by Harold
“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
SSI COMPOUND
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.”
* * * *
CO-IN BATTALION COMPOUND
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. “Tr è s bien,” Foyte managed.
For the first time in the Americans’ experience, Sergeant Major Hissen Alingue Bawoyeu actually smiled.
* * * *
26
N’DJAMENA
“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
COUNTERINSURGENCY COMPOUND
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 lat é rale.”
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.
* * * *
N’DJAMENA
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?”
