The First Casualty

38

Andrews seated himself in a wooden rocker in a small cubicle whose only view through the single fly-specked window was a large warehouse-type floor. The space, perhaps 8,000 or so square feet, was broken up into sections, each containing mechanical-looking equipment Jason could not identify.

He followed his guest’s gaze. “Not much to look at, I know, but it serves.”

Jason took the mate to Andrews’s rocker, extending a hand to accept a steaming mug bearing the logo of the U.S. Navy. Using the other to point toward the window, he said, “Surprised Deborah lets you keep it in a mess. Only time I met her, that time in Washington, she seemed to pretty well give the orders.”

“Gave, past tense. She left out of here three, four years ago. Went to visit her sister in Omaha, never came back. Said she couldn’t stand the loneliness, sound of the wind and coyotes drove her nuts. Guess she missed the society on naval bases.”

“Ah… ” Jason stumbled, a man committing an unintentional but very real faux pas, “I didn’t know… I mean, I’m sorry.”

“No need, Artiste. You couldn’t have known.”

Time for a quick change of subject.

“From the looks of that stuff out there, I see you are still… what did you call it? A tinkerer, I think you said. Like to fool around with gadgets.”

Andrews nodded. “Yeah. Except now I don’t have the brass looking over my shoulder, telling me what to do. Matter of fact…”

He stood, motioning Jason to follow.

Unable to find a convenient place for the coffee mug, Jason carried it out onto the floor. He followed Andrews past what resembled auto engine blocks. Another section contained robot-like devices. Jason was about to ask a question when Andrews stopped.

“Know what that is?”

Two tanks the size a scuba diver might wear, a hose leading to a nozzle device with trigger.

“Looks like a flamethrower.”

“Bravo!”

“But what’s with a flamethrower? I mean, there must be hundreds of them lying around in military warehouses.”

Andrews stooped over to pick up the rig. “Actually, there aren’t. Never have been like this one, anyway. The things were used in Vietnam and weren’t made to last. I looked everywhere, the Internet, military surplus stores, the lot. The commander in chief decided flamethrowers, particularly napalm flamethrowers, were ‘inhumane.’ ” He made quotation marks with his fingers. “Imagine that, worrying about inhumanity to some asshole who’s trying to kill you. Jesus Christ on roller skates! Hell, the things were the number-one effective infantry weapon in the Pacific in World War II. Pretty effective in ’Nam, too. Nothing like a little napalm to get someone out of their spider hole in a hurry.” He sighed. “But then, our great leader, the peanut farmer, decided newsreel pictures of flaming VCs or whoever we fought next were bad for our image, never mind how many American lives might be saved.”

One thing about Andrews: His politics were never wishy-washy.

Jason sipped his rapidly cooling coffee. Definitely better than the airlines’ brew, even if it was bitter enough to make him pucker his lips. “Wouldn’t it be illegal to own a flamethrower?”

“Nope, at least not nationally. Not that the Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives guys wouldn’t be sniffing around here, they knew what I was doing.”

“They check the ones I see in the war movies?”

Andrews snorted derisively. “What you see on the screen are giant cigarette lighters, propane for safety. A real flamethrower uses a mixture of benzene and gasoline with maybe a thickening agent like polystyrene to make sure the fire sticks to whatever it hits, like skin. Too dangerous to let anywhere near the likes of, say, Tom Hanks.”

“Why a flamethrower? I mean, what’s so special about this one?”

“Trouble with World War II types was they weren’t specific enough. You point it and everything within fifty yards or so gets incinerated. Well enough if you’re torching Japs in a cave or Vietcong in a tunnel. Not so good if there are friendlies in the area. Want me to show you?”

Jason took a step backward “No, no. I’ll take your word for it. What made you decide to build flamethrowers? They aren’t my idea of security measures.”

Andrews shrugged. “Disguised freighters weren’t the Navy’s idea of fighting piracy, either.”

“I get the connection, but flamethrowers…?”

“What greater atavistic terror does man have than being cremated alive? Suppose some sand cretin terrorist wannabe knows that he might be dispatched to paradise as a cinder? But you didn’t come all the way to Peace and Plenty to see an old man’s play toys.

“You’re right. Let me tell you a story.”

Twenty minutes later, Andrews pushed back as far as the rocker would allow and stared at the ceiling, his coffee cup forgotten. “Wow! Right out of science fiction.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“How sure are you about this gizmo, this death ray?”

Jason shrugged. “I only know what I’ve been told. The French security folks believe in it, I can tell you that.”

Andrews got up and went to the table on which the coffeepot sat. He lifted it above his cup. “Damn thing’s empty. You gonna want more?”

Jason shook his head, his stomach already sour from the bitterness. “No thanks.”

Andrews pursed his lips, a man making a decision. He nodded, decision made, and put the coffeemaker in a nearby sink. “How sure are you of the location of the source?”

“Once again, I’m relying on the French.”

The Cheyenne was rinsing the pot out. “You didn’t come all this way just to tell me about a plane crash.”

A statement, not a question. Jason said nothing.

Andrews scowled as he concentrated on wiping the coffeemaker’s innards clean. “OK, Artiste, exactly what role do you want me to play in this?”

“So far, there are three of us. You’ll make four if you want to join the party. The mission profile calls for us to reconnoiter, confirm this machine is where we think it is, take it out by whatever means, and confirm that.”

Andrews returned to his rocker. “Sounds like a job for one of the Air Force’s drones.

“Except that a drone can only see what is outside of buildings, can’t go inside. Plus we may well be dealing with not only a mosque, but one that’s a World Heritage site. If you get a week of rioting and forty-plus deaths for accidentally burning a few Korans, you can imagine the reaction if we bombed the wrong one.”

“That was Afghanistan, stirred up by the Taliban.”

“You think the Maghreb would be more reasonable?”

Andrews nodded. “Point taken.”

There was a brief silence before he said, “You have a plan for both insertion and extraction?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re with us or not.”

Andrews gave a dry chuckle. “I ’spect you knew that before you came. Old war horse like me, put out to pasture…”

Jason couldn’t suppress a smile. “Before you get teary-eyed feeling sorry for yourself, let me remind you: You have the best known security school in the United States of America, probably the world. You also have the most expensive. You’re making, what, ten times what the Navy paid you?”

“Yeah, but there’s no real excitement, nothing to get the adrenaline rushing. When I wake up in the morning, I know exactly what’s going to happen that day. Biggest surprises in my life are when it rains.”

“I take it that you’ll be with us.”

“When do you want me where?”

At Andrews’s insistence, Jason spent the night. Breakfast, served before full light, was in one of the bunkhouse-like structures. Six men sitting around a long table reminded him of a scene out of a western. Except these cowboys wore suits tailored on Bond Street instead of flannel shirts and chaps, shoulder holsters instead of low-slung gun belts, cap toes and wingtips by Bruno Magli instead of boots.

The bodyguard business must pay well.

The sun was just beginning to swallow the night’s shadows when Jason tossed his bag into the Ford’s backseat and reached across his chest to extend his right hand out of the window. “I’ll be in touch, next day or two, Chief.”

Andrews leaned over, elbows on the sill of the car’s open window to take Jason’s hand. “Can’t tell me more than that? Like where we’re meeting, exactly when?”

“Don’t know much of that yet. Think of standing by for orders.”

In the rearview mirror, Andrews faded into the dust of Jason’s departure.