions. “Go on.”

A Gallic shrug. “Just a sense of her. She’s confident, looks you in the eye. Not at all like some prissy little clerk.” Deladier paused for a moment, recalling the woman’s face; her expression. “I think she might be an operator.”

Marcel Hurtubise sat back, rubbing his trademark stubble. “Now that is an interesting observation. She’s what? Forties? Overweight, not very attractive.”

Deladier smiled. “You are no gentleman, monsieur.”

Hurtubise ignored the backward compliment. “Nobody would expect a fat black American female to be very capable, would they?”

“No, I suppose not. Which is why…”

“… she would be an excellent undercover agent.”

Deladier drained the glass and smacked his lips. “Should I talk to her again?”

Hurtubise shook his head. “No, that would be too much of a coincidence. I have another idea.”

“Yes?”

“My young friend, you don’t always send a fox to catch a chicken. Sometimes you send another hen.”

27

Daniel Foyte, being a retired gunnery sergeant, knew a great deal about marksmanship and precious little about diplomacy. At the moment he was caught with one foot in each world, attempting to convince Sergeant Major Bawoyeu of the institutional wisdom of the United States Marine Corps. He assessed a couple of the Chadians’ targets and collected his thoughts. Turning to his African colleague, he said, “I’m not worried about where they’re hitting right now. We can move the group to point of aim by adjusting the sights. I’d rather see better groups before we start worrying about that. After all, trigger control is a lot more important than sights.”

The sergeant major seemed unconvinced. “It is not necessary to aim so carefully when a rifle fires automatically.”

Foyte ground his molars in silent frustration. When he finally spoke, he managed a civil tone. “Mon adjutant, that is the difference between probability theory and marksmanship.” He picked up a G3 and hefted it for emphasis. “Even with a fairly heavy rifle, controlling the recoil on full auto is almost impossible. It wastes ammunition. I recommend that we have a policy of semiautomatic fire only. In fact, I would suggest having the armorers insert a pin through the receiver making full auto impossible.”

Bawoyeu shrugged eloquently. Clearly he did not care to dispute with so senior an advisor, but equally clearly the close-cropped American was more concerned with theories than reality.

Foyte turned away stalking the firing line and stopping occasionally to assess his team’s instruction technique. He listened as Boscombe and Johnson tackled a problem shooter.

“Keep the stock firm against your shoulder,” Bosco said to the soldier. “Don’t grab the fore end with your left hand; just let it rest there. Otherwise you’ll get lateral dispersion.”

He looked at Johnson. “How do you say that?”

J. J. grinned at his partner.“Vous obtiendrez la dispersion latérale.”

Breezy furrowed his brow. “Really? It’s a lot like English.”

“Mon ami, English is about forty percent French.”

“G’won. Is not.”

“Is too.”

“Is not!”

Johnson slowly shook his head in bemusement. “Dude, you are so behind. Haven’t you ever heard of the Norman Conquest?”

“Norman who?”

J. J. threw up his hands in frustration. He wondered if he weren’t being sandbagged but decided to press on.

“Look, it’s like this. About… oh, 950 years ago there were these guys, the Normans. Okay? Their leader was a dude named William. He was like the Duke of Normandy. You have heard of Normandy?”

Bosco nodded gravely. “Damn straight. Omaha Beach and The Big Red One.”

“Right! Except, well, not exactly. The Conquest was like D-Day in reverse. From France to England instead of the other way around. Anyway, William decided that he should rule England, so he took his guys and whupped up on the Anglo-Saxons. Their leader was named Harold, and he checked into an arrow at a place called Hastings.”

Bosco scratched his head. “When did you say this was?”

“Man, aren’t you listening? I said, like 1066.”

“Oh. Right. Nine hunnerd an’ fifty years ago.” He frowned in concentration. “So what’s that got to do with forty percent French?”

“Bosco, the Normans were French. They spoke a kind of French, which is Latin based, instead of the Germanic lingo like Harold. They, you know, took their language with them to England.”

“So why’d this Harold dude and his guys start talking French?”

Somewhere far back in the recesses of his cranium, J. J. Johnson badly wanted to scream.

“Because they were frigging conquered, that’s why! Besides, like I said, Harold was KIA. So William turned England into a Norman kind of government. Over a few centuries a lot of French words became English.”

“Well that’s pretty gnarly.”

Jeremy Johnson had no response to that observation.

To say that the home team won decisively would have been gross understatement. Chad: eleven. America: three.

The SSI clients had laid out a soccer field one hundred meters long by fifty meters wide, with markings scratched in the packed dirt. The Americans had trouble getting their brains around the game’s extreme flexibility, with teams composed anything from seven to eleven players. Since SSI could only field six willing warriors — they steadfastly refused to allow Martha Whitney on the team — the locals convinced two Foreign Legionnaires into an ad-hoc alliance. The Americans and “French,” actually an Algerian and a Spaniard, elected J. J. Johnson team captain on the basis of his previous Legion service.

Johnson had his linguistic hands full, shouting directions alternately in English and French. At one point, with the score at four-zip, he had to deliver an earnest lecture to Bosco who in frustration had picked up the ball and drop-kicked it into the Chadian net from inside the penalty line.

The Spaniard was drafted as SSI goalie, and Caporal Moratinos did tolerably well considering that four of the opposition goals were scored on free kicks or penalties.

That concluded the first forty-five-minute period. Since it was painfully obvious that the Western Allies were not going to narrow the gap, a near unanimous decision was reached: cancel the second half and get on with the barbecue.

Johnson shook hands with Sergeant Kawlabi, captain of the Specialty Battalion team. They were briefly joined by Sergeant Major Bawoyeu who had served as head referee aided by two Legionnaires. Any concern about his impartiality had dissipated within minutes of the starting whistle — clearly the Chadians required no such assistance in achieving a decisive victory.

Bawoyeu was all toothy bonhomie. “Your team did well, considering how little the men have played,” he offered graciously.

“Thank you, Adjutant,” Johnson replied. “But I doubt that many of them are ready for a rematch.”

Johnson turned toward the sidelines and saw Brezyinski sitting on the ground. Chris Nissen was tending a serious bruise on the paratrooper’s left knee. “What do you think, Doc? He gonna live?”

Nissen glanced up at Johnson. “Well, like we say at Bragg. I may not be the best doctor around, but I reckon I’m the best practicing without a license. It’s going to swell if I don’t pack some ice on it right away.”

“What happened, Breeze?”

Brezyinski waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, that big ape tripped me.” He indicated a husky six-foot soldier who glanced in their direction and failed utterly to conceal a smile.

“I’d think you Eighty-second guys would know all about falling down. What do you call it? The parachute landing roll?”

Breezy grunted. “Fall. But you ever try to do a PLF with six goons crowding all around you?”

“Well, consider the big picture. It’s in a good cause. After all, we’ve been lording it over these guys, basically showing them how little they know. It’s only fair that they get to show us something.”

Breezy gave an exaggerated grimace. “Easy for you to say dude. Your picture — my knee!”

While Nissen helped the ambulatory casualty to the sidelines, Johnson was approached by his newfound Legion friends, all of whom understood the significance of the obscure date 27 April 1832. They found that they had heard of some of the same people, which was not surprising. Though La Legion contained troops from seventeen nations, with only eight thousand men, there was bound to be some overlap.

Standing nearby, Bosco observed the Legionnaires — current and past — bonding with one another. They recounted the training and the only way out: climbing the rock, ringing the bell to announce they had enough, but not before spending twenty-four hours in jail before release.

“Unwavering solidarity — leave no one behind!” chanted Caporal Moratinos.

Johnson seemed almost sentimental. “I remember what Caporal Chef Calmy said,‘Les épreuves et les tribulations sont normaux dans la vie — la douleur est facultative. Pour éviter de souffrir, vous apprenez simplement à vous conformer.’“

“Which means?” Bosco spoke nothing but English.

“Trials and tribulations are normal in life — suffering is optional. To avoid suffering, you merely learn to conform.”

“It’s still the same,” the Spaniard offered. “Hours and hours of absurd detail: cleaning and ironing; pleats within a millimeter of specifications.”

Once they had satisfied one another with arcane gestures and slogans, the men fell into an easy comradeship cemented by off-key rendering of the patient, almost ponderous marching song:

Tiens, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin

Pour les Alsaciens, les Suisses, et les Lorrains,

Pour les Belges, y en a plus…

“What’s that?” Bosco asked.

Johnson interrupted the songfest just long enough to explain. “It’s the Legion’s most famous song, “Le Boudin.” It means ‘blood sausage’ and says something about almost everybody: Alsatians, Swiss, Lorraines, even Belgians.” He thought a moment. “Especially Belgians. Not very complimentary actually.”

Bosco munched a sandwich that he assumed was pork, never considering that he was the guest of a passel of Muslims. Johnson reckoned it was lamb or goat, but decided not to educate his benighted friend. “Sounds way too slow for a march,” Bosco declared.

“Well, in the Legion we take our time with those things.”

Bosco espied Martha Whitney approaching and decided to make himself scarce. His departure allowed him to resume his Pro Patria discussion.

Corporal Moratinos regarded the other Americans. “You probably do not have the kind of morale like La Legion,” he ventured. “That is, the sense of unity.”

“Oh, we have good morale,” Johnson replied. “Our company’s president is a really fine man, a retired admiral. He really takes care of his people.”

The Spaniard absorbed that sentiment, then asked, “What do you make of the French firm? It has several ex-Legionnaires.”

Johnson cocked his head. “What firm is that?”

Moratinos seemed surprised. “You have not heard of Groupe FGN? It’s probably the biggest security contractor in the country.”

“No, not a word. What do they do?”

The Legionnaire rolled his eyes in exaggeration. “What don’t they do?” He looked left and right, as if confirming the need for secrecy. “Come let’s take a short walk, mon ami. You should know about a man named Marcel Hurtubise.”

28

Steve Lee turned from his IBM ThinkPad and greeted his visitors. “Hi, guys. C’mon in.”

Dan Foyte, Jeremy Johnson, and Martha Whitney shoe-horned themselves into the small office that the Chadians had provided for SSI’s administrative use. Johnson gallantly offered the vacant chair to Whitney, who steadfastly refused the gesture. “No thanks, J. J. honey. I may be fat but I can still stand up.” She gave him a nudge in the ribs.

Lee exchanged male-bonding glances with Johnson and Foyte, then got down to business. “After J. J. mentioned the Foreign Legion’s information on Groupe FGN, I checked back with headquarters in Arlington. We had a heads-up that a couple of French outfits were working here but we didn’t know what they were doing. Well, it appears that this Hurtubise character got rid of the competition by one means or another. Marsh Wilmont and Frank Leopold think we should regard him as hostile.”

“How’s he a threat to us?” asked Foyte. “I mean, he’s not competing for our contract.”

“No, but there’s some interesting background info on him. I e-mailed David Dare and his spooks to look into him and they found some interesting stuff. He’s a pro, all right. National service 1982-84, Foreign Legion 1986-91, freelance for a while, then joined FGN Evidently he was going to be excommunicated at one point but he beat the wrap. That puts him in pretty exclusive company because the research guys only found about fifteen people who were dumped by the Catholic Church in the twentieth century, including Castro and Juan Peron.”

Whitney gasped aloud. “My God, what’d he do?”

“It’s not clear, but apparently he took some hostages in a church or monastery in Burundi when he was freelancing several years ago. Some of them, including monks or nuns, were killed in the fighting and he was held responsible. My guess is that he wasn’t declared anathema because nobody could prove that he gave the order.”

“All right,” Foyte replied. “He’s a gold-plated bastard. But like I said, what’s our interest in him?”

Lee nodded to Johnson, who took the hint. “The Legionnaires I talked to all said pretty much the same thing. Hurtubise is all about results. He just doesn’t care who gets trampled as long as he gets what he wants. It can’t be proven, but it’s the next thing to certain that he or his people got rid of the other French PMC guys.” Johnson paused for emphasis. “If this FGN outfit starts to regard us as competition in any way, it could mean big trouble.”

“What’s FGN doing here, anyway?” Whitney asked.

Lee shot her a grin. “Bingo — the sixty-four-franc question. As Gunny says, we’re not doing the same thing — at least it looks as if Hurtubise and company aren’t involved in training. The most we can find out right now is some sort of security work. Not just here in the capital but up along the border as well.”

Foyte asked, “Where are they based?”

“They have an address near the French embassy but apparently that’s just a room with a phone and a mail drop. Near as I can tell so far, they move around a lot, in and out of the city. I’ve asked Roosevelt to see what he can find, but he’s pretty high-profile, being an attaché.” Lee turned back to Whitney. “Martha, I’d like you to snoop around, ask some discreet questions and see what you can learn. Don’t risk drawing attention to yourself, but maybe develop some contacts in our embassy and theirs.”

“Will do, Maje. I done already got a cover as a stenographer.”

Johnson looked at her. “I didn’t know you can take dictation.”

She waved a bejeweled hand at him. “Honey, I can’t write a word in that chicken-scratchy text. But I remember conversations for quite a while afterward. I can write ‘em down or use a recorder.” She winked broadly. “Mind like a platinum trap.”

“Uh, I think that’s steel trap/’ Johnson replied.

“Well, sweet cheeks, some folks got steel minds and some of us got platinum.”

She waved bye-bye and strode out of the room, humming “Hello, Dolly!”

29

The metallic cacophony was grating to refined ears. Grinding gears, scraping noises, and diesel engines were not the ambience either of the observers ordinarily preferred. But they both acknowledged that occasionally one had to endure unpleasant surroundings in order to reap the potential benefit.

Overlooking the open pit, Felix Moungar and Marcel Hurtubise took in the machinery and surveyed the surroundings. Other than the dilapidated huts that once housed the workforce, they were satisfied with what they saw.

“There has been much progress since our last inspection,” the government man offered. “I trust that your team will be able to maintain security for the time required.”

Hurtubise nodded. “My men are already moving in. Some of them may grumble about living in tents, but they understand the need for secrecy.” His meaning was easily grasped: the less attention drawn to the once abandoned mine, the better. Construction of even temporary quarters would tell any observers that something beyond routine maintenance was under way.

Moungar shrugged in indifference. The discomfort of a dozen foreign mercenaries was of little concern to him as long as they maintained order and secrecy for the duration of the renewed mining. Still, conditions in the Sahara were strenuous at the best of times: sand that found its way into every orifice, beastly heat, and furious winds.

But Hurtubise had greater concerns. He suspected that one or two people at the embassy in N’Djamena might have grown leery of his true allegiance — an entity that had little to do with the current crop of Paris politicians — but if he acted fast enough, his goal would be achieved and he could finally retire. Somewhere suitable both to Gabrielle and himself. Switzerland was nice…

Hurtubise forced his attention back to the job at hand. He asked, “What of the yellow cake processing?”

Moungar unzipped a wry grin. “It goes slowly but steadily, my friend. We should have enough for a shipment in a week or so. After that, as much as your… customers… can manage.”

“Well, as you know, they do not require a great deal. Just as long as the shipments get sent by the deadline, we will both be wealthy.”

The African grinned again. “Mon ami, I am already wealthy by my country’s standards. I intend to be wealthy by your standards.”

As they walked around the periphery of the mine, the unlikely partners exchanged concerns. Since Groupe FGN was hired to provide security, Hurtubise looked inward as well as outward. “Felix, tell me again about the workers you have hired. How reliable are they? Some of them are bound to talk about their time here.”

The African waved a dismissive hand. “Naturally, my associates and I would prefer that none of them discuss their work. But we are going to keep them busy with minor chores after the shipment. Nobody will be permitted to leave until I know that the yellow cake has reached its trans-shipment point.”

The Frenchman regarded his colleague with renewed confidence. In his experience, most Africans were so nearsighted that they seldom thought beyond the next paycheck, or even the next meal. But knowing who was funding the project made a difference as well. Deep pockets combined with astute planning formed a powerful inducement. “What do you propose if some workers get too eager to spend their pay and want to leave prematurely?”

Moungar gave the ghost of a smile. “Why, I propose to let your men handle that problem.”

Marcel Hurtubise’s own smile came to life, far more than a ghost. “C’est bien, mon ami”

Paul Deladier nudged his partner. “There she is.”

Gabrielle ran a quick assessment of her target. A black American woman, mid to late forties, on the heavy side. But she seemed aware of her surroundings. Gabrielle’s brain defaulted to her years on the street before Marcel found her. This woman would not be an easy mark: alert, large, and probably strong. An experienced mugger or strong-arm bandit would look elsewhere.

Gabrielle Tixier was not looking for a snatch and grab purse theft. She was after something more difficult — information.

It had been a long wait outside the American compound, but not entirely unpleasant. Gabrielle and Paul had played the role of flirtatious young Europeans visiting an exotic land, and despite his absence of deodorant on occasion, Gabrielle found the well-built Gascon a tolerable companion. She knew that Marcel would understand the tactical reason for her arms around Deladier’s neck.

She hoped he would understand.

Gabrielle gave Deladier a not so quick kiss on the cheek and waved as he turned to go. In truth, he would duck into a vendor’s stall about twenty meters away.

After all, the American might have a partner, too.

Feigning interest in some fruit, Deladier watched the young woman walk toward her intercept point. Not quite thirty, Gabrielle always looked good from behind, especially wearing tight jeans. He suspected that her saucy walk was more calculated than natural, but the effect was pleasing to males on at least two continents.

Deladier purchased some dates and leaned back to enjoy them without looking directly at Martha Whitney. She was approaching him on the opposite side of the street, making her way through pedestrian traffic, but he did not want to be recognized as the young man who had bummed a cigarette a few days before.

Gabrielle suddenly turned right, sprinted in front of an ancient Citroen taxi, and feigned frustration at the seeming near miss. The driver laid on the horn, prompting a Gallic snit expressed in blunt Parisian French unsuited for a well brought up young lady.

Stepping to the sidewalk, purposefully looking behind her, Gabrielle Tixier collided with Martha Whitney.

From his stall, Deladier admired the tradecraft. Even to his experienced eyes, the incident appeared accidental, and he could almost read the young woman’s lips, profusely apologizing to the older lady.

In less than four minutes by his imitation Rolex, Deladier catalogued Tixier’s progress: from collision to apology to discussion to an interval in a tea shop.

She’s quite good, Deladier acknowledged.

He waited long enough to confirm there was no tail for the American, then began the long walk to the apartment.

Most of the way back he visualized Gabrielle’s derriere just beyond arm’s reach.

30

“So who are they working for?” Lee asked.

Roosevelt consulted his notes. “Well, part of their operation is legit. At least it looks that way. They have several people doing extracurricular security work for the French embassy and some other agencies. VIP escort, that sort of thing.”

“Okay,” Lee replied. “That makes sense. Genuine work to cover the covert stuff.”

“You got it. Thing is, though, from what our people can tell, FGN’s other clients are not related to the French embassy or even the French government. They seem to have business connections all over the Middle East.”

“Like who?”

The attaché flipped through his pad. “Like this guy, for instance. Mohammed al Fasari. Big import-export guy with outlets from here to there: Rome, Cyprus, Cairo, Beirut, Damascus, Baghdad. Even Tehran.”

Lee went on point. “Tehran?”

“Uh-huh. Exotic stuff. Pricey things like rugs and ancient artifacts.”

Lee removed his glasses and polished the lenses. “Could that be a cover for smuggling other things?”

“I suppose so. Why?”

Lee replaced his military-issue frames. “Just speculating, Matt. I mean, if this Fasari character is shipping things out of Iran, he could be sneaking things in as well. Know what I mean?”

Roosevelt laid down his notepad and leaned forward. “I think so. And it makes me nervous.”

“Me, too.” Lee scrawled a note to himself for passing along to David Dare’s mysterious intel shop back in Arlington. “All right, who else might interest us?”

“Let’s see… several prospects. Oh, there’s quite a bit of activity with a mid-level Chad government official. In fact, you might recognize the name: Felix Moungar.”

Lee recognized the name. “Moungar! Hey, isn’t he related to Kadabi, the defense ministry representative?”

“Affirmative. Francois Kadabi. I think you’ve met him.”

“Sure have. Two or three times.”

Roosevelt leaned back, biting his lip in concentration. “Moungar is with the natural resources ministry. I think he deals with mining contracts and things like that.”

“What would he have to do with Hurtubise?”

“Well, it’s no secret that FGN has provided security consultants to the ministry. In fact, I think it’s on the company’s Web site. But that might be a forest and trees situation.”

“How’s that?” Lee asked.

“As you know, there’s something hinky going on along the northern strip. Since the logistics are serious — it’s about six hundred miles up there — it’s not really possible to keep the lid on. Somebody would notice the traffic in and out of the area. So I think it’s possible…”

“Hiding out in the open.”

“You got it.”

Lee asked a rhetorical question. “Now, what’s the most interesting commodity that’s mined up there?”

Roosevelt’s eyes widened. “Uranium!”

“And our friend Hurtubise has contacts with the mining ministry and with one of the major exporters in the region. A legitimate businessman who has ties to Iran.”

“Ho-lee sh…”

“You said it.” Lee extended a hand. “Go Army!”

Roosevelt grinned hugely. “Beat Navy!”

Steve Lee closed the door to his small office and poured Martha Whitney two fingers of bourbon. She applied a token amount of water, swirled twice, and took an educated sip.

“Aaah,” she enthused. “At times like this I’m sho’ ‘nuff glad I’m a Baptist and not a Muslim.”

Lee’s eyes gleamed in response. “And here I thought that Baptists were mostly teetotalers.”

“Honey, they’s Baptists and then they’s Baptists! Besides, I’m more spiritual than religious. Ya’ll know what I mean?”

He touched Styrofoam cups with her. “And how.”

“Here’s how,” she replied. Another sip, this time with closed eyes, the better to appreciate the warmth trickling southward.

Lee set his cup down. “Okay, tell me.”

Whitney reclined as much as possible in the straight-backed chair. “Well, I gotta give the girl credit. She done real good. For a minute there I wasn’t sure.”

“You’re saying she’s a pro.”

Another long, slow sip. “Uh-huh. She’s been ‘round the block a time or two. Even at her age, poor thing.”

“But…”

Martha gave the Aunt Jemima grin again. “But… Maje honey, I done been around the world an’ Dee-troit twice. No, she’s had some experience; maybe even some training. But I made her early on.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, for one thing, she didn’t maintain eye contact like a person would’ve done in that situation. Oh, she handled bumping into me real well, but she was lookin’ over my shoulder as much as lookin’ me eye to eye. And she wasn’t nearly as flustered as somebody would be after presumably dodging a car.”

Lee played devil’s advocate. “Martha, you know people are different.”

She waved a bejeweled hand. “Oh, course I know that. But like they taught us at Langley: pay attention to your instincts. Usually they’re right.”

“Okay. For the moment let’s say you’re right. She’s working you. But why?”

“Well, honey, it sure ain’t because she wants to practice her English with me. She speaks it well enough, and in fact I suspect she speaks better than she lets on. But that’s what she said. Insisted on buying me tea so we could talk en anglais for a while.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Chitchat at first. Background, work, that sort of thing. I kept with my embassy story — temporary steno help out of Cairo. She said she’s touring with her boyfriend. When I said that not many tourists come to Chad, she hesitated just a little. Said he’s a photographer working up a portfolio.”

Lee finished his one finger of bourbon. “That shouldn’t be hard to confirm. What’s his name? I’ll run a Google search on him.”

“She just said Paul. I didn’t push it at that point. We’re gonna get together again in a couple of days.”

“Well, okay. I’ll make sure that your name is on the embassy list so the phone operators don’t ask ‘Martha who?’ if she calls.”

“Oh… I was gonna tell you. I’m not Martha Whitney. I’m Martha White.”

Lee made a point of reaching back in his lower drawer. “I think I need a drink!”

Bosco slumped into a folding chair to the side of the training compound. He watched Adjutant Bawoyeu dismiss the second platoon of the day and anticipated a long bath in his quarters. If Breezy didn’t beat him to it — the sumbitch would hog the tub if he got there first.

Bosco accepted a bottle of water from Chris Nissen and hoisted the plastic container in tacit salute. They were working together better than before, partly because Mr. Boscombe was beginning to recognize certain useful phrases. Apart from fusil automatique and other technical terms, he had just mastered the phrase “Keep your elbow under the weapon.” “Gardez votre coude sous l’arme.”

Nissen did not bother to explain that Bosco’s pronunciation left worlds to be desired.

“So whatchathink, Sarge?”

Nissen shot a glance at the budding commandos departing the arena. “Well, they’re making progress. We have to remember that some of these guys have never had any foreign training. Believe it or not, I’ve seen worse.”

Bosco took a pull at his bottle and regarded his new colleague. “Would you trust them in combat?”

“That depends. Against who?”

“Well, let me rephrase it. Would you trust them not to run off and leave you high and dry?”

Nissen looked around, confirming that nobody else was within earshot. “Within limits, yeah. I would. But it depends on who’s leading them. I mean, doesn’t it seem odd to you that we hardly ever see any officers?”

Bosco was ready for that one. He dipped into his stash of patented responses and brought one to the surface. “Why let rank lead when ability does better?”

Nissen’s face was serious in the slanting evening light. “Lieutenant Colonel Malloum shows up once in a while, and I guess he’s busy with admin jobs. But we’ve only seen a couple of company-grade officers. It’s like they’re just passing through.”

A bulb flicked on in Boscombe’s cranium. He sat up straight. “Wait a minute. Are you saying that we are gonna have to hand-hold these dudes through their first few ops?”

Nissen shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, that’s not in our contract. And I know for sure that J. J. doesn’t plan to do any fieldwork. But still…”

“Damn!” Bosco threw the half-empty bottle at a trash can and missed. He ignored it. “We need to talk to Lee. Muy pronto.”

“That’s Major Lee, maggot.”

Bosco turned at the sound of Foyte’s voice. “Hey how ‘bout it, Gunny. Are we expected to fill in for the junior officers?”

Foyte took a DI’s stance: hands behind his back, feet spread, slightly inclined forward. “In words of one syllable — what an Army puke would understand — there’s no pukin’ way.”

Nissen grinned despite himself. “Hey, Boscombe. You know how Marines count?”

Bosco rose to the occasion. “No, Staff Sergeant Nissen. How do Marines count?”

“Hup, two, three, many! Hup, two, three, many!”

Foyte ignored the jibe — he had heard it dozens of times. He knelt before the two Army veterans. “I been talkin’ to Johnson and a couple of the others. These guys seem to understand fire team and squad tactics: fire and movement stuff. That’s good. It’s the basic building blocks. We’ll keep reinforcing those maneuvers, but we’re also gonna bear down on marksmanship. Too many of these boys think that ammo capacity equals firepower. And I’m here to tell you…”

“Firepower is hits on the target!” Boscombe replied. Nissen did not answer: he was pondering Foyte’s use of “boys” again.

Foyte removed his cover and rubbed the stubble on his head. “Well, I’m glad that somebody understands that. Now look here.” He pulled his ever-present notebook from a pocket. “I have a list of the twenty best shooters in the battalion. I’m gonna suggest that we reassign them throughout the platoons so there’s some depth in each unit. Then I think we should put about half of ‘em on the belt-fed guns.”

Nissen frowned in concentration. “Wouldn’t they be better used as precision riflemen?”

“Maybe later. But for now we don’t have any precision rifles, and won’t for at least a few weeks. Meanwhile, I keep thinking of what a very great man once said.”

Bosco nudged Nissen. “What great Marine was that?”

Foyte was serious. “Well, since you ask, I’ll tell you. His name was Merritt Edson, and he was a Distinguished Rifleman who got a Medal of Honor at Guadalcanal. Maybe you heard of it.”

“Is that anything like the Erie Canal?” Bosco was enjoying the banter, but knew he could only push Foyte so far.

Foyte turned to Nissen. “Red Mike Edson wrote that only accurate firepower is effective, which is why he put expert riflemen on his BARs. I think that makes a lot of sense, especially since not many of our guys are very proficient shooters.”

Nissen nodded. “Concur, Gunnery Sergeant.”

Foyte stood up, giving the black NCO a comradely tap on the arm. “Like I always said: people are smart when they agree with me!”

31

Steve Lee and Chris Nissen leaned over Martha Whitney, whom they had poured onto the couch. She failed in her effort to suppress a loud belch. Regaining her breath, she inhaled deeply and accepted the cold cloth that the medic offered.

“Martha, what did she say?” Lee did not want to seem too insistent but he was eager to learn the results of Whitney’s latest meeting with the Frenchwoman.

“Oooh, my goodness,” Whitney exhaled. She forced herself to focus. “That girl can drink but she can’t hold it.”

“You mean you drank her under the table?”

Whitney waved feebly. “I mean, she couldn’ hoi’ it. Puked all over her shoes an’ mine!”

“But what did she say? What are they up to?”

“Oooh my.” Whitney pressed the cloth closer to her eyes. “Not so loud, Maje.”

Lee and Nissen exchanged empathetic looks. Both men were trying not to smile. Neither objected to seeing the self-confident Ms. Whitney brought down two or three pegs.

Lee moderated his voice. “All right, Martha. Try to concentrate. Did you get anything out of her?”

“Oh, ‘bout three quarts I’d say. My shoes…”

Chris Nissen turned away, clasping a hand to his mouth. Lee saw the sergeant’s shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

Steve Lee pried the wet cloth from Whitney’s stubby fingers. She blinked in the light. “Martha, listen to me. What… did… she… say?”

The former spook smacked her lips loud enough to be heard, then tasted the taste. “Oooh my.” Finally she gestured toward her purse. “Wrote it down in th’ taxi.”

Nissen went through her bag and fetched a notebook. He flipped through the first few pages with assorted notes unrelated to the meeting with Gabrielle Tixier. Then he held the notebook out at arm’s length. A few seconds later he looked at Lee. “I can’t make out anything. Just a couple of words.”

Lee took the pad and squinted. Finally he shook his head. “Martha, we can’t read your handwriting. You’ll have to read it for us.” He held it before her, knowing she lacked the strength to sit up.

Whitney blinked in concentration, trying hard to focus. She raised her head, put a hand on Lee’s, and adjusted the focal length. After a valiant effort she slumped back. “Nobody can read that. Not even me.”

“My God, what’d you drink?” Nissen asked.

“Oooh my, what didn’t we drink? She was ready for me, tha’s fershure, honey. Started with wine, then whiskey. Then somethin’ else. I was doin’ okay. Then she brought out the cognac…” Whitney burped again.

“Brandy?” Nissen frowned. “If you can handle whiskey, why not…”

“Eighty proof,” Whitney ventured. “Seven years old.”

Lee stood up, his hands wide in exasperation. “Chris, we have to sober her up. Time’s important.”

The tall, black NCO shook his head, smiling at the victim. “Major, I can deal with penetrating wounds, fractures, blunt trauma. Even childbirth. But I cannot cure a major hangover. Nature’s gotta take its course.”

Lee slumped into a chair. “So we let her sleep?”

“Look at her!” In the short interval, Martha Whitney had finally succumbed. When they turned out the light and left the room she was snoring like a rhinoceros.

32

“How much longer?”

Marcel Hurtubise was a past master at controlling his emotions, let alone his voice, but he also heeded his instincts. The mining seemed to be progressing well, but he sensed a need for greater urgency.

The site manager was an elderly French engineer — a piece of colonial driftwood remaining above the high tide mark when the colonial surf had receded. His name was Adolphe something or other, and he had tried returning to metropolitan France two or three times since the 1960s. It never lasted long; Africa kept fetching him back.

Adolphe gave a Gallic shrug — an eloquent gesture communicating infinite wisdom if not immediate knowledge. Four decades in l’Afrique could not exorcize his parents’ chromosomes. “A few days. Maybe less. The equipment, it is… vintage. Vous savez?”

Hurtubise knew. He had to admit that Adolphe knew his business, both technical and managerial. How he kept the black laggards working on anything resembling a schedule was the next thing to miraculous. “Well, mon vieux, once the ore is processed and the yellow cake packaged, your work will be done. Then you can…” His voice trailed off. For a shred of an instant, Hurtubise was almost embarrassed. He realized that he could not finish the sentence. Adolphe can… what? Probably return to a desultory life of cheap booze and cheaper accommodations.

“You can… rest.” He even managed a smile for the old man.

Adolphe seemed not to hear. He glared at a machinery operator and began cursing him with equal fluency in French and Arabic, not managing to raise his mask over his face.

Hurtubise turned away, seeking Etienne. He found the Belgian supervising the guard change at the top of the hour. Four on, six off, seemed optimum for the limited crew of mercenaries available.

“How goes it?” Hurtubise asked. It was a rhetorical question. Etienne was as reliable as gravity — always there, whether needed or not.

“Well enough,” the husky man replied. Marcel noticed that the Belgian had his sleeves rolled down, either from concern over sunburn or the less likely risk of contamination through a cut or abrasion. But since the guards seldom went near the machinery, and the open-air mine had ample ventilation, there was little cause for concern. Briefly Hurtubise wondered if his colleague — not quite a friend — actually had plans for longevity.

“All right,” Hurtubise replied. “I’m flying back to N’Djamena tonight to put in an appearance at the embassy.”

“So soon?” Etienne realized that his boss had been back and forth twice in the past week — more travel than usual.

“I need to make sure the ministry is coordinating the arrangements here and with the shippers. There’s too much at stake to rely on… a couple of Africans. I’ll be back in two or three days. If you need me…”

Etienne raised a pudgy hand, then tapped the cell phone on his belt. It was there all the time, opposite his Browning Hi-Power. “Say hello to Gabby for me.” He gave a crooked grin; he knew how much she disliked that name — and him.

“I’ll give her more than that,” Hurtubise replied. For a change, he was smiling when he walked away.

33

Steve Lee paced to the front of the briefing room, about-faced, and looked at his team.

“We’ve just received a warning order.”

The SSI operators exchanged querulous glances. Then everybody was speaking at once.

“But we’re a training team!”

“Whose orders?”

“Holy shit!”

The latter sentiment predominated.

Lee raised both hands, urging quiet. When the noise abated he glanced at J. J., who was particularly vocal against going operational again.

Bosco interjected, “Gunny Foyte said just the…”

“Yeah, where is he?” Nissen asked.

Lee was growing petulant. “As I was saying…” He allowed the sentiment to drag out, hanging suspended in the seemingly frigid air.

“As I was saying, we’re advised to start planning for an op. Gunny Foyte is on the horn to Arlington, though he may not get anybody with the time difference. Meanwhile, I’m going to meet with the embassy staff. But before any of you decide to go spastic, maybe you’d like to hear the details.”

The tone of Lee’s voice said as much as his words. After a pause he continued. “By ‘we’ I mean the Co-In battalion. Not necessarily us in this room.”

Johnson raised a hand. “Major, we were just discussing this sort of thing the other day. There’s hardly any junior officers up to speed as near as I can tell. So who’s going…”

“Nobody with SSI is required to do anything. Okay? Get that straight.” Lee lasered the room with his glare, obviously displeased with the response. “But Johnson is right. There’s not enough officers qualified to lead more than a couple of platoons right now. Evidently that’s partly due to some infighting to get assigned to an elite unit. But on the other hand, some experienced Chadians don’t want to join the Co-In force just because it’s considered elite. They’re worried it’ll draw attention from the president’s office and mark them as a potential threat.”

Breezy raised an eyebrow. “Man, talk about damned if you do…”

“Now listen up,” Lee resumed. “We’ve been asked to contribute a couple of French speakers to help out. Officially they’d be liaison. Unofficially, they’ll probably be acting platoon leaders. Otherwise we’ll hope for a couple of you to work with Chadian translators.”

Eyes turned toward Johnson and Joshua Wallender, the most competent French linguists. Chris Nissen was fluent in Arabic and conversant in French.

Sensing the mood in the room, Lee pushed ahead. “First, I’ll emphasize that if anybody volunteers for this op, they’ll be advising more than leading. Second, there’s a hefty combat bonus. That’s already been confirmed by the company. Third… well, we need you.”

“What’s the mission, Steve?” Bosco intentionally used Lee’s given name to inject a note of immediacy.

Lee turned to a map pinned to the wall behind him. “Up here along the Libyan border there’s some activity that interests this government and ours as well. It has to do with mining — that’s about all I can say right now, but more intel is coming. That’s been a hot area for years, going back to the seventies and eighties when Chad and Qadhafi were feuding.”

Wallender, who hardly ever spoke in meetings, leaned forward in his chair. “Major, let me ask something: why us? Why not a regular Army unit?”

“I was just coming to that, Josh. The reason is security. I’m given to understand that the Army units can’t be trusted because the rebels, or whomever, can buy almost any information they want. With corruption like it is in this country, that’s a real concern.”

Wallender sat back, clearly unsatisfied. “Well, what’s to say that none of our guys will sell out?”

“Nothing’s guaranteed,” Lee replied. “But think about it. Our battalion is separated here. There’s almost no outside contact, and we’ll lock down everything as soon as we know what’s up. Additionally, it’ll be a no-notice deployment as far as the troops are concerned. We’ll have at least a couple days to get ready, but they won’t know it. Far as they’re concerned, we’re doing inventory and training for rapid deployment.”

Nissen eyed the distance between N’Djamena and the border. “That’s a fur piece up there, Major. How do we get there?”

“We pre-position some trucks and vehicles, probably here, at Bardai.” He jabbed a finger on the map. “We fly there in two C-130s and we have some helos on standby. In fact, I’ve alerted Terry Keegan and a couple of his rotorheads. They’ll be ready to insert or extract on short notice.”

Wielding a pointer, Lee said, “There’s two possible fields west of the op area, both unpaved. Bardai is six thousand feet long, about a hundred miles from our objective, and Zouar is forty-seven hundred, even farther away. Another option is Ouinianga Kebir, down here a couple of hundred miles southeast of the area of interest.”

Wallender was clearly unhappy with the situation. “Either way, that’s a long haul to the target with much hope of surprise. Especially if we’re using Chadian aircraft.”

Lee grinned wolfishly. “We’re not. Uncle Sugar is sending three Hercs just for this mission. That includes a spare.”

“Major, I don’t know about the other guys but I’d sure like to know what’s up there that’s so important.”

Lee laid down his pointer and said one word. “Uranium.”

Leopole found Derringer’s door ajar and recognized the “come in” signal. Nontheless, SSI’s foreign operations chief politely rapped twice with his knuckles.

“Admiral, we got trouble.”

Derringer looked up from his keyboard. “Well, that’s our middle name when it isn’t ‘Solutions.’ What is it, Frank?”

Leopole strode to the desk and laid an e-mail printout before Derringer. “Sandy just got this. She’s checking with State right now, but it looks as if our Chad team has been drafted into a clandestine op.”

Derringer adjusted his military-frame glasses and scanned the short message. Then he looked up. “Why didn’t we get a heads-up? Wasn’t there time to consult?”

“There was a phone recording from Gunny last night, saying to look for an e-mail. Ordinarily this would come from DoD or State via Marsh as chief operating officer, but he’s hobnobbing with a couple of undersecretaries at Rock Creek.” Leopole glanced at his watch. “By now I reckon they’re on the back nine.”

The CEO visualized the verdant lushness: narrow fairways flanked by dense trees. It called for serious risk assessment of a kind that Frank Leopole would never appreciate. To the former Marine officer, golf was a silly pastime lacking loud noise, recoil, and supersonic objects. Still, more serious business was conducted on manicured lawns — or in the clubhouse— than most D.C. denizens would ever admit.

Derringer swiveled in his chair, mulling over the prospects. “All right, Sandy’s next in line as foreign operations officer and she’d have to deal with this development anyway. But getting our people involved in a Chadian government contract didn’t just drop out of the sky. What’s behind it?”

Leopole slid into a chair, elbows on the desk. “I think I can read between the lines. You remember a few days ago that Steve sent us a summary of his discussion with the defense attaché? Major Roosevelt?”

“Yes, I saw it. But I didn’t follow the way they connected the dots. I mean, how’d they tumble to this French character’s likely involvement with uranium smuggling? Apparently nobody in the intel business saw the forest for the trees.”

“Admiral, I guess they just G-2’d it. Plain old good headwork with some help from Martha Whitney. After all, they’re right there with their boots on the ground. But they didn’t expect to have to act on it. Roosevelt apparently sent a memo up the food chain and somebody went Oscar Sierra. Like, ‘We gotta do something, now!’“

Derringer nodded, sorting out the prospects. “That makes sense, Frank. But wouldn’t it be logical to expect a query from Steve Lee? After all, he’s not going to act without consulting us.”

“We don’t even know if he’s been approached yet. In fact…”

Sandra Carmichael strode into the room, not bothering to knock. Derringer looked up. “Sandy, what’ve you got?”

Without formality, she replied, “Whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on, sir. I hardly replied to State’s liaison office when this e-mail arrived from Steve. He confirms that his team has been asked by the embassy to participate in what he calls ‘an important but acceptably low-risk tactical operation.’ He’s already done some contingency planning and has alerted Terry Keegan, who’s inbound to take over a couple of helos. Steve expects to launch the op up on the Libyan border within seventy-two hours or so. That is, assuming we agree.”

Derringer rubbed his chin. “Very well. Tell Steve that I’ll call an emergency meeting of the board, NLT tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, he can continue his planning.”

Leopole stood up. “Sandy, I don’t understand something. Why do our guys and their partly trained outfit have to do this? There must be other units available.”

Carmichael’s blue eyes gleamed. “Go with your strength, Colonel.” She liked talking to the former leatherneck as one O-5 to another. “Actually, Steve alluded to OpSec concerns. I’m sure he’ll elaborate, but I suspect that operational security is a big factor, considering how corrupt things are in Chad.”

“Very well.” Derringer brought up his contacts file and scrolled toward the bottom. Under “Wilmont” he selected his associate’s cell and clicked on “call.” Looking up, he confided, “I just hope I can reach Marsh before they get to the clubhouse. He likes to stay late.”

34

Between them, Terry Keegan and Eddie Marsh possessed nearly all the professional airman ratings available to Americans. As Keegan liked to joke, “Everything but multi-engine jet seaplane.” But in truth, their forte was not flying: it was improvisation.

It was time to improvise.

Keegan hung up the phone and turned to his partner. “Okay, things are rolling. We’re going to N’Djamena on a commercial flight and meet the air attaché, or whatever they call him. He’ll give us the info on whatever choppers are available. After that, we’re pretty much on our own.”

“Sounds like a real purple operation,” Marsh enthused. Keegan, a former naval aviator, smiled in appreciation of the joint ops sentiment. Marsh was an ex-Army warrant officer and they would be dealing with the Air Force.

Keegan sat down on his bed while Marsh lazed in his. “The big thing is going to be comm. We’re supposed to get hi-freq radios from the embassy and presumably everybody will be able to talk to everybody else: us, the Herc crews, and our guys on the ground.”

Marsh stretched his lanky frame and stifled a yawn. “You know it won’t work, Terry. It never does.”

Keegan, who shared the sentiment, wanted to appear more optimistic. “No reason it shouldn’t. I mean, it’s a pretty straightforward situation. We need standardized comm and can’t rely on the radios in the helos because everybody in Chad has those freqs. As long as the HF radios work, it should be no sweat. And we’ll test them before we launch.”

The Army veteran shrugged. “We’ll see. Hey, not that it matters, but what’re we going after?”

“There’s some sort of mining operation up along the Libyan border. Our instructors have orders to secure the place with some of the counterinsurgency people they’re training. Steve Lee says it has to be done fast with minimal warning. He’s not even telling his Chadians about it until they board the 130s.”

“Well, how much info will we have for route planning and timing?”

“Oh, we’ll have enough. But not much more. It’s a State and DoD operation so…”

Marsh chuckled. “So like I said. It’s not gonna work like it’s planned.”

“Never does, pal. Never does.”

35

“How’s Ms. Congeniality today?”

Chris Nissen knew the question was rhetorical. He grinned at Lee who entered the hostel at the stroke of 0830. The medic thought, They can keep that clock!

“Walking wounded.” Nissen thumbed a gesture over his shoulder, toward the bathroom. Lee heard stirrings therein, and assumed that the patient was ambulatory.

Lee sat down. “Chris, I need her awake and lucid. We have to know…”

“I know.” Nissen raised both hands. “I know. And she’s a lot better. But I didn’t try to debrief her about her outing with the French chick. Figured you’d want to handle that in person.”

“Well, can she remember anything?”

“Major, all she said was something about her brow chakra trying to pull her solar chakra out through her crown chakra. Whatever that means.”

Lee laughed aloud: a long, genuine cackle. When he gulped in some air, he explained. “Martha’s a spiritualist. Oh, she talks about being Baptist, but she’s a big believer in the Hindu power points of the body. What she’s saying is that her headache is so bad that it wants to lift her stomach out through the top of her cranium.” He chuckled again. “I never heard it explained better!”

Nissen gave a slight shake of his head. “Never figured you for a Hindu.”

“Oh, I’m not. If anything I’m a lapsed Congregationalist. But I studied eastern and oriental philosophy in graduate school. Actually, there’s something to the chakras. There’s an internal logic to the wheel of life…”

“Maje, I’m just a fugitive from the Elm Street boys’ choir. That’s as far as my religion went.”

“Okay,” Lee said with a grin. “Enough philosophy for now.”

“Honey, we’re just getting started!” Whitney appeared at the bathroom door, fresh scrubbed and dressed in a striped garment that Lee could only describe as a mumu.

“My God, Martha. You look… great!”

She rubbed her hands together in exaggerated fashion. “And I feel great, too. Sergeant Nissen, what’s for breakfast, bro?”

The medic turned chef rose from his chair. “I’ll get started. But this is no short order house. You get what I fix.”

She placed her arms akimbo and gave Nissen a stern look. “And you’re likely to get it back on your shoes if’n I don’t like it!”

“Uh, that chakra thing?”

“Solar chakra, honey. As in, from the bottom of my stomach.”

“How ‘bout a nice omelette? With black coffee.”

“Now you’re cookin’, sugar.” She pronounced it “sugah.”

Whitney slid into the vacant chair and leaned toward Lee. “Now, Major honey. What do y’all want to know?”

Lee produced a notebook and sat back. “Everything.”

She told him.

“Gentlemen — ladies — we don’t have much time.”

Derringer scanned the eight people seated around the polished table. He would have preferred a late night meeting or even a phone poll, but most of SSI’s directors had other obligations, and 0800 was the best he could manage.

“Here’s the short version,” he began. “Our team in Chad has made good progress with the counterinsurgency unit it’s training. But they’re not up to speed and aren’t expected to complete the first cycle for a couple of months. Meanwhile, a potentially critical development has occurred in-country that requires a quick response. There’s a French PMC operating legitimately with the French government but apparently it’s doing some moonlighting as well. Steve Lee, Martha Whitney, and the military attaché in N’Djamena have discovered that a clandestine mining operation is under way along the northern border with Libya. We don’t know for sure but it looks as if our counterparts from Paris are planning on smuggling uranium ore, and possibly processed yellow cake, out of the country.”

“What’s the destination?” asked George Ferraro. The former naval systems analyst already thought he had a good idea.

“Well, one of the PMC’s usual suspects is an Iranian.”

“But we don’t know for certain that’s the end user.”

“We do not,” Derringer replied. “But State, DoD, and the embassy folks are worried enough to put our team on the operation.”

Marshall Wilmont spoke up. “I’d like to hear Matt’s appraisal of the personnel aspects.” Matthew Finch of the administrative support division seldom attended board meetings but Wilmont wanted his perspective.

Finch was a button-down Marylander whom Leopole insisted had been born in a vest. “Well, our contract has a clause saying that SSI training personnel can be activated for operations provided there’s adequate consultation, approval, and so forth. Evidently some of the team is willing to go and others… well, they’re not so eager. In any case, there’s precedent for such action if that’s a concern to anyone. Obviously it doesn’t bother State or DoD. Beyond that, we have an escalating fee scale based on a pretty subjective set of risk factors. Of course, if any casualties occur, the coverage automatically kicks in, regardless of the cause.”

Ferraro asked, “Has Ms. Pilong been consulted?”

Finch nodded. “I talked to Corin on the phone just before we convened. She’s taking care of a sick child, but she said there’s no contractual barriers.”

Derringer leaned back. “There you have it. Our people are in place, some willing to participate in a clandestine operation, and their assistance is wanted by State and Defense. We won’t make a lot of extra money off it, but I think we should take it. The risk seems fully acceptable, and the operation will gain SSI additional goodwill with our main client. The United States Government.”

Sam Small, a retired Air Force colonel and sometime SR-71 pilot, was first to respond. “Looks like a no-brainer to me. Minimal risk, possible big benefit. I don’t even know if we need to discuss it.”

Wilmont interjected, “Sammy, I understand your attitude, and I share your opinion. But anytime we’re faced with altering a contract, and this involves possible combat, Mike and I think the board needs to consider it.”

Small gave a shrug. “Okay, let’s go.”

Beverly Shumard’s icy blue eyes betrayed no emotion. “Ordinarily I would agree that this proposal, coming from two agencies, is worthwhile. But I wonder if we’re overlooking something.”

“Yes?” Derringer prompted.

“Unintended consequences, Admiral. If, as seems possible, we end up chasing uranium all the way to Iran, we might find ourselves in over our collective heads.”

“Beverly, there’s always the possibility of events spinning out of control. We all accept that fact when we sign on, whether in the military or with SSI. But as I’ve noted, this is a low-risk operation, limited in time and place.” Derringer looked around the room again. “Anybody else?”

No one responded so Derringer called for a voice vote.

“Dr. Craven?”

“Go.”

“General Rowell?”

“Affirm.”

“General Jonas?”

“You bet.”

“Dr. Frisch?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve already heard from Colonel Small. Bev, what do you think?”

Shumard managed a slight grin that dimpled her cheeks. “You know what I think, Admiral. But since we already have a clear majority, I’ll go along.”

Derringer glanced at Mrs. Springer, who was keeping notes. “Then it’s unanimous.” He turned to Wilmont and Carmichael. “Marsh, you can inform State that we’re proceeding. Sandy tell Steve Lee that it’s a go.”

36

Hurtubise was in the apartment less than one minute before he sensed trouble.

Gabrielle gave him a perfunctory kiss that set bells ringing — the farthest kind from romantic bells.

Alarm bells.

“What is it?” he asked.

She looked up at him — he was four inches taller — and bit her lip. He mistook it for a pout, and Gabrielle Tixier could pout with the best of them. A sensual, little-girl pout perfected over years. She used it to manipulate men.

When she turned away, he grasped her arm and spun her around. “I asked, what is it?”

“I feel terrible,” she replied.

“Yes, I can see that, Gabrielle.” He modulated his voice, allowing just enough flat tone to imply something pending. Something probably unpleasant.

“I did what you wanted,” she said, immediately regretting the defensive whine building at the end of the phrase. “I met the American woman again and we… talked.”

“You did more than talk. You drank. A lot.” It was a statement of fact; a certainty like magnetism or taxes.

She touched her forehead and flicked the light brown bangs. “Yes. All right. We drank. A lot. We learned about each other. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

He folded his arms — a sure sign of irritation — and leaned forward. “Don’t play games, Gabrielle! I set a hen to catch a hen, and now I am beginning to think that the American hen was a chicken hawk.” He stared her down; she never could meet his eyes for more than several seconds.

She plopped into the only comfortable chair and looked at him again. “I…” Her voice trailed off.

“What did you tell her?”

Her mouth opened. Nothing followed. Finally she swallowed and croaked, “I… I don’t know. Not everything.”

He sprang at her, raising a hand, and she flinched from long experience.

Hurtubise stopped in midstride. He realized that if he struck her again, this time she probably would leave. Personal considerations aside, she would also take any useful information with her.

He knelt before her, balanced on one knee. “Gabrielle. I’m sorry. I told you four years ago that I would never do that again. And I keep my word.”

She was crying now, tears tracking down both cheeks. “Marcel… I’m so sorry. I thought I could handle her. Honestly I did. But…”

The emotional dam burst and the sobs came. She leaned forward on her elbows, her slender torso visibly shaking with each painful exhalation.

He reached out, touched an arm, and squeezed. Harder than he intended, but a calming gesture nonetheless.

Inside, his mind was raging.

Marcel Hurtubise was nothing if not composed. He was aware of the American phrase “control freak.”Commandez le phénomène was as close as he could come. But however you said it, he had it. “Come here, my darling.” He wrapped his muscular arms around her and pulled her to him. Over her shoulder, he glanced at his watch and estimated that she would tell him what he needed to know in three minutes.

It was more like five.

When she had confessed all she could — everything she could remember or thought she could remember — she allowed herself to relax a bit. By now she was feeling more certain of herself. It had happened before — a long period of good to excellent behavior followed by an inevitable lapse leading to confession, contrition, and forgiveness. Sometimes Gabrielle wondered if Marcel had been a priest in a previous incarnation.

But there was always the penance. In this instance, it came on an icy wind.

“Good, Gabrielle. Very good. It is always best to tell the truth. I cannot make things better without knowing everything. You understand?”

She nodded briskly, not trusting her voice.

“Very well.” He stroked her hair, tracing the line of her cheek with the knuckles of one hand. “We must assume that she knows about the mine, so there is only one thing to do.”

“Yes?”

“Kill her.”

37

“Okay: here’s what we know,” Lee began. He pointed to a map of Chad propped on an easel. “The mine is here in the Aozou Strip up near the Libyan border. It’s been relatively inactive for a few years but apparently some of the equipment has been maintained, maybe with this time in mind. At any rate, our colleagues with Groupe FGN have been using their legitimate work through the French embassy to provide security for the clandestine operation that’s under way at the mine. We do not know the ultimate destination of the yellow cake, but it could be Iran.” He allowed that sentiment to linger in midair for a moment.

“Anyway, that really doesn’t matter. The important thing is, our people here and in D.C. do not want that product to leave the country. That’s why it’s such a hurry-up operation. We don’t know exactly when the yellow cake will be ready for export, but indications are that it’s imminent.”

Lee turned back to his audience and took three steps forward. “Gentlemen, I’ll repeat what I said before. This is strictly a volunteer basis. If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to. Personally, I’m convinced that it’s a low-risk operation, but there could be some shooting. Since you’ve all signed training contracts, you’re at liberty to stay here. But we need experienced leadership on the ground up there, and that’s why our team got the nod.” He looked at each man in turn. “Any questions?”

There were none so Lee nodded to Foyte. “Gunny will conduct the briefing since he’s been working on the op order.”

Foyte walked to the head of the room. “Thank you, Major.” He flipped his notebook open and ran through the standard headings.

“Mission: well, you know that. Secure the mine and prevent any yellow cake from getting out. After we’re done, a joint U.S., Chad, and IAEA team will move in.”

Bosco raised a hand. “Uh, what’s IAEA?”

“International Atomic Energy Agency. It’s a multinational inspection organization.”

“U.N.?” asked Bosco.

“It’s based in Vienna but is chartered by the U.N. Why?”

“Ah, I never trust anybody who wears baby blue berets,” Bosco replied. Some chuckles skittered through the room. Foyte ignored them.

“Enemy forces: probably twelve to twenty French or European mercs from Groupe FGN. That does not include the mine workers. Expect small arms and automatic weapons, and watch for imbedded explosives.

“Friendly forces: well, that’s us, of course. We’re taking two platoons: one to assault and one to secure the perimeter and provide backup.

“Execution: fly to the op area in C-130s and take pre-positioned transport to the mine. We’ll have two choppers in support for contingencies and med-evac. We plan to hit the place at dawn. You’ll get specific assignments the night before.

“Command and control: this is gonna be the kicker. Almost none of our clients speak English so there’s a premium on French and Arabic speakers. We’ll have a couple of translators from the embassy as backup.” He looked at Chris Nissen and J. J. Johnson. Nissen was in — he could use the combat bonus for his daughter’s college fund. Johnson still had not committed.

“We’ll have at least two common frequencies on radios. I’m told that our rotor heads also are getting UHF sets from the blue suits so the helos can talk to us on the ground.

“Security. Well, that’s the reason we’re doing this job. The locals would gladly sell any information to anybody, which is why SSI and our Co-In team has been tasked. We’re administratively and physically separate from the rest of the Chadian armed forces, and nobody’s left the training area for two days. Additionally we’re using our own transportation and USAF 130s. Now, I’m not saying there couldn’t be some word to the frogs, but it looks pretty tight.

“ROE: fire discipline is important here, more for our platoons than ourselves. Yeah, I know — a lot of the Chadians we’re training have been shot at before, but if somebody caps off a round by accident, you know damn well what’ll happen. Firing contagion. With all the civilians in the area, that could be really bad news. So we’re gonna stress that our troops don’t shoot at anybody who isn’t pointing a weapon at them.

“POWs, if that’s the term. We will have to disarm the Frenchies and put them under detention. Major Lee and I hope that a superior show of force will convince them to stand down. In that case, we’ll treat them well and hold them until the suits arrive. If not — well, it’s their funeral. So to speak.”

Foyte looked up. “Questions?”

Breezy stirred in his seat. “Gunny, wouldn’t it be better to go in before dawn? Take ‘em more by surprise?”

The Marine nodded. “Of course. But do you want to take the boys we’re training and have them running around in the dark with loaded weapons?” He did not await a response. “Next.”

Josh Wallender gave the high sign. “What’s the risk of radiation?”

Lee stood up again. “Very slight. You’re going to hear from an expert that the big problem with uranium ore is underground, where there’s poor ventilation. This mine is a big pit in the open. You’ll have respirators for the time you’re actually in the pit but avoid cuts and you’ll be okay. We’re not going to be there very long, anyway.”

Lee asked, “Anything else?” When no one responded, he gestured to a man in the back of the room.

“Gentlemen, this is Mr. Langevin. He’s with the IAEA and has been briefed on our mission. Now, before anybody gets excited, I can say that he’s on our side. He’s a former Air Force nuke who works in the arms control field. He will fill us in on uranium ore.”

Langevin had not reached the front of the room before Breezy leaned to Bosco and said in a loud whisper, “Funny. He doesn’t look like an Air Force puke.”

Boscombe took the hint. He swatted his partner, exclaiming, “You dummy. That’s nuke, not puke!”

Langevin, a short, slightly built man with receding dark hair, turned to the Army men. “What’s the atomic number of uranium?”

Bosco and Breezy exchanged glances. “Uh, 235,” essayed Breezy.

“Beeeep! Wrong!” Langevin imitated a quiz-show buzzer. “It’s ninety-two, because the uranium atom has ninety-two protons and electrons. Now, I don’t expect you snake eaters to understand about earth elements, let alone lanthanide or actinide series. So there’s no way you’re going to understand 92, let alone 235!”

While the grunts in the room tried to absorb the fact that a skinny techno-nerd could take their guff and toss it back, Langevin launched into his briefing.

“A bit of background, gentlemen. Uranium is a naturally occurring element found at low levels in nearly all rocks, soils, and water. It is considered more common than gold, silver, or tungsten, and nearly as much as arsenic or molybdenum. It is found in many minerals such as lignite, and monazite sands in uranium-rich ores. It is mined from those sources.

“Now, as you heard from Major Lee, uranium ore produces radon gas that needs ventilation unless it’s mined in an open pit. Fortunately, that’s the case where we’re concerned…”

Breezy interrupted. “Ah, we? As in, you’re going with us? Sir?”

“You got it, son. And I’m packing. If I have to double-tap somebody, I’ll do it, too.”

The former paratrooper raised an eyebrow and regarded the dweeb with new respect. “Ah, yessir.”

“Good.” Langevin shot a glance at Lee and winked. Then he continued.

“Now, it doesn’t really bear on our mission but you might benefit from some background. The U.S. hasn’t had to import uranium for many years, at least not for military purposes. Most people don’t realize that Australia has nearly thirty percent of the world’s known supply, but only exports it for nonmilitary use. However, Canada probably exports more total product though the worldwide demand has dropped. Uranium hit an all-time low of seven dollars a pound in 2001 but has bounced back to about thirty.”

Wallender interjected. “Sir, I don’t understand something. If uranium is widely available, why the concern about deposits in a remote place like Chad? I mean, it’s got to be harder and more expensive to get there than almost anywhere.”

“That’s a good question,” Langevin responded. “The reason is, Chad and much of Africa have ample supplies, but the mines and transportation systems are not monitored very well. Remember, Chad has been named one of the two most corrupt governments on earth. With enough money and minimal resources, almost anyone could obtain enough ore to produce yellow cake and ship it anywhere. Say, like North Korea. Or Iran.”

“Gulp.”

“You said it.”

Langevin began pacing, turning to keep his audience in view. “What we’re concerned with isn’t the ore, it’s uranic oxide, better known as yellow cake, that’s used for processing. It’s roughly seventy-five percent uranate, produced by milling uranium ore. It’s a radioactive powder with a high melting temperature — nearly three thousand degrees Centigrade. It’s insoluble in water.”

“How’s it produced?” asked Foyte.

“Well, the ore is crushed to produce what’s called pulp. That’s dipped in sulfuric acid to leach out the product. What’s left after drying and filtering is the yellow cake.”

“So we’re looking for, like, a yellow powder, right?”

“Well, no. The stuff is actually dark brown or even black. The yellow name is left over from early processes that weren’t as efficient as today.”

Johnson, still uncertain whether he would participate, was intrigued. “Sir, how much yellow cake is needed for a bomb?”

“Actually, none,” the scientist replied. “Yellow cake is unenriched uranium so it’s no use in a weapon. It’s mostly used to obtain purified uranium oxide in fuel rods. That in turn can be part of weapons grade production, especially plutonium.”

“Then, if I understand it right, producing yellow cake really isn’t very hard,” the former Legionnaire said.

“No, it’s a relatively straightforward process. But in most parts of the world the procedure is closely guarded through international accords. That’s where I come in, with IAEA. But in Chad and other places, that’s not always so. Consequently the extra cost of mining relatively small quantities is not a real concern. The people who want uranium without anybody knowing it are well funded, and to a large extent they don’t care what it costs.” He shrugged. “When you sell billions of barrels of oil a year, several million dollars for yellow cake is no big deal.”

“Like Iran?” Breezy suggested.

“Certainly. Iran consistently ranks in the top five oil exporters, between three and four million barrels a day.”

Langevin saw Bosco and Breezy exchange whispered comments. “Ah, something you want to discuss, gentlemen?”

Breezy sat upright. “We were, uh, just saying that you seem really well informed. Sir.”

Bernard Langevin beamed. The former Air Force short colonel was unaccustomed to compliments from knuckle-dragging door-kickers. “Just doing my job, son. Just doing my job.”

38

Whitney knocked on the apartment’s weathered door. It had “safe house” written all over it: not too fancy, a plain, white-washed exterior with a good view front and back and access to two streets. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, knowing that Johnson and Wallender would be watching her from a rented panel truck.

Gabrielle answered the door and greeted her guest in English. “Martha! So good to see you. Please come in.” She stepped back to allow the American to enter.

Whitney took three steps inside, facing her host. As she did so, she took in the setting with the mindset of an alumna of the CIA Directorate of Operations. Curtains partly drawn to limit the view from outside. Too suspicious if they were closed. Large rug on the floor: good footing but she won’t try anything here in case there’s bloodstains.

Tixier smiled. “After last time I think we should have some tea!” She managed a credible giggle. So did Whitney. Female bonding, nice touch, honey. “I have a pot warming in the kitchen,” Tixier explained with a gesture toward the back of the house.

Whitney nodded politely. “Après vous.” She thought: No way am I letting you behind me, sweet cheeks.

Tixier accepted the fact that she had been outmaneuvered and led the way to the kitchen. Whitney recognized the signs of a setup: Venetian blinds mostly closed, tile floor for easy cleanup of messy fluids.

Gabrielle made a point of turning to the stove to retrieve the teapot while Martha remained standing, holding her purse. The sound-activated mike inside was tuned to the frequency that J. J. Johnson was monitoring in case the conversation was conducted in French. He and Wallender could be inside in about thirty seconds, which was the best compromise. Any closer and they would surely be spotted.

While Tixier was adjusting the burner, Whitney did a complete scan. She was comfortable that nobody else was nearby. Not yet, anyway. She turned back to Tixier. Just you and me, babe.

The Frenchwoman carried the pot to the table where cups and saucers were set. She looked a little surprised. “Oh, please, sit down, Martha.” She patted a chair to the left of her own.

Whitney took the chair opposite Tixier rather than the one indicated, keeping the table between them. Apparently in frustration, Tixier dropped the smiling pretense. She took two quick steps to the side of the table, dropped the teapot’s lid, and flung the contents at Whitney’s face.

Martha reacted instinctively. She sidestepped most of the scalding brew, ignoring the liquid pain on her left arm and shoulder. As Tixier grabbed for a towel on the ledge, Whitney stepped in, connected with a swift overhand karate chop to the base of the neck, immediately following with a backhand blow to the larynx. Tixier gasped, slumped against the counter, and grabbed for the towel. As she fell to both knees, a 9 mm Makarov clattered to the floor.

Whitney kicked the pistol away and drew her Glock. “She’s down, J. J.!” Whitney wanted backup available soonest. “I’m unlocking the back door.”

Before turning away from an assailant, Whitney wanted some insurance. She set down her bag, brought up a can of pepper spray and gave Tixier a four-second dose to the face. The Frenchwoman reeled away, fell on her back, and rolled in pain, hands at her eyes.

Johnson and Wallender entered with pistols drawn. Without a word, they obeyed Whitney’s head gesture to clear the apartment. They disappeared through the door, “slicing the pie” to search progressively around each corner.

Whitney knew it would take at least a couple of minutes to complete the search. She locked the door and closed the blinds all the way. Then she turned to Gabrielle Tixier.

The fight was gone from her. She had managed to raise herself to a semi-reclining position, back against a kitchen cabinet. She inhaled slowly, watching the American woman with awe in one eye, fear in the other; streaming tears in both.

Whitney picked up the Makarov, dropped the magazine, and ejected the chambered round into the sink. She ran some water in a glass and examined her assailant. “That’s right, honey. Slow breaths. Breathe through the mouth; your sinuses are messed up.”

Wetting one end of the towel, Whitney poured water over Tixier’s face and gently wiped away some of the OC spray. Nasty stuff. Great stuff. She allowed the younger woman to rinse her mouth with some water and spit it onto the floor. Tixier needed both hands to steady the glass, allowing Whitney to search her. There was a switchblade in one vest pocket. “You expecting trouble, sweetie?” Whitney grinned as she tossed the shiv over her shoulder.

In a moment Tixier was able to focus. Then she said, “Tuez moi.”

Whitney gave a forced laugh. “Kill you? Why would I do that?”

Tixier spat out some mucus. “If you don’t, Marcel will. That’s why I had to kill you.” She spat again. “I am finished.”

Martha made a point of sitting on the floor, appearing less threatening. “Sweetie, don’t you think you’re premature? You can come with me. We’ll take you away and you never need to see him again.”

Tixier’s blue eyes were still watery. She rubbed them with the back of one hand, an endearing little-girl gesture. She sniffed loudly, then shook her head. “No, it’s no good. I know something of the intelligence world. I would be useful for a while, then…” She shrugged. “Believe me, if it took the rest of his life, Marcel would find me. I would never have any peace. I would rather be dead.”

Whitney placed a hand on Tixier’s arm. “Gabrielle…” She sought the right words. “You know, in America we have a saying. Never kid a kidder. Well, honey, we’ve been trying to kid each other. You know what I mean? We been playing this damn game trying to get each other to talk. The other night you talked more than I did, and now your friend Marcel wants me dead. But you know what? It don’t matter. He must know that, too. My friends already have the information, sweetie.”

Tixier nodded gravely, staring at the far wall. “Yes, I know.”

“Well then?”

“It is as you say Martha. It doesn’t matter. Marcel knows that I betrayed him even if I didn’t mean to. There’s no going back.” She turned her head to spit up again.

“But…”

Tixier raised her left hand. It trembled as if from Parkinson’s. “You don’t know him. A few years ago he thought a man had betrayed him. A friend from La Legion. Marcel spent eight months tracking him down. Then he killed him most… painfully.”

“Well, I see what you’re saying…”

“No you don’t, Martha. A few weeks later Marcel learned that the man had not betrayed him. Somebody else did and blamed the Legionnaire. You know what Marcel said?” Before Whitney could respond, Tixier added, “He said, ‘Mauvaise chance.’“

“Bad luck?”

“That’s all. Just that. Then he spent more time looking for the one who really turned on him. But that man had burned too many others and he turned up dead in Marseilles. So Marcel never got his revenge. He was furious about that. Which is why I know he will never stop until he finds me.”

Johnson stepped into the kitchen, holstering his Sig. “All clear. Martha, we’d better get her out of here.”

Whitney stood up, rubbing her arm. “Gonna have to get some ointment,” she said.

“Yeah, but what about…”

“No. She’s made up her mind.”

“Well, I don’t know, Martha. She’s a good source.”

Whitney leaned down to touch Tixier’s cheek. “She’s already told us everything we need, J. J.” She looked at her younger colleague with moisture in her brown eyes. “And she just told me what she needs.”

Tixier mouthed the words. Thank you.

Martha Whitney almost smiled.“Adieu, ma chérie.”

39

Terry Keegan had seen worse maintained helicopters, but not recently

Standing on the ramp with Eddie Marsh and their contract mechanic, Keegan waited for the Air Force advisor to conclude his arcane business with the Chadian officer. Keegan knew that at one point the commander of the Force Aerienne Tchadienne held the exalted rank of lieutenant.

At length the advisor shook hands with the African officer and walked toward Keegan and Marsh. “Come on, we’re going over there,” the major said, pointing beyond the security perimeter.

“What’s the deal, sir? Aren’t we using these birds?”

Major Allen “Jigger” Lowe kept a straight face. “What’s the matter, Mr. Keegan? Do you like flying old, leaky helos or something?”

“Well, it’s just that…”

Lowe stopped so abruptly that his charges went two steps beyond him. He motioned over his shoulder. “You see that Chadian officer back there? Well, he told me that he wouldn’t fly very high in one of the Alouettes you just saw.”

Eddie Marsh ventured an opinion. “Sort of like the hang glider’s motto?”

Lowe grinned in appreciation. “You got it. ‘Don’t fly any higher than you’re willing to fall.’ Which is why we’re going the long way ‘round to check out the other helos.”

Keegan gave a tight-lipped grin. “I see, said the blind man. We’re gonna borrow some of the French birds.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Lowe began walking again. “But it’s all been arranged back-channel; I just had to settle with our, ah, colleague over there.”

Keegan regarded the blue-suiter with growing admiration. The former Navy man suspected that his Air Force host had just greased somebody’s sweaty palm.

Moments later, Keegan and Marsh were looking at newer, obviously better maintained Alouette IIIs. No visible leaks; no pitted Plexiglas; not much chipped paint. A couple of them even had Chad’s red-yellow-blue cockade over the red-white-blue emblem of France.

Keegan consulted with his mechanic, a burly, monosyllabic individual between thirty-five and fifty years of age, who spoke fluent French and aviation English with a Canadian accent. The Americans knew him as Charles Haegelin; heaven knew what his passport said, let alone his birth certificate. Keegan only knew him slightly; they had partnered with SSI once before.

Lowe opened the door of the nearest Alouette and withdrew a canvas satchel. “Mr. Haegelin, here’s the airframe and engine logs. I believe this is the low-time bird of the bunch. I’ll stick around while you gentlemen decide which ones you want to use, but you’ll have to sign for them before you leave.”

While Haegelin and Marsh checked fuel and fluids on the first helo, Marsh and Lowe examined another. Far enough from inquiring ears, Marsh leaned close. “Jigger, how’d you swing the loan of some of the French birds?”

The advisor was deadpan. “I don’t understand the question.”

Keegan thought he detected a wink, but perhaps it was an ordinary blink. “Okay, I won’t ask embarrassing questions.”

“Works for me,” Lowe said. “Now, how much Alouette time do you have?”

“Oh, maybe two hundred hours.”

“Current?”

“Yeah, I flew a few days before we left home.”

Lowe nodded. “Good ‘nuf for government work!”

40

Paul Deladier glanced up from his paper as Marcel entered. “I’ve been waiting for you,” the younger man said. “I thought you’d be back by now.”

“It always takes longer at the embassy” Hurtubise replied evenly. He loosened his tie and looked around. “Where’s Gabrielle?”

Paul shrugged. “I haven’t seen her today.”

Hurtubise glanced at the clock on the stove. “She should be back by now.”

Deladier turned a page. “Maybe she’s out shopping with her nigger friends. I don’t know what she sees in them.”

“No, she was…”

Four sharp raps came from the door. One, pause, three. “That’s Raoul,” Hurtubise said. He opened the door.

Raoul Clary’s face told the story. “She’s dead.”

Deladier gasped audibly. “My God! Gabby…”

Hurtubise pulled the operative inside, then closed and locked the door. “Tell me.” His voice was emotionless, flat.

“I followed her as you said, making sure she didn’t try to run. But she kept the appointment all right. She met the fat American at the other apartment like you suggested. Gerard and I had the van with a body bag and cleaning supplies and the medical kit. All we had to do was look for her signal.” He spread his hands. “Marcel, why didn’t you let us do it? There would have been no trouble. The black woman would just disappear.”

“I have my reasons,” Hurtubise snapped. “Go on.”

“Well, after twenty minutes we saw the American arrive. She left not long after that. There was no sign of Gabrielle so we waited a little more, then entered through the bedroom window. She was dead in the kitchen.”

“How?”

“Shot in the head.”

“Executed?” Hurtubise asked.

“No, not if you mean from behind. But…”

“Yes?”

“Well, now that I think of it, the entry was in the left temple. Her Makarov was on the floor beside her.”

“Had it been fired?”

Clary nodded. “Once.”

Hurtubise felt a chill. Gabrielle had been left-handed. “No other ballistics? Any sign of a fight?”

“No. Oh, it looked like she had been sprayed with Mace. We could smell it a bit, too.”

“Where is she?”

“Gabrielle?”

“Yes, Gabrielle, you idiot!”

“Well, I thought you might mean the American. Gabrielle’s body is still in the van. Gerard is parked outside. We thought it best to come here rather than risk calling.”

Hurtubise began pacing, biting his lip in concentration. Deladier and Clary watched him closely. They thought they knew what Gabrielle Tixier meant to him, but they also knew his ruthless quality. It was at once a strength and a fault.

Abruptly he turned on a heel. “Raoul, you and Gerard get rid of the body. Remove all identification, everything. In fact, bring the clothes. I’ll burn them myself.” He turned to Deladier. “Paul, call the charter pilot.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re flying up to the mine tonight. Something’s going to happen there. I feel it. Let Etienne know we’re coming.”

Deladier merely nodded. Then he asked, “What are you going to do, Marcel?”

Hurtubise regarded his colleague with a shark’s flat eyes. “I’m going for a walk.”

41

Steve Lee hung up the phone and turned to Daniel Foyte. “Gunny we’re set. That was Roosevelt. He says the 130s are landing tomorrow and we’ll have the final briefing two days later. That allows for some slack in the schedule, mainly for deploying the helos up north.”

Foyte was helping himself to a pinch of Redman, an old habit. He only used smokeless tobacco, as it gave little indication of his presence whenever the urge hit on an ambush site. He settled the wad in his cheek, then said, “Very well, sir. I’ll tell the guys. Uh, when do you want to spring it on the two action platoons?”

“Not until we’re ready to board the Hercs. Far as the troops will know, we’re just conducting a mobilization drill. Colonel Malloum might go along but he understands it’d just be for show.”

The former Marine went to work on the chaw, nodding his approval. “Yessir. Uh, what about the choppers?”

Lee suppressed a yawn; he had been up much of the night, finalizing arrangements for the operation. “Keegan and Marsh are checking out two Alouettes today. The attaché will help them test fly two birds and get them headed for the border tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

“What about maintenance?”

“Already handled, Gunny. Our pilots brought a guy who knows Alouettes inside out, and one or two Chadian mechs are going along with some spare parts.”

Foyte was working on his wad now, savoring the juice. “Well, all right, Major. But I’d be damn nervous riding in a machine that wants to tear itself apart on a good day, let alone one maintained by some of the boys in this neck of the woods.”

Lee sat upright, looking Foyte full in the face. “Gunnery Sergeant, this has come up before, and I need you to tune your command set to ‘receive.’ Are you reading me?”

Foyte knew what was coming. “Yessir. I read you five by five. No more talk about ‘boys.’“

“You got it.”

Marcel Hurtubise walked rapidly, covering ground in a purposeful stride that led nowhere. Hands in his pockets, uncharacteristically looking at the ground rather than 360 degrees around him, he realized with a start that he had circled a city block for the second time. He looked at the sky. Late afternoon. Gabrielle has been dead at least six hours.

He resumed walking.

In his lonely, violent forty-four years, Marcel Jules Marie Hurtubise had learned to rely upon himself. Oh, there had been the comradely nature of the Legion—Legio pro patria and all that — but it was not strong enough to hold him. He had wanted something else, something more.

Gabrielle.

He saw her again in his memory for the first time: the defiant, skinny teenager who could use a good meal and a hot bath. He had seen many like her: frightened, angry runaways seeking temporary shelter, both physical and emotional. Somehow, it had worked with her. Most of the time, anyway. It had not been easy, getting her off drugs and off the street. But in months rather than years, his attention and his patience had won her. He remembered the first time she had given herself to him. And with something approaching remorse, he recalled the only time he had forced her — the result of a simple job that had gone terribly bad and there was no one else to take his wrath. She swore that if he ever did that again, she would kill him, herself, or both of them.

He believed her.

After that, the years had been more good than bad. She grew to mental maturity, if not emotional, and occasionally shared in his work. She was a natural in some ways — coy, manipulative, astute about people. Especially men. But eventually he had seen the edge return, something hard and bitter behind the big blue eyes. When she had wanted to execute the Israeli, he knew she had turned a corner that offered little chance of return.

Raoul’s question forced its way to Marcel’s consciousness again. Why not let us do it?

He had answered, “I have my reasons.”

True, Clary and any of the others could have handled the intrusive American female, but Marcel wanted Gabrielle to do the killing. She had arrogantly asserted that she could handle the con job, and when she failed, it became her responsibility to put things right. If she did it, maybe there was a chance she could recover. If not… well…

Mauvaise chance.

Hurtubise bit his lip until it hurt. He thought he tasted the salty tang of blood. We came so close, Gabby. After this job, we could go anywhere, settle down, enjoy life. He even had a spot picked out, a semi-secluded property in Switzerland. Wonderful scenery, skiing in the winter, not too many neighbors.

Now that was gone. It was partly her fault, partly his, and partly theirs.

By God, the Americans were going to pay

He turned around and strode back to the apartment.

42

Steve Lee was a professional pessimist. He spent much of his life contemplating what might go wrong, and shared that philosophy with the SSI team’s final briefing for the raid.

“As I see it, the biggest problem we might have is the people north of the border.” He indicated the boundary with Libya, barely forty kilometers from the uranium mine. “Now, there’s no reason to think that they’ll get involved, but in my experience that’s reason to think they might.” He gave an ironic grin that prompted polite chuckles from his audience.

“If we take them by surprise, there shouldn’t be much trouble. But if they ‘make’ us inbound, if they have much warning at all, they could have some yellow cake on a couple of trucks hightailing it for Colonel Qadhafi. From there, the load could go anywhere. Like Iran.”

Bernard Langevin, monitoring the briefing from the back row, raised a hand. “Steve, I agree that’s a concern. But I just don’t think the Libyans are going to pick a fight with the U.S., not even in Chad.”

Lee laid down his pointer and turned to the scientist. “Look at it from their boots, Bernie. They won’t know we’re Americans. Hell, officially we’re not even involved in this op. That’s the whole idea behind SSI: deniability.”

Before Langevin could respond, Brezyinski posed a question. “Sir, doesn’t Iran have uranium? I mean, why go to all the trouble to smuggle the stuff from Chad or someplace?”

Langevin nodded. “Reasonable question. But you’ve just had a hint of the answer from Major Lee: deniability.”

Breezy wrinkled a brow. “How’s that, Doc?”

“Almost every uranium ore has its own identification, like a fingerprint. If there’s anyplace on earth that hasn’t been fingerprinted, so to speak, I don’t know where it is. So if the Iranians want to nuke someplace, they’re not going to use material from their own backyard. They have at least three mines but they’ll want to use refined ore from someplace else, the farther away the better. They’d use it from Colorado if they could get enough of it.”

Bosco, whose scientific interest generally was limited to pulp fiction and Star Wars movies, now took a closer interest. “Excuse me, sir. But how much uranium do you need for a bomb?”

Langevin grinned hugely. His smile said, Low, slow one over the middle of the plate. Finally he replied, “Well, I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.”

When the laughter abated, the scientist raised a hand. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. But it’s a fair question. I can’t talk about current weapons, but for the Little Boy that flattened Hiroshima, about sixty-five kilos. Less than 150 pounds.” Warming to his subject, he continued. “But that’s not a very efficient use of a valuable product. Now, take Fat Man, the Nagasaki bomb. That only used six kilos of plutonium, but of course you need a lot of uranium to process plutonium. There’s an intermediate step called a composite, with a core using both uranium and plutonium. A little over three kilos of plutonium and six and a half of U-235.” He shrugged. “Actually, it doesn’t make a lot of difference. An exact duplicate of Little Boy is still about twelve to fifteen KT yield, and we know what that did to Hiroshima.”

“I have a question.” It was Josh Wallender, who rarely spoke in meetings. “Libya has been awfully quiet for several years, like maybe they learned a lesson. Why would they risk another setback on behalf of Iran?”

Langevin shifted in his seat to face the Green Beret. “Good question, Sergeant. For some years there was cooperation between Libya and Iran on weapons research, even though Qadhafi’s regime is pretty secular. But there was a Libyan group of Islamic extremists that attacked government facilities inside Libya so Qadhafi had them expelled. They went to Afghanistan, then settled in Iran with some other al Qaeda groups. Along the way, some of their recent knowledge about Iran’s nuclear program got back to Libya, and that had something to do with Qadhafi renouncing WMDs in 2004. So it looks like there’s a connection: Tehran doesn’t want Libya spilling what it knows about the Iranian bomb program, and threatens to return the radicals to Libya if that happens.”

Wallender emitted a long, low whistle.

Langevin smiled in appreciation. “Yeah. Welcome to the Middle East.”

Regaining control of the session, Lee said, “That’s the long way ‘round the block to say that we should be prepared for a Libyan reaction. It’s entirely possible that some yellow cake can be moved to Libya with or without the government’s knowledge, and shipped elsewhere. That means we want to do this as slick and quick as possible.”

He scanned the room, unblinking behind his Army issue glasses. “Anything else for discussion?” He glanced at Foyte, who shook his head.

“Very well then.” Lee shot a look at his watch. “Let’s get our people moving. Equipment check before the briefing and nobody leaves the compound. We’re wheels in the well in four plus thirty.”

43

The Cessna 421 braked to a halt on the hard-packed runway and shut down the left engine first. Before the three-bladed propeller had stopped spinning, the door opened and two men immediately debarked. Marcel Hurtubise and Paul Deladier carried overnight bags that contained few clothes. Anyone hefting the satchels would have commented upon the weight.

Cruising at 190 knots, the trip had taken over three hours. Deladier would have preferred to try to sleep during the trip but his superior had other priorities. In one way, however, Deladier welcomed the diversion. He did not want to dwell upon Gabrielle Tixier.

Etienne Stevin was waiting. Anticipating the question, he met Hurtubise and said, “We’re almost ready.”

The three mercenaries climbed into the Land Rover and talked en route to the mine. “Tell me,” Hurtubise commanded.

Stevin’s stubby fingers grasped the wheel, navigating the unpaved road from the landing strip. “After we got Paul’s message, we reinforced the guard and changed the schedule. We’re now at fifty percent alert during the night, thirty-three percent during the day. Moungar’s assistant is practically using a whip on the blacks; they’re pushing hard to get two full loads ready for loading.”

“How soon?”

“The first one — maybe day after tomorrow. No later than Tuesday. The second load maybe later that day.”

Hurtubise chewed his lip and rubbed his stubbled chin, measuring the time-distance equation. It was going to be tight. He could feel it. He looked at Stevin. “Who is the assistant?”

“Name’s Jean Djimesta. I thought you met him before.”

“I did. I just don’t remember the name. Medium-sized, really black, balding. Bit of an attitude for a nigger.”

“That’s him.”

Hurtubise glanced over his shoulder to Deladier in the rear seat. “Well, seeing that he’s getting the job done, we can tolerate some attitude. But not too much, eh?” He almost laughed.

Deladier leaned forward between the front seats. “What about Moungar? Will he be here?”

“No,” Hurtubise replied. “I’d like to have him here because he represents the government. But he’s making arrangements with our friends across the border.”

Downshifting to cross a narrow defile, Stevin said, “Boss, I’d like to hear more. What do we really know about the Americans? And how good is the information?”

Hurtubise dropped the impending grin. “The information is about as good as we can expect, but it’s the usual situation. You never have everything you want. I got suspicious when Gabrielle came back from her second meeting with the American woman.” He shook his head in self reproach. “That was my fault, really. I thought she could handle it. The little shrew was pretty good at getting people to talk but…”

Deladier felt a small, electric prickling between the shoulders at Tixier’s name. He sat back, grasping a door handle to steady himself as the Land Rover jounced over the graded road.

“Anyway, she spilled more than she learned,” Hurtubise continued. “When I realized what had happened, I sent her to deal with the American broad but she didn’t come back.”

Stevin did not know what to say. Deladier had already described the basics so the burly Belgian merely nodded.

“The rest I filled in with contacts at the embassy, and intuition. The American firm is training a counterinsurgency unit in N’Djamena but we have to assume they can get up here pretty fast if they want. That’s why I want to get at least two loads out as soon as possible. After that, we’ve met our contract. Anything else is a bonus.”

Stevin turned toward his boss and unzipped a tobacco-stained grin. “I like bonuses.”

Hurtubise scowled in reply. “You just blow it on gambling and booze and whores. In a couple of weeks or months you’re broke again.”

The Belgian nodded gravely, looking at the road again. Then he perked up. “But there’s always another job. Thanks to you.”

The Frenchman regarded his colleague with a sideways glance. “Not after this one, Etienne. Not after this one.”

Terry Keegan had a good opinion of his dead-reckoning ability, but he was glad of the GPS set in the borrowed Alouette III. Flying with Charles the mechanic in the seat beside him, the former naval aviator led his two helicopters in a descent to Bardai airfield in the rugged terrain of northern Chad.

From studying aeronautical charts and Web sites, Keegan knew that only seven of the nation’s fifty-one airports had paved runways. Bardai, at thirty-five hundred feet elevation, was unpaved but its fifty-nine-hundred-foot runway would accommodate the C-130s inbound behind him.

Major Lowe, flying with Eddie Marsh, handled air-ground communications, such as they were. Though Bardai was a military field, it impressed the Americans as an extraordinarily low-key operation. They air-taxied to the area indicated by the controller, alit side by side, and shut down. The Turbomeca engines wheezed to a stop and the four men debarked. They were mildly surprised when no one met them.

“Not a bad thing,” Lowe observed. “As long as we can get refueled and arrange security, I’d just as soon be ignored until we’re finished here.”

While the Air Force officer arranged for fuel, Keegan, Marsh, and Haegelin conducted post-flight inspections on both choppers. “I’m using a little more oil than the manual lists, but I guess it’s okay,” Marsh said.

“What do you mean, you guess it’s okay?” Keegan never took anything for granted: it was part of the reason he had survived four western Pacific deployments as a sub hunter, operating in big waves off some small decks.

“Charles says it’s in limits,” Marsh replied. “And he sure knows more about these machines than I do.” The former Army flier quipped, “Hey, I’m an H-47 kinda guy.”

Keegan tried to suppress a smile, and failed. “Chinooks — they’re like women. You can’t live with ‘em and you can’t live without ‘em.”

“No lie, GI. The ‘47 was in the inventory twelve years before I was born!”

A low, insistent pulsing thrummed through the atmosphere, coming from the southwest. The helo pilots turned in that direction, shading their eyes against the slanting westerly rays of the sun. Several moments later Marsh exclaimed, “There! Just above the horizon.”

The tall-tailed silhouettes of two C-130Hs hove into view at 290 knots, slanting toward the field. They flew a straight-in approach, taking landing interval but not bothering with the traffic pattern. “They probably don’t want to draw any more attention than they need to,” Keegan surmised.

Charles Haegelin ventured a rare sentiment, as he had not been asked a question. “With that kind of noise, they cannot keep hidden so well.”

He had a point. Each Hercules’s four Allison turboprops conspired to produce a pulsing resonance that could not be ignored. The lead transport touched down in the first quarter of the hard-packed runway and the pilot reversed the propellers, visibly slowing the big Lockheed, which turned off before the end of the strip. The second plane loitered momentarily in its approach, allowing the dust to disperse. In a few minutes both planes were parked, their engines whining a descending dirge as propellers windmilled into stillness.

“Hey look,” Keegan exclaimed. “New paint job.”

Marsh squinted at the 130s. Finally he saw the Navy man’s meaning. Chad’s tricolor cockade was painted over the tactical black-on-gray American insignia on fuselage and wings. There was also a fin flash on the vertical stabilizer. “That’s not going to fool anybody,” Marsh ventured. “Besides, it’s probably not legal.”

Terry Keegan nudged him. “Like Teddy Roosevelt said, Why spoil the beauty of the thing with legality?”

44

The mine was a welter of noise and activity. As the mercenaries alit from their Land Rover, they were approached by the foreman.

“Jean Djimesta,” Etienne reintroduced the African to Hurtubise.

“Mr. Djimesta.” Hurtubise slung his FA-MAS rifle from his right shoulder, muzzle down. He had already chambered the first round of 5.56mm ammunition from the twenty-five-round magazine. Deladier did likewise; both had carried the compact bullpup design in the Legion.

The Chadian raised a hand and gestured behind him. “We are proceeding as fast as possible, monsieur.” He anticipated the Frenchman’s concern, adding, “We should be able to load the first truck before sunrise. The second perhaps two hours later.”

Hurtubise nodded; it was better than he expected. “We can expect uninvited guests before dawn. Keep the men working.”

Before Djimesta could reply, Hurtubise turned away and strode toward the perimeter. His colleagues followed.

“Paul, I want you to go with the first truck. Stay with it until it’s ready to leave. You know the procedure at the border?”

“Yes,” Deladier said. “Moungar already gave us the details.”

“All right.” He turned to Stevin. “Etienne, you will remain in command of perimeter defense. But I need you sober, you understand?”

The Belgian ignored the implication, unflappable as usual. “What do you think they’ll hit us with, Boss?”

Hurtubise rubbed his chin. He needed a shave but hardly registered that fact. “I’m not sure they’ll come in shooting. I think they’ll make a show of force to make us back down without a fight. I wish we had more heavy weapons, but there’s no time to bring them up here. Anyway, I’ll talk to the men in a little while, but be sure they all understand: no shooting unless we’re attacked. If we need to slow them down so the trucks can get away, I’ll give that word. After that it’s up to you again.” He gave Stevin an unaccustomed pat on the arm.

Good of you to die for me, mon ami. That’s what you seem to want.

Deladier asked, “What are they likely to bring?”

“I don’t think they’ll have APCs or anything like that. Probably they’ll arrive in trucks. Maybe a few helicopters. But they won’t pursue us into Libya, that’s for sure.”

Stevin chuckled aloud. “We can handle a chopper or two.”

45

Steve Lee found himself functioning as a company commander again. It had been several years, but he relished the challenge.

In a large tent erected well clear of the flight line, he described the plan to his unit: the first platoon plus the SSI team and some support personnel. He spoke slowly and clearly, allowing J. J. Johnson to translate for the Chadians.

“First platoon is the assault element. Second platoon will provide the blocking force and perimeter security.” He described a semicircle around the entrance to the mine and a roadblock to the north. “We will use both helos: one to lift a squad to overtake any vehicle that gets past the roadblock, the other to insert a second squad as a reaction force, wherever it might be needed.”

In the orange-yellow glow of the suspended lights, he indicated where he wanted the Alouettes positioned at the moment of the assault. He glanced at Terry Keegan and Eddie Marsh; both seemed attentive and composed.

“Now this is important,” Lee stressed. He paused longer than necessary after Johnson said, “C’est important.”

“No one will open fire, even if we are fired upon, unless we take casualties.” Lee awaited the expected murmur of protest from the Chadians. “I repeat: this is important. We want to secure the mine as quickly as possible. If we have to shoot our way in, that gives the smugglers time to get away, possibly with some yellow cake. That’s why we want a blocking force in position, but we cannot assume it will stop everybody trying to escape.”

When Johnson finished elaborating, Lee continued. “We want to intimidate the guards into surrendering. Therefore, we will not return fire if they merely shoot in our direction. When we close with them, if they’re still shooting, either I or Mr. Johnson will give the order. Is that clear?”

“Est-ce clairement?”

Resentful nods and assents came from the audience.

“Now,” Lee continued. “Once we’ve secured the facility, Mr. Langevin will be in charge. You will take orders from him, especially in regard to any uranium ore, yellow cake, or equipment. If everything goes well, we can pack up and return to the capital day after tomorrow.”

Keegan and Marsh exchanged knowing glances. Never freakin’ happen.

Marsh raised a hand. “Sir, how do we know the yellow cake won’t be taken out tonight?”

Lee assumed a relaxed posture. “We don’t, Mr. Marsh. That’s why Sergeant Nissen and three troopies are watching the roads in and out of there. They left right after we landed. If they see suspicious activity, they’ll call us and both you gentlemen will hustle up there with five Chadians apiece.” He grinned ironically. “Sorry, but you may not get much sleep tonight.”

Keegan appreciated the plan if not the specifics. “What will the rest of you do in that case, sir?”

“We’ll man up the trucks and be there in about three-zero mikes.” He looked around. “Yes, Sergeant Bawoyeu.”

The Chadian NCO asked,“Qu’est connu au sujet des gardes? Sontelles les combattants expériménts? “

Johnson translated: “What do we know about the guards? Are they experienced fighters?”

Lee responded, “That’s a fair question. We don’t know exactly how many are up there — maybe twelve to twenty. Since they presumably work for Groupe FGN, we can assume they know what they’re doing. Probably several of them are ex-Foreign Legion. But we outnumber them and we’ll have some degree of surprise.”

Lee consulted his briefing notes, checking off each item. “Oh, yes: prisoner handling. Everybody there will be disarmed and searched. But it should be done professionally, with a minimum of force. Actually, they’re not prisoners, just detainees. If they don’t resist us, they’re not liable to prosecution. So we’ll keep them in a secure area until things settle down.

“Lastly: casualty treatment. We have a Green Beret medic with us as well as two Chadian corpsmen. The Air Force has part of a combat control team and some PJs on one of the Hercs, and those folks will establish an aid station on board the airplane. If we have to, we can use one of the choppers for a med-evac.”

He looked around again. “Anything else?”

When no ore responded, Lee gave a brisk nod. “Very well, gentlemen. Unless something pops tonight, we arrive at the mine ten minutes past daybreak.”

46

“Trucks are coming from the south. Maybe three kilometers out, moving fast.” Etienne Stevin’s voice was urgent, slightly slurred.

Marcel Hurtubise rolled off his cot and scooped up his FA-MAS. He glanced at his watch: about two hours’ sleep. “Paul?”

Stevin shook his head. “What?”

Hurtubise gritted his teeth in frustration. The realization struck him: Stevin had been drinking last night. Of all times! He modulated his voice. “I asked about Paul, you oaf! Where is he?”

“Oh. I think he’s still with the first truck. You wanted him to stick with it, didn’t you?”

“All right. You meet our guests. Don’t shoot if you don’t have to, but give us time to get going.” He held Stevin’s gaze to emphasize the importance. “You understand?”

Stevin nodded, dropped the tent flap, and disappeared. Hurtubise was angry: with his deputy, with the workers, with the equipment, with himself. Just thirty more minutes and we would have been away from here!

He stepped outside, seeing the gray hues of dawn stretching across the barren landscape. He stopped for a moment, reviewing his dispositions. Full alert: sixteen men awake and fully armed. Five at the front gate with Etienne, four more a hundred meters back to provide fire support. Three positioned at the north gate to defend the exit, two each with the trucks. He would have liked another section at the exit gate, since the Americans were likely to attempt an end-around, but he needed most of his force to slow the attack along the main axis of advance.

Hurtubise took the spare Range Rover, cranked the engine, and coaxed its 2.4 liters into life. With his rifle and kit bag beside him, he stepped on the gas and sped for the quarry.

In the back of the lead truck, two SSI operators accompanied Bernard Langevin and eight Chadian troopers. As the Renault sped toward the mine, Langevin looked at his nearest companion, the man known as Breezy. He had his eyes shut as he seemed to inhale deeply, hold his breath, and expel it.

On the opposite side, Bosco caught the scientist’s eye. He gave a knowing grin.

“What’s he doing?” Langevin asked.

“It’s called the count of four. You inhale on a four count, hold it for four, and exhale for four. Do that four times. It’s, like, a relaxation technique.”

“Does it work?”

Breezy opened his eyes. “It’s my pre-combat routine, Doc. Lowers the heart rate, gets more oxygen into the blood.” He regarded the nuclear specialist. “Give it a try.”

“Well, I…”

Lee opened the flap separating the bed from the cab. “Line of departure, gentlemen! Lock and load!”

Terry Keegan knew something would go wrong; it always did. He did not expect it to be communications.

Inbound at two hundred feet, he banked his Alouette to clear the uranium mine, lest the operators assume he was a threat. He intended to hover nearby while the truck convoy confronted the gate guards, leaving Eddie Marsh to handle contingencies. But moments before the first truck squealed to a stop, Keegan lost contact with Marsh.

Beside him, Charles Haegelin played with the unfamiliar radio set. After twisting the knobs for volume and gain without avail, he shifted frequencies — still no success. “It is no good,” the French Canadian mechanic conceded. “I can do nothing in the air. Maybe if we landed…”

Keegan shook his head. “We can’t do that, Charles. Not until I know how things are going down there. Otherwise our troopies might be out of position if we need ‘em.” He nodded over his shoulder, indicating the five Chadian soldiers behind him.

“Can you still talk to Major Lee?”

“Yeah. I ran a comm check on the way in. But I can’t talk directly to Eddie.” He thought for a moment. “If I have to, I could relay a message to him via the ground team.”

Haegelin shrugged. “Well, he knows what to do.”

Paul Deladier heard the warning shouts, saw Hurtubise’s Range Rover speeding toward him, and discerned helicopters in the distance. He did not need to await more information. He nudged his driver, a former caballero legionario of the Spanish Legion. “Allez, allez!” The mercenary, who had grown up in the Pyrenees, was fluent in French and Spanish. He put the Mercedes-Benz Axor in gear and, pulling a semi van, headed for the northern exit.

Etienne Stevin’s experienced eyes were bleary but they took in the rapidly developing situation. Three trucks deployed within fifty meters of the entrance, disgorging two trucks worth of troops. He realized that whoever commanded the operation was an experienced soldier.

Three men advanced toward the gate: a white and two Africans. Two carried rifles, muzzles down; the white man bore no visible weapons.

“Bonjour,” the apparent leader greeted Stevin. The man introduced himself as Dr. Bernard Langevin, producing identification from the International Atomic Energy Agency. “We wish to inspect this facility,” the American said. He added something about authority of the United Nations and the Chadian government, indicating his nearest black colleague who in fact was Sergeant Major Bawoyeu. However, the introductions were drowned out by the passage of a second helicopter orbiting overhead.

From the center truck Steve Lee looked up, growing impatient with the flier’s antics. He approved Keegan’s cautious approach, hovering menacingly in the distance, but Eddie Marsh seemed to be pushing his orders. Lee keyed his microphone. “Beanie Two from Grunt One.”

“Beanie here. Go.” Marsh’s voice was light and chipper on the UHF frequency.

“Back off, Beanie. You’re bothering the locals. Over.”

Marsh responded with two mike clicks, lowered his nose, and moved off to the northeast.

Langevin took advantage of the momentary interruption while Stevin watched the Alouette depart. Though not trained as an operator, the scientist recognized a well-planned position: two machine guns placed for mutual support with riflemen on the flanks. But he was certain that the defenders had not shown him everything.

Addressing the senior guard again, Langevin repeated his demand. “We are here to inspect the facility. May we enter?”

The Belgian mercenary remained calm. “I have no objection, monsieur, but I shall have to check with my commandant. Please wait.”

Langevin watched the burly guard walk past the gate, taking his time en route wherever he was going. “He’s stalling,” the American said to Bawoyeu.

As if in confirmation, Marsh was back on the radio. “Be advised, there’s a truck and trailer headed for the north gate!”

Lee was monitoring the channel. “Beanie Two, are there any other vehicles?”

After a short interval, Marsh replied, “Affirmative. Another truck and semi and a couple of SUVs. One is headed for the parked truck. Over.”

Lee visualized the developing situation. Time mattered now more than ever. “Beanie Two, keep an eye on the mover. Break break. Grunt Four, copy?”

Chris Nissen’s baritone snapped back. “Copy, One. We’re in position, over.”

“Ah, roger, Four. Do what you have to but stop that truck.”

“Affirm. Out.”

Satisfied that Nissen’s squad would handle the northern roadblock, Lee set down the microphone on his command set. Then he checked his portable radio and leaned out of the door. He made a circular motion with one hand, signaling the deployed squads to advance on the perimeter. J. J. Johnson caught the sign and directed the maneuver element. With that, Lee nodded for his driver to head for the gate.

Above and behind him, Breezy pushed the canvas tarp aside to deploy a bipoded HK-21, leaning into the 7.62 machine gun and trying to steady it on the roof of the cab.

Marcel Hurtubise grasped the emerging confrontation. Ruefully he sped past the second Mercedes, not quite half full of yellow cake. Briefly he considered driving the truck himself to salvage more of his end user’s product, but he dismissed the option. Paul will need some support. He braked to a stop, urged two of his reaction squad to jump in, and resumed his northward dash.

Etienne Stevin labored under many human frailties. Some would say most of them, but he was nothing if not loyal. That sense of camaraderie mixed with the cognac he had consumed now conspired to produce a mental binary. Deep in the recesses of his memory he heard the measured strains of “Le Boudin” and grasped the essential rightness of it all. Outnumbered, beset by desert enemies beyond the gate, surrounded by his fellows: this was how a Legionnaire died!

Sensing the helicopter threat to Deladier’s truck, the Belgian tossed aside a tarp and picked up a Mistral missile launcher. It was one of three stashed within the compound.

Stevin had not fired a man-portable SAM in several years, but he knew the drill.

Hefting its nineteen kilograms, Steven settled the loaded launcher on his right shoulder. He tracked the Alouette in his sight, pressed the enabling switch to activate the homer, and held his breath. In seconds he was rewarded with the light confirming that the missile’s seeker head was tracking a heat source within range.

He pressed the firing button.

Inside the launcher, the booster motor ejected the missile with an impulse lasting less than half a second. Fifty feet downrange, the sustainer motor burst into life, accelerating with eye-watering velocity. At more than twice the speed of sound, the Mistral ate up the distance to the target.

Stevin knew that the Mistral was rated effective against helicopters at four kilometers. His target was barely half that far.

Three kilometers up the road, Chris Nissen saw the missile’s telltale wake. He pressed his mike button, hardly knowing what to say.

Had Nissen or Stevin or anyone else had a heartbeat to ponder the situation, they might have been struck by the irony. A French missile— named for a cold north wind that blows along the Riviera — dashed with demonic obsession toward a French helicopter, fired by a Belgian employed by a French firm. But most missiles are like bullets, conceived without a conscience, pursuing their embedded purposes depending upon the preference of their human masters.

Since Stevin’s Mistral lacked a logic board, and Marsh’s Alouette lacked IFF or even chaff or flares, the result of the firing was nearly certain. Stevin did not recall the precise figure, but he had read that Mistrals could be ninety percent effective when launched within parameters.

Before Nissen could shout a warning, the missile exploded. Its laser proximity fuse sensed the overtake on the heat source and detonated the three-kilogram warhead.

Scores of tungsten balls erupted outward from the blast pattern, ruining the helo’s airframe. The boom was nearly severed from the cabin, sending the Alouette spiraling crazily to earth.

47

“Look at that!”

Racing to catch Deladier’s semi truck and trailer, Hurtubise shot a glance to his right. Following his companion’s extended trigger finger, Marcel glimpsed a missile plume and a receding midair explosion in the gray Saharan sky. “Damn it to hell! I said no unnecessary shooting!” Things were turning to hash. He put his foot on the floor.

Everybody was talking at once. The air and ground radios were jammed with shouts, questions, and exclamations.

Lee sought to make sense of the babble. He knew he would have to wait a few moments for the talkers to get a grip on themselves. Bad show, he told himself. No radio discipline.

Terry Keegan was the first to break through the noise. He dispensed with call signs. “Steve, Terry. Eddie’s down! Repeat, Eddie’s down. A missile got him.”

“Where’d it come from? Over.”

“Inside the perimeter. I think more to the south side.”

Looking outside his truck, Lee saw the remaining Alouette lower its nose and accelerate to the north. “Terry, Steve. Do not proceed north. Repeat, do not go north.”

“Ah… Steve, I can reach him faster than Nissen.”

“I know, Terry, I know. But we can’t risk you and the reaction force. Please stay back here ‘til we get sorted out. Over.”

The helo continued almost to the perimeter before slowing. Then Keegan executed a pedal turn and pivoted right, heading easterly. “Acknowledged, out.”

Steve Lee’s mind raced, sorting priorities and options. Likely Marsh and his Chadian troops were dead. In any case, they could not be helped just now. He keyed his mike. “Grunt Four from Grunt One, over.”

Several heartbeats later Nissen’s voice was on the air. “Grunt Four. Steve, I see it. I’m going to check for survivors.”

“Ah, negative, Chris. Not yet. We need to keep the back door closed. There’s a truck and trailer headed your way.”

More seconds ticked away before Nissen responded. “Steve, I’m already on the way to the crash, about two klicks away. It’s starting to burn and we might save some guys…” His voice trailed off before the carrier wave went dead. Lee could read Nissen’s mind. He’s a good NCO, looking out for his fellow soldiers but the mission should come first.

“Okay, Chris. Keep me informed.

“Break-break. Beanie One, copy?”

“One is up.” Keegan’s voice rasped over the air-ground freq; eager, alert. Maybe a little tense.

“Terry, I need you to back up Grunt Four. He’s headed for the crash but we have to intercept the truck. Do an end-around to cut him off. Put your team on the road far enough ahead so you’re out of the SAM envelope. I’ll send our reserve force ASAP. Copy?”

“Will do, Steve.” Lee heard the Alouette’s Artouste 3 engine spool up as Keegan flexed his left wrist on the collective. The helo descended to about twenty feet above the ground and skirted the mine perimeter, low and fast.

Lee was back working the radio. “Grunt One to Grunt Five.”

Foyte’s gravelly voice was a welcome sound. “Five here, Boss.”

“Gunny, bring your guys up here right now. I’m sending one of my guys to block the northern exit while Chris is checking the shootdown.”

“On the way, Major. Ah, who’s down? Over.”

Lee shook his head in disgust. All that screaming on the radio. Foyte doesn’t know what’s happened. “Ah, Marsh took a missile, Gunny. That’s all we know right now.”

“Roger.” Foyte, the old pro, would adjust as necessary.

“Grunt One to Two, over.”

“Two here, go.” Wallender came back promptly, crisply.

“Josh, take your truck around to the west and block the road a klick or so north of the far exit. Stop anybody coming out, any way you can.”

“Affirm.” The word was barely out before Wallender’s truck moved off the scraped road onto the hard-packed earth, headed for the left side of the perimeter.

Lee turned back to his immediate problem: two trucks facing a prepared defense. Parked in the open, no more than fifty meters from the fence, they offered tempting targets to the automatic weapons just inside the wire. He turned to Bosco and Breezy in the bed behind him. “The fact they haven’t fired at us tells me the missile shot might be unauthorized. Whatever happens inside the mine is secondary right now so I’m not going to force the issue. But we’re not going head to head against two belt-fed weapons. We’ll move to the southwest corner where the eastern MG can’t engage us.”

Breezy shifted his HK. “Gotcha, Boss.”

Langevin was back in the cab, a querulous look on his face. “Steve, do you want me to see if I can talk to them? Like you said, they haven’t shot at us. Maybe they’ll stand down and let us in.”

“Negative, Bernie. Not now. I need to know their intentions before we stick our necks in there.”

Chris Nissen’s truck lurched to a stop thirty meters from the wrecked Alouette. He deployed three of his Chadians between the crash site and the northern road, then led the others toward the helo. With a professional eye, he noted that the French designed a damn good machine. The fuel cell had survived the impact, though hydraulic fluid and seeping kerosene were spreading liquid flames across the area.

A Chadian brought a fire extinguisher from the truck. “Get in there,” Nissen directed the man to the largest fire. “Hose that down. We gotta get them out!”

Peering into the smoke and flames, Nissen sought any sign of movement. He could not see through the smoke-stained glass.

It was taking too long.

Nissen dashed back to the truck, seized an ax from the toolbox, and raced to the helo again. Shoulda thought of this before. He ignored the noxious fumes from the smoke and stepped uncomfortably close to the fire. With a gloved hand he grasped the hatch and pulled the handle. The door opened less than two inches. Nissen realized that the airframe had buckled, holding the door closed.

Behind him and on either side, men were shoveling dirt onto the flames or scooping rocky earth with bare hands. Nissen was a large, well-built man, and his powerful, overhand blows took effect. He knocked out the Plexiglas window, then began hacking away aluminum around the door latch. He was making progress when the wind shifted, blowing even more smoke at him. He turned his head, retching in the thick, cloying fumes, and stepped back.

Someone seized the ax from him and resumed cutting. It was Corporal Nassour Yodoyman: smaller and lighter than the American, but equally committed. He has friends in there, Nissen realized. Like me.

Nissen heard shouting behind him. He turned to see the three guards waving and gesturing. Moments later a Mercedes truck hauling a semi trailer raced past, headed north.

Etienne Stevin earnestly wished for a radio. Things had happened so quickly that he had no time to consult with Hurtubise. Actually, “consult” was an exaggeration. Stevin was a capable soldier but he was no leader. Given a task, he inevitably carried it out. But now, thrown onto his own resources, he dipped into his command psyche and came up empty.

A former Legionnaire ran up to Stevin, clearly upset at the unexpected events. “My God, what happened, Etienne? Who fired that rocket?”

Stevin glared at the inquisitor, who had asked a rational series of questions. “There’s no time for that, you hybride.” He shoved the man with both hands. “Get back to your position!”

Emile Giroud was younger than the Belgian, less experienced but lacking awe for most of his elders. He ignored the order and pointed to the southeast. “The Americans, Etienne! They’re still out there. The men want to know…”

“I said get back! Right now!”

The two mercenaries locked eyes, both men’s faces flushed with anger and tension. Stevin broke the deadlock by invoking Hurtubise’s name. “Marcel said we hold until the trucks are gone. And that’s what we do!”

“Are you blind? Look around you, Etienne! Look around! Deladier left in the first truck and Marcel followed him in the jeep. There’s nobody to drive the second truck, and it isn’t even fully loaded!”

The younger man awaited a response, then realized there would be none. He smelled the liquor on Stevin’s breath, saw the wild determination in his eyes. Legio pro patria. Stevin turned and shouted to anyone within earshot. “Est maintenant l’heure de faire le camerone.” With that, he paced toward the south gate.

A South African member of Groupe FGN approached Giroud. “What in the hell is Stevin ranting about?”

Giroud made a circular motion with one hand beside his head. “He’s drunk or crazy. Or both. He says, ‘Now is the time to make Camerone!’“

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s the Legion’s big holiday. Mexico in 1863. They celebrate it every April thirtieth.”

“What happened?” asked the Boer.

“Sixty-five Legionnaires fought two thousand Mexicans. They killed three hundred before they were overpowered.”

“Well, I don’t believe in last stands. I believe in living to fight another day.”

Giroud motioned over his shoulder. “Go tell him that, mon vieux.”

The fire was contained. Nissen and Corporal Yodoyman pulled the remains of the cabin door off its mangled hinges and tossed it aside. They heard a low, soft moan from inside the ruined cabin — the first welcome sign since the crash some fifteen minutes before.

Yodoyman leaned into the cabin, reaching to grasp the nearest soldier. “Be careful!” Nissen warned. “We can’t move them right away.”

He forced himself past the Chadian NCO and leaned as far inside as possible. “Marsh! Mr. Marsh! Can you hear me?” He realized that he did not know Marsh’s given name.

No reply came from the front of the helo. The Alouette had pitched violently downward, crashing nose first.

Someone moved in the rear of the compartment. Another pain-wracked sound came from the interior.

Nissen weighed the options: survival of some troops versus accomplishment of the mission. He was glad it was not his responsibility. He decided to make the call.

Stevin cast a glance at the north gate, which had been closed following Hurtubise’s departure. He counted it good. Marcel is on his way. Now we cover his withdrawal.

He stalked to the southwesterly perimeter wire and rested his rifle atop the sandbag parapet. He was feeling buoyant, almost giddy. This is the day!

Stevin turned to the hired guns around him. “Listen, you wretches. Catteau, Constantin, and Leonhart. They were the last of thirteen Belgians at Camerone. Their blood runs in my veins!” He pounded the top sandbag, exclaiming, “From this place I retreat not one step.”

He propped both elbows on the sandbags and aimed his rifle toward the nearest truck. Taking up the slack, he fired one round fifteen meters in front of the vehicle.

Giroud caught up with Stevin and grabbed for his FA-MAS. “You idiot! You want to get us all killed?”

Stevin shoved the interloper back with a powerful forearm blow. “I command here! Can’t you see what I’m doing? I’m keeping them out while Marcel escapes with the convoy.”

“Convoy? What convoy? What are you talking about?”

Etienne Stevin had no time to explain the situation. This fool had no idea of Groupe FGN’s similarity to Captain Danjou’s company, protecting an arms shipment in Mexico nearly 150 years before. It was all part of the Legion’s tradition: the same then as now.

The Belgian turned back toward the truck and fired another warning round, closer this time.

Giroud grasped the rifle with both hands. The struggle lasted four seconds before Stevin connected with a crushing right to the Frenchman’s cheek. Giroud reeled, dazed and hurt.

Stevin shot him twice in the chest. Then he returned to his harassing fire.

Resting his HK-21 atop the cab of Lee’s truck, Breezy bit down the urge to open fire. He was not a machine gunner by profession, but he knew the tools of his trade and was confident that he could solve the problem from where he sat. Eyeballing the distance to the perimeter fence, he made it seventy to eighty meters.

Bernard Langevin was crouched behind the front tire, wielding a handheld loudspeaker. He was a bit more exposed than Breezy would have liked, but with a bumper, engine block, and thick tire providing cover, it seemed a decent place to be, considering the circumstances. He raised the bullhorn and called again. “Nous sommes des amis. Tenez votre feu!”

A few more rounds snapped through the still morning air, impacting the hard ground around the truck. “That’s still harassing fire,” Lee shouted. He wanted to ensure that nobody got excited — especially the Chadians, who were exhibiting marked restlessness.

Lee turned to Bosco, who had taken over the radio in the cab. “This can go on indefinitely. All the time, the yellow cake is getting farther away.”

“We could go after ‘em, Major. It doesn’t matter what these guys do here, does it? I mean, like, the mine’s not goin’ anywhere.”

“I know, I know. It’s really Mr. Langevin’s call. If he…”

“Grunt Four to Grunt One. Over!”

Bosco picked up the microphone. “Grunt One Bravo here.”

Nissen’s voice came sharp and clear. “Give me the actual, over.”

Bosco leaned toward Lee, extending the mike at the end of its cord. The timing could hardly have been worse. Another rifle shot from the perimeter ricocheted off the hard earth and struck Bosco’s forearm. He yelped in surprise and pain, dropped the mike, and shouted, “Geez! I’m hit!” He followed that exclamation with some fervent Ranger blasphemy.

Lee scooped up the mike, pressed the button, and said, “Chris, stand by one. We’re taking fire.” He dropped the mike and turned toward Bosco, who was lying on his side, below the dash, grasping his injured arm with the opposite hand. Lee saw blood seeping between the operator’s fingers.

“Breezy! Bosco’s hit! Take out that guy!”

Breezy leaned into the German gun, focused his gray eyes on the front sight, held low left, and pressed the trigger for one second. In that tick of time, the HK spat out twelve rounds.

Mark Brezyinski was not much on literature. But having read For Whom the Bell Tolls in high school, he appreciated Hemingway’s phrase: the slick, slippery recoil of a bipoded weapon. Atop his rocky tor, with Franco’s soldiers closing in, Robert Jordan would have given his Republican soul for an HK-21 in place of the Lewis Gun that Gary Cooper wielded in the movie.

That Bergman gal was a real babe, but even more so in Casablanca.

Brezyinski rode the recoil impulse to its height, then forced the sights back down through the target as he released the trigger.

The first round hit the sandbags supporting Etienne Stevin’s firing position. The next four climbed the improvised parapet, and the next three took him off the top row. The others spattered the wooden platform behind him. Stevin fell to the ground, rolled 270 degrees, and twitched to a stop on his left side. He gasped for air and spat up hot blood, staring at the Saharan sand.

Somewhere far off, beyond a ghostly horizon, he saw a figure in an antique uniform — white kepi, blue jacket, and red trousers — striding toward him to the strains of La Marseillaise. He was every bit a soldier: head erect, shoulders back, arms swinging purposefully.

The ethereal figure extended a wooden hand toward the fallen Legionnaire as Capitaine Jean Danjou beckoned him home.

Keegan was not sure that he heard correctly. “Say again, Steve.”

Twelve miles to the south, Steve Lee did a fast three-count. He wanted to keep his voice as well as his temper under control. “Terry, I say again. Return to the crash site. We need an immediate dustoff. Over.”

“Ah, copy… Grunt.” Keegan knew what must be driving Lee’s order. With the Libyan frontier only a few miles ahead, and no effective way of stopping the yellow cake shipment, Lee had finally decided on behalf of the survivors. Eddie Marsh — or at least some of his crew— required air evac to Bardai and the Air Force medics. He could cut an hour or more off the transit time by truck. The golden hour that paramedics talked about.

When Keegan turned the Alouette away from its pursuit, he saw the semi rig speeding north, if anything faster than ever.

Trailing by several kilometers, Marcel Hurtubise watched the helicopter receding in his mirror. He grinned for the first time that day.