by Harold
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.
* * * *
Part
3
LIBYA
* * * *
48
SSI OFFICES
“We just heard from Steve Lee,” Leopole said.
Marshall Wilmont took his half-spectacles off the bridge of his nose. “Well?”
Leopole made a point of waving the e-mail. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”
“C’mon, Frank . . .” SSI’s chief operating officer seldom had time for banter.
The former Marine inhaled, then let his breath out. “Okay. We lost a helo. The bad guys had man-pack SAMs and shot down Marsh’s aircraft. He’s critical and three of the Chadians are dead.”
“My God. What. . .”
“And the Frenchies got away with a truckload of yellow cake.”
Wilmont was on his feet before he knew it. “Don’t play freaking games with me, Frank! What in hell’s the good news?”
The director of foreign operations slid the printout across the desk. “The good news is that they only got away with part of the load.”
Wilmont almost seemed to deflate as he sagged back into his chair. “Tell me,” he croaked.
“Long story short: Steve decided to move in at dawn because he didn’t want his troops running around, maybe shooting at each other in the dark. That was a mistake, seen in hindsight. It gave the mercs enough time to load one trailer and part of another. They drove out the back as our guys approached the front. Steve had a blocking force astride the road leading to the border, but when the helo was shot down, Nissen made a command decision and went to the site. He probably saved Marsh’s life and maybe a couple of others. But. . .”
“That left the way open for the yellow cake.”
“Affirm.” Leopole leaned forward, elbows on the polished desk. “I think Steve did the right thing, though. He was having Keegan tail the truck, keeping out of missile range, but he didn’t have the muscle to stop it. So Steve recalled him as a med-evac. Keegan took Marsh and the other survivors back to the airfield where there was proper medical care.”
Wilmont emitted a noncommittal “Ummm.” Then he asked, “What about the mine? Did they secure it?”
“Yeah. There was a little trouble after the shootdown. One or two of the FGN guys went spastic and started shooting at our people so they killed them. Nobody else got hurt.”
“So we don’t know where the yellow cake is?”
Leopole shook his head. “I doubt that even Qadhafi knows.”
“Come on,” Wilmont said. “We need to see Mike and Omar.”
* * * *
SSI OFFICES
It was a small meeting: Derringer, Wilmont, Mohammed, Carmichael, and Leopold. The SSI brain trust.
“First things first,” Derringer began. “I talked to Ryan O’Connor yesterday. He confirmed that State wants our training team to finish its contract in Chad. But I think we need to make some adjustments.”
Leopole’s brow furrowed. “Sir, are you going to pull Steve? I . . .”
“No, Frank. I think we’ve all been in Steve’s shoes once or twice. He had to make some decisions based on incomplete information. I certainly don’t fault him for that.”
Leopole and Carmichael exchanged glances. If Derringer didn’t catch it, Mohammed did. He could read their minds. They don’t want Lee to feel any worse than he probably already does.
“Very well,” Derringer continued. “Sandy and Frank, operations is your ballpark. What do you recommend?”
Carmichael’s blue eyes fixed on her employer. “Sir, you mentioned some adjustments. I think any recommendations we make would depend on those.”
“Oh, yes. Quite right.” Derringer’s practiced fingers performed a paradiddle cadence, as they often did when he was distracted. “Well, all I meant is that if we’re going to pursue the yellow cake, we’ll probably have to pull some people out of Chad.”
Wilmont picked up some radiations from his sometime golf partner’s emotional antennae. “Mike, you didn’t mention the uranium shipment. Does State really want us to stay on it?”
SSI’s CEO nodded slowly. “I think so. O’Connor is running it up the ladder, but since we’re already involved and we have some assets in the area, we’re likely to get a go-ahead pretty soon.”
“Sir,” Carmichael intoned, her voice low and earnest. “I’d think that sooner is better. That’s why . . .”
“Yes, Sandy, I know. It takes me back to what we were saying about your recommendations. If we keep the team there for training, who can we put on another team to track down the yellow cake?”
She flipped through her folder. “Well, sir, obviously we want to keep our people there with language ability. That’s Johnson, Nissen, and Wallender. I’m keeping a running tab with Jack Peters and Matt Finch. They’re best equipped to find some more French or Arabic speakers for us.”
Derringer nodded decisively. “Very well, put them on it.”
Mohammed glanced at Marshall Wilmont. If he resented the retired admiral taking over the operating end of things, he did not show it.
Leopole had a thought. “Admiral, I’d like to pull Bosco and Breezy, ah, Boscombe and Brezyinski, from the training team. They’re about the best door-kickers we have. Their talents would be better used on an operational mission.”
Derringer remembered to check visually with Wilmont, who shrugged. Carmichael said, “Concur, Admiral.” Then she asked, “What about Martha?”
No one spoke for a long moment.
* * * *
49
SABHA PROVINCE, LIBYA
The heat was everywhere around them, like the heavy, dry air. Hurtubise called a midday stop and parked his Range Rover in the lee of Deladier’s trailer. The four men dismounted—two from each vehicle—-and conferred in the shade, such as it was.
“My motor is running a temperature,” Hurtubise began. “I think we’ll wait until later in the day to continue. Maybe we’ll wait until night.”
Alfonso Rivera, Deladier’s driver, knew about working in extreme heat from his days in the Spanish Legion. “As long as we have water for the radiators we should be all right,” he said. “Aren’t we due in Misratah in a couple of days?”
Hurtubise waved a dismissive hand. “We have some time to spare. The ship won’t be ready for a while. Cell communication is erratic out here in the desert, and I cannot always reach our contacts. But I’d rather be late than early. We don’t want to have this cargo sitting around very long before loading on board. Somebody might get suspicious.”
After long hours on the road, with delays for bureaucratic procedures and haggling over fuel, Deladier was growing impatient. However, he knew that Groupe FNG’s Chadian government contacts had greased the skids—and some palms—to ease the journey. But other problems remained. “Marcel, we left in such a hurry. What in hell are we going to do for
money? And passports?” Felix Moungar had arranged things at the border but there were intermediate stops as well.
Hurtubise gave a grim smile. “Don’t you ever learn, my lad? I never go anywhere without at least one passport and a thousand dollars on me.” He let the sentiment sink in, then continued. “Don’t worry. We’ll have new papers and cash at Birak.”
Alfonso cocked his head. “You’re sure of that?”
Hurtubise took a step toward him. “Yes, I’m sure! Look, just because we left in a hurry doesn’t mean I haven’t done all the planning. Understand?”
The young Spaniard looked upward, shielding his face against the Saharan sun. His meaning was implicit: The heat gets to everybody.
“Sure, Marcel. I understand.”
* * * *
N’DJAMENA
SSI COMPOUND
Steve Lee waited until Mark Brezyinski and Jason Boscombe had finished putting their gear away. It didn’t take long, since most of the equipment used on the mine raid officially belonged to the Chadian Army.
“I’d like to see you guys in private,” Lee said.
Bosco and Breezy exchanged quick looks. Breezy had the quicker tongue. “Something wrong, sir?”
Lee chuckled softly. “You know, you remind me of a guy I knew in the Army. He was an excellent warrant officer but he was always in trouble with his CO in Vietnam. Nickel and dime stuff. Then one day his XO tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Fred, the CO wants to talk to you.’ Fred asked, ‘What did I do now?’
“The exec said, ‘Well, I think they’re going to give you the Medal of Honor.’“
Bosco’s eyes widened. “Wow. Like, we’re gonna . . .”
“No, Mr. Boscombe. You are not receiving a medal. But something better.”
Breezy perked up. “Boy, that means money. What’s the job, Boss?”
Lee winked as he closed the door.
“You’re right. I heard from Frank Leopole. Most of us are staying here to finish the training contract, but he’s putting together a team to go after the yellow cake that got away. It means working down and dirty and it’ll likely be dangerous.”
Breezy straightened visibly. With a straight face he declared, “Sir, danger is my middle name.”
“I thought it was Casimir,” Bosco deadpanned.
“Libya?” Breezy asked.
“No, no,” Lee exclaimed. “Maybe Beirut, biggest port in the eastern Med. But it could be almost anywhere in the region. We won’t know until there’s better intel.”
“Well, if they load the cake on a ship in Libya, why go to Lebanon? Why not just sail right to Iran?”
Lee nodded in deference to Breezy’s acumen. “Good question, Mark. The answer is, we don’t know. It’s possible they’ll drive a thousand miles or more and load at a Red Sea port in Sudan or even Ethiopia.”
Bosco ran the options in his gambler’s mind. “Major, wouldn’t it make more sense to fly the stuff? I mean, just a couple of big planeloads should do it, and that’d be a whole lot faster.”
Lee agreed. “Yes, it would. But there’s complications having to do with international flights. So Arlington thinks that the cake will go by sea.” He hunched his shoulders. “If the Frenchies and Iranians do fly it, we’re out of the picture.”
“So what do we do, sir?” Breezy began unloading a G3 magazine, returning the cartridges to a box on the worktable.
“All you guys have to do is tell me if you’re interested. Frank wants you on the action team, and of course the combat bonus applies.”
“Who’d we be working with?” Bosco asked.
“I don’t know yet, but I’d think that Jeff Malten will be involved. SEALs know how to take down a ship.”
Breezy went to work on a stick of gum. “Jeff did good in Pakistan. I’d go to war with him again.”
Bosco nodded. “Me, too.”
“All right,” Lee replied. “You two continue working with Gunny Foyte but we’ll start easing you out of training work. Carmichael and Leopole are leaning on their talent scouts to find other instructors, preferably with some language background. I’ll get back to you on your rotation schedule.”
Bosco and Breezy exchanged ritual knuckle taps. In their arcane world, it meant, “Get some” and “Me, too.”
* * * *
Steve Lee turned down the corridor from the small armory and looked into the cubicle that served as SSI’s office. He found the person he sought.
“Hey there.”
Whitney looked up from some paperwork. “Hey yourself, Maje. How your
“I’m just precious,” Lee quipped.
“I knowedthat, honey.” She gave him the Aunt Jemima grin again.
Lee sat in the vacant chair. “Martha, I wanted you to hear from me before somebody else. Headquarters is calling you home. You’ll be leaving in a couple of days, no more than three.”
She nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He cocked his head. “You don’t seem surprised. Or disappointed.”
“Naw, I’m not. After the operation went down, there wasn’t much else for me to do. I been helpin’ Gunny with le Français, you know?”
The West Pointer could not stifle a laugh. “Yeah, I know. If there’s such as thing as Redneck French, I guess he’s fluent.”
She was all spunk and vinegar again. “Ain’t that the truth? Wait’ll I tell Sandy and Frank about the way he pronounces chemin de fer, let alone la pi è ce de r é sistance or la boulangerie!”
A pause settled over them. They both squirmed in embarrassment. At length Lee said, “Martha, you’ve done a good job here. I just. . .”
“I know, Steve. I know.” She touched his hand. “It’s just that I keep thinking, maybe I could’ve handled things a little . . . different. You know?”
Lee dropped his gaze to the cluttered desktop. When he looked up, he said, “Sure. All of us could always do things differently. But we don’t. We only get one chance to do anything the first time. If you’re thinking that you could’ve saved that French gal . . .”
“Gabrielle.” Whitney pronounced the name in a low, husky whisper. “Gabrielle Tixier.”
“Martha, she was in way over her head. She should’ve walked away from that bastard years ago.” He stood up, eager to end the conversation.
She looked up at him. “Get him for me, Steve. And for her.”
“Martha, it’s out of my hands. But Arlington is putting together a covert team right now. They’ll get him. You know they will.”
“I’m counting on that, Maje. I truly am.”
* * * *
50
STATE DEPARTMENT
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Ryan O’Connor met the SSI delegation at the door of the undersecretary’s office. For someone as attuned to Beltway nuances as Mike Derringer, it was as perceptible as a ten-knot wind on the face. Something unusual is coming our way. He thought he knew what it was.
O’Connor was unusually businesslike, almost brusque. He showed Derringer and Wilmont to their seats, offered the perfunctory coffee, and for a change, he got directly to the point. “Gentlemen. This meeting will remain off the record for reasons that are obvious. But I’m confirming that State wants you to proceed with your Chad mission. And I do not mean just the training segment. That will continue, not only to meet the obligation, but to provide some cover for the more immediate operation.”
“So you want us to go after the yellow cake,” Derringer said.
“Just so. You will have the full support of State and DoD intelligence assets, as well as other, ah, sources. Please understand that we may not be able to reveal those to you, but be assured that we will not pass along anything that we do not consider reliable.”
Derringer asked, “What if we get contradictory info?”
The diplomat shrugged. “We’ll try to filter and deconflict, but as always, it’s up to the men in the field to act as they think best.”
Bat guano, Derringer thought. If anything goes south, SSI will hold the bag
. But them’s the risks.
Wilmont shifted in his chair. Generally he held back, absorbing information and scribbling occasional notes, but now he spoke up. “Ryan, excuse me for asking what might seem an obtuse question. But if we’re chasing the cake, which seems headed for Iran, obviously it’s going by sea. Why not send the SEALs after it?”
