by Harold Coyle
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 OF INTERIOR AND SECURITY
François Kadabi was a tall, slender bureaucrat with an easy command of French, English, Arabic, and several Chadian dialectcs. 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.
François 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.”
Lee sat down again, demonstrating his willingness for further discussion. “Well, as long as there’s enough tea to keep my throat wet, I’ll be glad to talk, Mr. Karabi.”
The minister unleashed his slippery grin again. Pointedly glancing at his Swiss watch, he said, “It is still rather early in the day, my friend. But, ah, shall we change to something more … convivial?”
Before Lee could answer, Karabi pressed the buzzer on his desktop. The servant reappeared, bearing a bottle of iced champagne.
The American’s expression opened visibly. “Ah, Mr. Kar…”
Karabi raised his slim right hand again. “Please. From now on I am François.”
“All right … François. I’m Steve.”
“Now then, Steve, this is a decent ’89. That is, if you do not object.”
Lee shook his head slightly. “Not hardly, sir. Er, François. Usually I’m partial to single-malt scotch.”
“Very well, Steve. I shall remember. For next time.”
23
N’DJAMENA
Major Matthew Roosevelt wasted no time in the orientation briefing. “There’s a lot of crime in the city,” he began. “We do not recommend going anywhere alone, especially after dark.”
Breezy raised a hand. “What about packing?”
Roosevelt’s eyes widened. “You mean, carrying a concealed weapon?”
“Well, sure. Most of us have pistols.”
Roosevelt rubbed his jaw. “I’m not sure. I mean, I understand your desire to defend yourself. But—”
Lee interrupted. “Major, I think we can claim diplomatic status. I mean, we’re contracted to the State Department and we have ID to that effect.”
Lee’s intent was clear: if any SSI people had to shoot for blood, they would invoke immunity.
Roosevelt walked to the door and made a point of closing it. When he returned to the head of the room he inhaled, held his breath, and let it out. “All right, look. You did not hear this from me. I’ll deny it if anybody quotes me, okay?”
Lee nodded. Foyte uttered an “Ooh-rah.”
“I hardly go anywhere without my Hi-Power. But if I ever had to use it, I’d probably be out of the Army by noon the next day, if I wasn’t in j
ail. What I’m saying is, I’d go a loooong way around the block to avoid having to shoot somebody.”
“Certainly,” Lee replied. “We’ve been in that situation before.”
The assistant attaché surveyed the audience. “What do you guys carry?”
Foyte responded. “We settled on nine millimeters, Sigs and Glocks. We brought a couple cases of Romanian ammo so any brass we leave behind will be untraceable. If we need more, nine mil’s easy to get.”
Roosevelt grinned despite himself. “Gunny, you are one sneaky son of a … gun.”
“Roger that, sir.” Foyte managed a deadpan expression.
“Any nonlethal stuff?”
“Like what?” Bosco asked.
“Pepper spray, Tasers, that sort of thing.”
Foyte and Lee glanced at Martha Whitney. She almost blushed. “Maje, honey, I got both. I also got two knives including a switchblade.” She flashed her Aunt Jemima grin. “And, Sugah, Ah knows how to use all of ’em.”
Roosevelt ignored the endearment and nodded gravely. “Well, if you can disable an assailant without killing him, there’ll be a lot less paperwork.”
U.S. EMBASSY
Steve Lee and Dan Foyte entered the American embassy on the south side of Avenue du Gouverneur Felix Eboue, about four hundred meters west of Rue Victor Schoelcher. They were close enough to the embankment to smell the ambience of the Chari River.
Matt Roosevelt and Colonel Brian Posen were waiting for them.
Posen showed the SSI men to a secure meeting room and wasted little time with formalities. Taking the chair at the head of the table, the chief of the advisory group looked at Lee. “I understand your meeting with Kadabi went pretty well.”
Lee glanced at Foyte, who realized that a mere NCO counted for little. It was not the first time.
The erstwhile West Pointer squirmed slightly and, with a sideways glance, said, “Well, Colonel, as I was telling Gunny Foyte, I found Mr. Kadabi both friendly and forthcoming.”
Posen nodded, hands folded before him. “That’s fine, Major. Fine. As far as it goes.” He chewed his lip for a moment. “Let me warn you, though. If François Kadabi is acting friendly, it’s because he wants something. Oh, he’s not entirely disingenuous. He can be genuinely helpful, but in our experience it’s only when he sees an advantage for himself.”
Lee nodded. “Very well, sir. What’s that mean where we’re concerned?”
Posen nodded to Roosevelt, who swiveled in his chair. “Steve, I was taken by your mention that Kadabi warned you about jealousies within the Army and security forces. Ordinarily that’d just be common sense in a place like this. But we know that Kadabi pulled strings to get the liaison job with SSI. Apparently he called in one or two markers.”
Beneath his breath, Foyte began whistling “The Marines’ Hymn” when Lee kicked him beneath the table. In a rare gesture of interservice harmony, Foyte shifted to “The Caisson Song.”
“All right,” Lee replied. “What’s the significance?”
Roosevelt flipped his notebook. “He went over his department head to make sure he worked with you. It took a little pull because of the diplomatic connection on our end, but he got it done. He’s working with an upper-level manager in the natural resources ministry.”
Lee shrugged. “So?”
“So,” Posen interjected, “that gentleman is a cousin of Kadabi’s. He deals with Chad’s uranium exports.”
Lee and Foyte exchanged raised eyebrows. Lee asked, “Then why weren’t we told about that before?”
“Steve, I just found out about it myself,” Roosevelt replied. “Apparently it was worked out a couple of months ago but they’re keeping it quiet. For obvious reasons.”
Foyte decided that he had endured enough of being ignored. Looking at Roosevelt, he asked, “Sir, I’m just a retired jarhead noncom. What’s obvious about it?”
Roosevelt fielded the question before Posen could visibly take offense. “Ah, excuse me, Gunny. I was speaking about the connection between the counterinsurgency force you’ll be training and the country’s uranium deposits. One of our main Co-In concerns is keeping those assets out of rebel hands. In other words—”
“In words a Marine can understand,” Foyte interrupted, “you don’t want this Kadabi character making deals with his cousin while SSI’s clients provide his muscle for him.”
A question occurred to Lee. “Who’s the cousin?”
Posen shook his head. “Excuse me?”
“Kadabi’s cousin. Who is he?”
Roosevelt consulted his notebook again. “Moungar. Felix Moungar.”
“Does he have authority in security matters?”
Roosevelt thought for a moment. “He might. But if he doesn’t, Kadabi sure does. Their main advantage is a lot of information and mutual back scratching.”
Foyte whistled aloud. “Then it’s like we discussed with Frank Leopole before we left. We damn well better decide just how well we’re gonna train these boys.”
Roosevelt grimaced. “Ah, Gunny, I would caution you against describing black men as ‘boys.’”
Foyte opened his mouth, then pressed his lips together. Political correctness and racial sensitivity ranked in his esteem somewhere between women’s lib and communism. He merely nodded, staring into the assistant attaché’s brown eyes.
Lee retrieved the situation, deftly saying, “Your point is well taken, Matt, but Gunny’s question still stands. We discussed it before leaving, but of course it’s not an SSI decision. So … just how well is this new outfit to be trained? For that matter, how much training can it really absorb?”
Roosevelt and Posen exchanged glances. The senior officer took up the subject. “The background is in your briefing packet,” Posen began, “but I’ll summarize.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Most of the men you’ll deal with have field experience within the past couple of years. Many of them have combat experience. All of them speak French, many Arabic as well. They come from units that have received training from U.S. or French instructors, and that combined with what you’ll teach them is expected to result in a two-tiered mission: greater operational capability and providing a cadre for domestic training as well.”
Lee replied, “Yes, sir. That’s my understanding. We were told that we’re going to build up to battalion strength.”
Roosevelt made a politely skeptical sound, not quite a snort. “Well, yes, officially. But actually the unit is going to look more like a reinforced company: about 240 men at first. It’s commanded by a lieutenant colonel because that’s commensurate with a battalion.”
Foyte ventured another opinion. “Then we’ll be operating in platoon strength most likely.”
“Well,” Roosevelt responded, “we don’t expect you guys to operate with them, but you might provide, ah, advice on occasion. But essentially yes, they’ll probably deploy with thirty to forty men most of the time.”
Lee smiled to himself but Roosevelt caught the look. “Something on your mind, Steve?”
The West Pointer leaned back, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Oh, I was just thinking—that’s how we got involved in Vietnam.”
SSI COMPOUND
J. J. Johnson was the lead briefer, but he did not relish the task. He much preferred instructing to lecturing, but his fluency in French military terminology made him the hands-down favorite for delivering the SSI Counterinsurgency Brief. It was essentially boilerplate, distilling the conventional wisdom of Co-In philosophy for use almost anywhere the company might operate.
Facing a room full of Chadian Army officers, Johnson introduced himself, minimizing his Legion background by referring the audience to the SSI personnel sheets in their packets.
In his Parisian accent, the American began by apologizing for duplication of any subject matter that the Chadians might already have studied. Privately, he felt that probably few had ever given ten minutes’ thought to counterinsurgency doctrine, but he did not want to alienate potential allies. It was dogma
with SSI to avoid the appearance of condescension toward any clients.
Johnson had practiced the presentation with PowerPoint and a flip chart, depending on local facilities. He was pleased to see that the electronic option was preferred, at least in the elevated ambience of the security offices. He inhaled, focused, and began to summarize the six points.
“Premier: Identifiez qu’il n’y a aucune solution purement militaire. Recognize that there is no purely military solution. Nearly all insurgencies are caused by dissatisfaction with the status quo, for whatever reason. Therefore, while military methods might gain a temporary advantage, political and economic measures must go hand in hand.
“Deuxième: Obtenez l’intelligence fiable. Obtain reliable intelligence. That’s often easier said than done, gentlemen. There are many sources of information on rebellious factions, including disaffected members of those groups. But you should beware of relying too heavily on prisoner interrogations. Torture seldom provides reliable intel, especially for long-term plans. Instead, consider infiltrating the groups, paying informants for accurate information, and bribing marginally committed rebels.
“Troisième: Établissez une politique coordonnée de gouvernement à tous les niveaux. Establish a coordinated government policy at all levels. This of course is beyond the military’s control, unless the army runs the government. But it is essential to have all agencies and organizations working toward the same goals with a consistent approach. If insurgents see the agriculture department as being lax while the health agency is hard-core, they will only want to deal with agriculture.
“Quatrième: Séparez les insurgés de leur appui. Separate the insurgents from their support. In some cases physical separation can prove successful, as the British did in Malaya in the 1950s. In Vietnam the so-called strategic hamlet concept was employed with less success, partly because the locals still needed to return to their villages and farms. A better method is political and economic separation: make it in the interest of the population to support the government rather than the insurgents, especially where the rebels are not of the same ethnicity.
