by Harold Coyle
The younger man rubbed a bronzed hand through his dark, curly hair. “It strains credulity that he does not. Especially after…”
“After extended interrogation.”
Alexander merely nodded. He did not trust his voice just then.
“Very well,” Mustafah concluded. “Your assessment largely matches mine. With a few exceptions.”
“Yes?”
The Middle Eastern “businessman” leaned back, folding his hands over his ample stomach. “There are always extensions and permutations, Alex. What is known in the West as unintended consequences.
“We can assume for the moment that Groupe FGN considers the risk it has brought upon itself worth the effort. The ultimate reason may be inferred, considering that uranium ore is involved. That makes Hurtubise and company exceedingly dangerous.”
“Sir, with respect. That is nothing new.”
Mustafah inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Remember, my friend. FGN now has the support of this government and likely another.”
Alex furrowed his brow. “Another?”
“Certainly. Chad has no need of uranium ore. There is no way to process it in this backward country. No, the end user is certainly a more developed nation—one hostile to Israel.”
The agent relaxed despite the implications. “Well, the list is long and undistinguished.”
“But don’t you see, Alex? It can only be a country with the ability to use uranium. That narrows your undistinguished list considerably, don’t you think?”
Alexander bit his lip. Looking over his superior’s shoulder, he said, “Two or three. Especially…”
“There is one more thing.”
“Please?”
“Whatever our opponents have in mind—they do not fear us.”
20
SSI OFFICES
Terry Keegan rapped his knuckles on Daniel Foyte’s cubicle. “You wanted to see me, Gunny?”
The erstwhile Force Recon NCO swiveled in his chair, turning away from his computer screen. The miniature office was much like its occupant: austere, uncluttered, utilitarian. The only décor was a Marine Corps logo and a poster of John Wayne as Sergeant John M. Stryker in The Sands of Iwo Jima. “Oh, yeah. Terry.” Foyte habitually referred to people by their surname. He had almost forgotten Keegan’s, though they had worked together twice.
The pilot eased into Foyte’s “guest chair,” a folding metal fixture calculated to keep guests uncomfortable and visits short. “You want to talk about contingencies for Chad.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Affirm.” After a four-count, Keegan realized that Foyte expected him to carry the conversation. If the ex-Navy man had learned anything about Marines, it was the futility of trying to be one of them. The Corps was like the IRA of Keegan’s ancestors: “Once in, never out.”
“Well,” Keegan began, “the admiral always wants a backup in case local exits are blocked. So I’ve been looking at a couple of ways to extract you guys.”
“Fixed wing or helo?”
“Both, depending on conditions. The Chadians have Alouettes, which is a plus. It’s one of my three go-to choppers like the Huey and the Hip because you find it everywhere. Something like fifty countries use Alouettes. Anyway, I try to stay current in them because you never know when you might have to steal one.” He did not smile when he said it.
“Uh, have you ever had to?”
Keegan finally grinned. “I don’t understand the question.”
“Gotcha.”
“Thing is, if we have to extract the whole team, we’ll need at least two choppers, maybe three. I’d rather use a twin-engine plane: something that can get in and out of a small field in just one trip. Also, something with enough range to get us out of Dodge on one tank of gas.”
“Like how far?”
Keegan unfolded a map of Saharan Africa. “Well, of course it depends on where we start from. I mean, Chad’s a pretty big place: about a thousand miles north to south, and Libya’s the only northern exit.” He fingered the capital. “For starters, let’s assume we’re near N’Djamena. That’s down here, right on the border with Cameroon. With enough warning, we could easily drive into Cameroon or fly straight across the northern part into Nigeria. That might be advisable, depending on the political situation in those countries. I think Nigeria is pretty friendly.”
“What kind of fighters operate in those countries?” Foyte asked.
“Niger just has some military transports. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the nearest airfield is over here at Zinder, about four hundred miles west of N’Djamena. But Zinder has a six-thousand-foot runway. They speak French but that’s probably the best bet for a friendly reception. The capital is Niamey, and I have a contact there.”
Foyte scanned the map, gauging the distances and geometry. “What do they fly in Nigeria?”
Keegan smirked. “They had Jaguars and MiG-21s but those have been down for a long time. The government wanted to sell them to help finance newer equipment but apparently it didn’t happen. Anyway, Maiduguri is only 150 miles from Chad, and has a nine-thousand-foot runway. Also, they speak English there. Apparently Sandy Carmichael served with the current defense attaché, who’s another West Point gal.”
Foyte merely nodded. After two divorces he had a decidedly unromantic attitude toward females. “Any problems with Cameroon?”
“Well, their Air Force has a few Alpha Jets and Magisters. Not much, really, but they could cause a helo a big-time hurt. However, we’re on pretty good terms with the place right now. The nearest city to N’Djamena is Maroua, less than 150 miles south. It’s a good field: 6,800 feet paved. Garoua is even better: 11,000 feet but maybe 250 miles from N’Djamena.”
The former noncom leaned back, hands behind his head. “Okay. Sounds like you’ve got the threats all doped out. But what about nav aids in that part of the world? It looks like a lot of open space.”
“Well, there’s a saying: the desert is an ocean in which no oar is dipped.”
“Who said that?”
“I think it was T. E. Lawrence. Or maybe Peter O’Toole.”
“Who?”
Keegan should have known that Dan Foyte was not a movie fan. “Ah, he played Lawrence of Arabia. In Lawrence of Arabia.”
Foyte shook his balding head. “Okay. What’s it mean?”
“Just that navigating over featureless terrain is no different than over water. You’re back to time and distance, which is something naval aviators know about. If the nav aids go down, we still have GPS. If that goes down, we fall back on dead reckoning.”
Foyte rubbed his chin, playing the perennial game of What If. “Okay, let’s say we get away from Chad with no big problems. If we’re in a hurry, and haven’t filed a flight plan or anything, how do we know where to land?”
Keegan’s eyes twinkled. “Hey, my attitude about unauthorized landings is that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”
The former Marine gave a grunt that seemed to imply approval. Finally he asked, “Is the admiral going to spring for renting some choppers or a charter jet?”
“Too soon to say, Gunny. But I’ll have at least two prospects lined up before you guys hit Chad. After that it’s a matter of monitoring the situation.”
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.
“W
hat?” 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?”
Breyzinski 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 II
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 the Sûreté 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.
