by Harold
Boscombe shook his head in wonderment. “What language is that?”
“Hell, man, it’s fish talk. What do you think it is?”
Bosco shrugged his big shoulders. “Klingon?”
Johnson nudged his friend with an elbow. “C’mon, man. It’s not far north of here. We could have a good time. You catch ‘em and I’ll clean ‘em. Laissez le bon roidement de periodes.”
“There’s that language thing again.”
“It’s, like, ‘Let the good times roll.’“
* * * *
SSI OFFICES
Frank Leopole rapped his bronzed knuckles on the polished table. The chatter in the room abated.
“Okay. This meeting is about filling out the training team.” He nodded to SSI’s director of training.
Dr. Omar Mohammed was the Iranian-born son of a shah’s diplomat, valued for his versatility. In addition to supervising SSI training, he was an accomplished linguist, having grown up with Farsi, French, English, and Arabic. Now he spoke four other languages besides. He began, “Jack and I contacted David Main. He’s still our DoD liaison, and now that he’s a full colonel he can tap some assets that were less certain before.”
Leopole beamed. “Doc, you’re just determined to see your picture on the hostile targets at Benning, aren’t you?”
The PhD leaned back, hands comfortably clasped behind his head. “It’s all relative. After all, we recruit from the top of the milk bottle so we can skim the cream. Yes, Special Forces soldiers fluent in Arabic are high-value assets, as the saying goes. Which is precisely why we pay them what they’re worth on the open market.” He arched an eyebrow. “Once their obligations are fulfilled, of course.”
Retired Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Foyte caught Leopole’s eye. They were longtime friends and connoisseurs of Tennessee sippin’ whiskey.
“Just a quick question. How good do we want the Chadians to be?”
“How do you mean?” Mohammed asked.
“I mean, considering what their government’s like, do we really want to train these clients to the highest possible standard?”
Mohammed stared at the far wall, visualizing the stories he had heard about the Savak, the shah’s secret police trained by America and Israel. All that had ended in 1979, of course, when Omar Mohammed was still attending Cambridge. Leopole interjected, “That’s more a philosophical than an operational question, Gunny.”
“I respectfully disagree, Colonel.” As Mohammed defaulted to the more respectful term—he might have addressed Leopole by his given name. “I believe they are directly linked.”
Privately, Leopole ceded his colleague’s point. But he did not want to give SSI the impression that he ever held any qualms about accepting a contract. “I understand your concern, Omar. I really do. But let’s be totally honest: it’s more a matter of degree than substance. However long we work with the Chadians, they’re not likely to come up to more than third-class military status. There’s too much of a cultural gap, and if that appears racist, so be it.”
“You seem to be saying, let our team develop these clients to their full potential, even though we know the end result will be inferior.”
“Only by our standards, Omar. By their standards they’ll be six-hundred-pound gorillas.”
Mohammed nodded slowly. “Very well.” As the meeting proceeded, he penned himself a note for discussion with Mike Derringer. What do we owe our clients? Our best or their best? And how do we arrange the distinction?
* * * *
HORSETHIEF RESERVOIR, IDAHO
“Did you ever see A River Runs Through It?”
J. J. Johnson knew that he had just asked a rhetorical question. Jason Boscombe’s taste in cinema ran in two directions: action and skin, not necessarily in that order. Fishing lay far, far down the former Ranger’s list of interests.
“Yeah, I watched it on TV with my mom. She liked it because of the photography and stuff.”
Johnson finished tying a fly to Bosco’s line. The Parachute Adams dangled at the end of the tippet. “Well, I figured you being from Ellensburg, you’d have some fisherman’s blood in you.”
Bosco frowned perceptibly. “I was more into hunting than fishing. My old man liked to go after steelhead, but he and I . . .” His voice trailed off.
Johnson ignored the tacit message. He knew that Boscombe had seldom returned to eastern Washington after his mother’s death. “Well, the reason I ask about the movie is that it showed fly casting as an accuracy game. That’s the great thing about it: you don’t have to get a strike to enjoy it.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so.” Johnson handed the spare rod to Bosco and unreeled a length of line from his own. Standing on the bank, he looked at the calm, gray water and found what he wanted. “Target. Eleven o’clock, fifteen meters.”
Bosco searched in the direction indicated. “You mean that leaf?”
“That’s it.” Johnson whipped his graphite rod back and forth two or three times, then made his cast. The fly alit five inches from the target. “Damn.”
“What do you mean, ‘damn’? Looked like you almost hit it!”
“Naw, too short. I’ll try again.” Johnson made a longer cast next time, placing the fly three inches beyond the leaf.
“You got it bracketed, dude. Fire for effect!”
Johnson grinned. “Well, you don’t actually want to hit your fish. You want to put the fly within a couple inches of his nose so he’ll be able to grab it. But don’t just let it float there. Real bugs don’t act that way. They sort of skitter across the water, like this.” The fisherman gave his rod a series of short, precise strokes that drew the Adams hopping across the surface.
A trout rose to the bait, snapped at the fly, and dived.
“Whoa!” Bosco exclaimed. “You got ‘im, J. J.! Awesome!” He slapped his friend on the back. “How’d you know he was there?”
“Ah, you learn.” He tugged on his rod, enjoying the small adrenaline spike and the tension of the fish fighting on the other end.
He did not admit that the trout had surprised him as much as it did Bosco.
Abruptly the line went slack. “He slipped the hook,” Johnson said calmly. “Didn’t sink it when he took the fly. But we’ll stay with Parachutes for a while, since they’re about the most versatile surface flies around. I’ll change to Woolly Buggers later in the day.”
Bosco hefted his rod and looked around. The reservoir was ringed with tall evergreens, their piney scent filling the morning air. “This is nice, J. J. Better than I thought. Where should I try?”
“Hey, I knew you’d like it here.” He pointed to his right. “Step out on those flat rocks. That way you’ll be clear of the trees when you cast. Remember, back to ten o’clock and forward to two.”
“Gotcha.”
Johnson watched his friend for the first few casts. Like most beginners, Bosco exaggerated the pause at the ten and two positions, but eventually the casts became more fluid and the range increased. During the morning he even got a couple of strikes.
At the lunch break, the discussion turned to shop talk.
Bosco began with more subtlety than usual. “Admiral Derringer’s a fisherman, isn’t he? Does he ever go fly fishing?”
“Don’t think so. Far as I know he’s into deep-sea fishing. He got a near record marlin last year.”
“Yeah, I remember him talking about that,” Bosco replied. He regarded the former Foreign Legionnaire. “Just before we went to Pakistan, wasn’t it?”
Johnson shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. I was still pretty new with the company at the time.”
“Well, Breezy and I really like working for SSI. We’re going to Chad, you know.”
So that’s it. Johnson turned toward Boscombe. “You’re here to recruit me, aren’t you?”
Bosco began to avert his eyes, then riveted them on Johnson’s. “How am I doing?”
Johnson lifted his Coors, took a sip, then set the beer down.
“You know, you missed your calling.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“Well, you’re a shit-hot recruiter, that’s all.”
Bosco flicked his head as if avoiding a gnat. “J. J., what are you trying to say?”
“I’m trying to say, dude, that I’m in. I’ll go to Chad.”
Boscombe’s eyes widened in realization. “You sumbitch! You already made up your mind!”
Johnson winked. “Gotcha.” He thought for a moment, then said, “There’s something you should know. Frank Leopole and Sandy Carmichael, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I’ve had lots of time to think about this kind of work since . . . the last job.”
Bosco knew enough when to keep quiet.
“I’m going to Chad because it’s a training job,” Johnson explained. “I don’t plan to work in the field again. Ever.”
Bosco set down his beer. “J. J., I think I know where you’re coming from. But if you’re still worried about what happened in Pak . . .”
“Damn straight it’s about what happened over there. I compromised a mission and put good folks in the crosshairs because . . . because I . . .” He swallowed hard.
“Because the bastards tortured you. Is that it?”
Johnson took a pull at his bottle. He hardly noticed it was empty. Finally he managed to speak. “No, man. Not because they tortured me. Because I broke!”
“Well, hell, J. J.. Everybody breaks. Look at all those guys in the Hanoi Hilton. The gooks broke every one of ‘em. It’s not like you’re the only one who ever had too much pain. C’mon, man.”
“No, that’s not quite right, Bosco. Some of them didn’t break. They died before they’d give in.”
Bosco leaned forward and punched his friend’s arm. “Makes my case, J. J. If you hadn’t talked, the ragheads would’ve killed you. You know that. Besides, nobody got hurt because you talked.”
“That was just luck. So I don’t ever want to be in that position again. There’s just too . . .”
Boscombe was more perceptive than the hey-dude persona he showed the world. Something else is goin’ on here, he told himself.
“J. J., I know you’re prob’ly still having, well, trouble, with what happened there. Bad dreams? Things like that?”
The brief nod again. “Something like that.” He stared into the empty long-necked bottle. He wondered how much he could tell Bosco and keep his self-respect. The scars on his back, buttocks, and upper thighs were physical reminders of the scalding he received at the hands of the Islamist cell in Pakistan, headed by the tormented genius determined to destroy the SSI team sent to find him and prevent the spread of the Marburg virus.
But the emotional scars went bone deep.
Almost without realizing it, Johnson found himself talking.
“I met a girl, Bosco. A really good woman. We knew each other before she got married but now she’s divorced and we ran into each other not long ago. We’re getting serious. I mean . . . really serious, you know?”
Bosco wondered how to respond when Johnson continued. “It’s like, I keep visualizing what it’s going to be like the first time we go to bed. She’s going to see my scars and if I haven’t told her about it, she’ll wonder why. But if I tell her before, she’ll know that I cracked and she . . .”
“You think she won’t want to be with you?”
Johnson shrugged. “Maybe. I mean . . . hell, man, I just don’t know.”
Bosco let a feral grin escape his lips. “Shee-it, J. J., do I have to draw you a picture? Unless you want to spend the rest of your life holding hands with women, tell her the whole story. Maybe it won’t matter. Hell, maybe she’ll want to comfort you. But at least you’ll be over the hump, you know? Either it’ll work out with her or it won’t. If not with her, then with another gal.” He finished off his Coors and set it down. “Next subject.” He belched and added, “Gimme another brew.”
* * * *
13
SSI OFFICES
Leopole and Mohammed had some news to share.
Addressing the staff, Leopole began, “I’ve heard from some embassy folks in Chad, and I think you all need to know what you might find over there.
“We learned that at least two French PMCs were operating in-country. The frontrunner is called Groupe FGN, which is named for the original three partners. Apparently only one of them is still alive— chap named Geurrier—but he’s largely retired. His family runs the company but the hands-on guy is a hard case named Marcel Hurtubise, ex-Foreign Legion and jack of all mercenary trades. He’ll literally work for anybody, and has, especially in Africa: Sudan, Libya, Algeria, and so on.”
“I wonder how he stays legit with those clients,” Carmichael said.
Leopole gave a sardonic grin. “Well, he also works for the French government. One of his recent jobs was UXB removal in Kosovo, and that sort of work lends respectability. It checks the Humanitarian box.”
Sandy shook her head. “UXB?”
“Unexploded bombs, or ordnance generally. It’s an old Brit term but today it usually means land mines. They’re really un-PC in some circles.”
“Oh, yes. I remember. That was one of Princess Di’s big causes.”
“Yeah. I guess she never heard of the DMZ.”
“Which one?”
“The one along the thirty-eighth parallel. It sort of keeps North Korea out of South Korea.”
Foyte fidgeted. “All right, so how does the French outfit affect us?”
“I don’t know that it does for sure, but there’s something going on. The two senior members of the other PMC disappeared several days ago. The others went home on Air France.”
Foyte emitted a long, low whistle. “You think . . .”
“Yeah.”
Carmichael leaned forward, her hands clasped. “Frank, I see where you’re going. But there must be other explanations.”
The crew-cut head bobbed. “Sure, lots of ‘em in that area. But we can’t overlook the possibility that there’s been some corporate feuding.”
“Man, talk about cutthroat competition!” Foyte almost smiled. “Are we likely to rub noses with these guys?”
Leopold arched an eyebrow. Dan Foyte’s idea of rubbing noses had nothing in common with Eskimo greetings. “Don’t know, Gunny. But it’s something to keep in mind.”
Foyte accepted that advice and shifted gears. “All right, what can we expect in Chad right now? Who will we work with before the French take over?” The team leader needed to know for planning purposes.
“Well, evidently the blue beanies will leave some folks in place for transition, though the U.N. generally isn’t real happy with the situation. But there’s not much choice. Either they help hand over to us and the French or they leave the place totally on its own, which simply isn’t realistic.”
Leopole looked around the table. “All right, people. It’s crunch time. We need to select a training team leader and his deputy.” He circled something on his briefing paper. His choice had already been made.
Sandy Carmichael saw the motion, knew its meaning, and tacitly concurred. “How about Gunny?”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Leopole replied.
Foyte was genuinely surprised. “Hey I don’t speak French, let alone Arabic.”
Leopole chuckled to himself. Hell, the sumbitch hardly speaks English!
Carmichael conceded, “No way around that. But you’ll have our translators as well as whatever the Chadians have over there. And J. J. Johnson’s fluent in French. You’ve worked together before. You two should make a good team.”
“So he’s going?” Foyte asked.
“Yup.” Carmichael gave a sly grin. “Seems that he took Bosco fishing— and Bosco landed him!”
“That’s not how I heard it,” Leopole replied.
“What do you mean?”
“I called J. J. last evening. He admitted that he already decided to go. Just wanted to have some company so he lured Bosco in.
Played him like—well, like a trout!”
* * * *
14
N’DJAMENA, CHAD
The kidnapped Vespa driver stirred at the sound of a key in the lock. He had lost track of time, and suspected that was not coincidental. Judging by the fading light through the narrow window, it was evening. Probably the third day.
