by Harold
In truth, Terrence Keegan knew empirically that a pistol barrel in someone’s ear could cut a great deal of red tape when “renting” an aircraft. “Anyway, we have four possible airports from 150 to 400 miles from N’Djamena. All are paved with long runways. Depending on what shakes out, I’ll plan on cross-border hops by helo into Cameroon or longer flights to Cameroon and Niger with Nigeria as second alternate.”
Foyte beamed. “Nice to have options, ain’t it?”
“Freakin’ right, Gunny. Freakin’ right.”
* * * *
21
SSI OFFICES
“Look at this,” Breezy exclaimed. He straightened the pages from a week-old London Gazette that Derringer had left in the lounge.
“What?” Bosco was barely interested in the news; he was engrossed in his sci-fi thriller.
“Well, it says here that an Aussie just got the Victoria Cross. First time in about forty years.” Breezy paused for effect. “In Chad.”
Bosco turned from voluptuous Carmogian females wielding phased-array plasma weapons in the Second Virgo Galaxy War. “You mean, the guys we’re replacing?”
“Guess so.” Breezy read aloud. “The queen has been graciously pleased on the advice of her Australian ministers to approve the posthumous award of the Victoria Cross to the undermentioned:
“Warrant Officer Class Two Derrick Jasper Martin, the 138th Signals Squadron.
“ ‘Warrant Officer Martin carried out an act of great heroism by which he saved the life of a comrade. The act was in direct face of hostile forces, under intense fire, at great personal risk leading to his death. His valour is worthy of the highest recognition.
“ ‘While engaged in peacekeeping operations near Massenya, Chad, on fourth September, Martin’s vehicle was destroyed by hostile fire that killed two crew members. Nevertheless, Martin pulled his badly wounded driver from the burning vehicle and, exhibiting selfless courage, carried him to temporary safety while employing his personal weapon to suppress close-range fire from local gunmen. Upon reaching temporary shelter in a nearby building, Martin defended his comrade with the greatest determination, accounting for a large number of hostile rioters. Without succor from security forces, with whom he could not communicate, Martin passed his driver to friendly civilians and continued covering their withdrawal until his ammunition was exhausted. When last seen he was retrieving an enemy weapon to continue his extraordinarily gallant fight against overwhelming odds.’ “
When Breezy finished reading, Bosco made no comment, flippant or otherwise. It was unusual for the mountaineering ex-Ranger, SSI’s rappelling expert. His friend asked, “What do you think, man?”
Jason Boscombe seemed to be focused somewhere beyond the wall. Finally he turned to the onetime paratrooper and said, “I think that the Silver Star they pinned on me in Iraq doesn’t amount to that dude’s shoelaces. That’s what I think.”
Neither operator had ever wanted to dissect their stock in trade: courage under lethal stress. It was not what door-kickers talked about, certainly not as much as guns and gear or babes and baseball.
Breezy looked over his shoulder. Nobody was within earshot so he ventured an opinion. “Hell, dude, you’d do the same as that Aussie. So would any of the guys.”
Bosco leveled his gaze at his partner. “Tell me somethin’, Breeze. What’s the most you were ever scared?”
Brezyinski was tempted to toss off a reply about Charlotte Bernstein’s parents returning unexpectedly early one evening, but he checked himself. Bosco really wants to talk. He thought for a moment. “Oh, I dunno, man. There’s been several, you know?” He catalogued the first few that came to mind. “Prob’ly on my fourth qualifying jump at Bragg. I got a streamer and had to cut away from the main. I popped my reserve just in time. Swung twice and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.” He grinned self-consciously. “Wasn’t pretty.”
“But you did what you had to do,” Bosco prompted.
“Well, sure, dude! I mean, it’s not like I had a choice.” He raised both hands palms up, as if measuring two weights. “Live. Die. Live. Die.” He laughed nervously this time. “Some choice!”
Breezy straightened in his chair, facing Bosco. “Well, that’s what I’m saying, man. You, me, the other guys. We’re here because we reacted like we were trained. It’s like Uncle Sugar programmed the last setting into our brain housing unit, and when the computer was about to crash, we defaulted to our survival program. Right?”
Bosco bit his lip in concentration. He nodded. “Affirm. That’s right. But what’s your point?”
“My point is, man, that what we’re talking about was this much time.” He held up a thumb and forefinger, not quite touching. “We really didn’t have time to think, whether it was a bad chute or a skid on an icy road or a gomer swinging his AK on you. We just reacted. But that WO2, he had time to think about it. I mean, he had this much time.” The thumb extended two inches from the trigger finger. “He could think about what he was going to do before he had to do it.”
“I see what you mean,” Bosco said. “But I still don’t think it makes a lot of difference. Like I said, dude. You or me or anybody we know— we’d all have done what that Aussie guy did. I mean, can you imagine yourself walking away from a bud in deep serious?” He shook his head emphatically. “No way, man. Just no way.”
“So you’d rather die than look bad. That what you’re saying?”
“No, damn it, that’s not what I’m saying. I’d just stick with a friend and try to help him out, you know?”
Breezy pushed the point. “Even if you know you’d die.”
Bosco had heard enough. “Damn it, Breeze, what’s got into you?”
Brezyinski crumpled the newspaper and set it aside. “I dunno. All of a sudden I just got a bad feeling about this Chad thing.” He stood up and stretched. “You wanna get a burger or something for dinner?”
Bosco felt a tiny shiver between his shoulder blades. “After your cheerful conversation, I think I want some brewskis.”
“Well, okay. C’mon to my place. We’ll make some poppa-charlie and pop some lids.”
“Sounds like a date, dude.” Bosco was always up for popcorn. None of that diet variety; the more salt and butter the better.
“Sure, dinner and a movie.” Breezy felt better at the light banter.
Bosco perked up. “What’s the movie?”
“Black Hawk Down.”
“Oh, good,” Bosco replied. “I like happy endings.”
* * * *
Part
2
CHAD
* * * *
22
HASSAN DJAMOUS AIRPORT
N’DJAMENA, CHAD
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 theS û ret é 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!”
* * * *
N’DJAMENA
MINISTRY INTERIOR AND SECURITY
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.”
