by Harold
“I WORK FOR A LIVING” the audience chimed in.
Mohammed enjoyed the exchange as much as anyone, but decided to make a point. “Gentlemen, regardless of the language, we need to be consistent in our instruction. For example, what is the difference between covering fire and suppressing fire?”
Bosco and Breezy exchanged looks. “Damn’fiknow,” Breezy responded.
Bosco shrugged. “I’m not sure there is any difference. Just terminology.”
Foyte was primed. “Well, for our purposes there is a difference. Covering fire is basically suppressive fire for a specific purpose—getting a squad close enough to engage a defended position, for instance. Suppressing fire is just a straight-up shoot-out. We lay down a heavier, more accurate volume of fire than the bad guys so they stop shooting at us.”
“Fire superiority, in other words,” Breezy offered.
Foyte grunted. The audience took that as an affirmative.
Johnson raised a hand. “Gunny, I don’t mean to seem superior or anything, but are the Chadians going to understand the distinction?”
Foyte’s grimace said that the un-PC question had struck home. “Well, let’s just say that it’s our damn job to make sure they do. By the way, Johnson, how do you say ‘covering and suppressing fire’ in French?”
“Covering fire would be Le feu de bache. Suppressing fire would be Suppression de feu.” Johnson paused a moment. “When you think about it, that makes a lot of sense. The literal translation would be ‘the fire that covers’ and ‘suppression of fire.’“
“Go to the head of the class, Johnson.” Foyte actually smiled at the former Legionnaire. “Now then, we have a lot of other ground to cover. If you’ll refer to your briefing papers . . .”
* * * *
18
SSI OFFICES
Strategic Solutions took little for granted. Predeployment planning was thorough for any client, but especially so for overseas business. Aside from contract negotiations—the meat in the corporate sandwich— Michael Derringer kept close contact with his subordinates, none more so than those charged with operations.
Sometimes his supervisory duties trod the thin line between too much oversight and too little. After all, Marshall Wilmont was the chief operating officer, but he had multiple pies in the oven. Never a micro-manager, the retired admiral nonetheless kept his fingers on his baby’s pulse. And SSI was definitely his baby.
At the end of a staff meeting, Derringer took Leopold aside. “Frank, I’ve been thinking about leadership of the Chad team. Don’t misunderstand me: I have every confidence in Gunny Foyte. But I wonder how our clients will relate to a former NCO. They may pay more attention to a retired officer.”
Leopole rubbed his square jaw. Derringer knew the sign: Lieutenant Colonel Leopole was an objective professional. The former Marine was playing mental tug of war between Loyalty and The Mission.
Derringer interrupted Leopole’s reverie. “I’m thinking that somebody like Steve Lee could run interference for our team, leaving Foyte to do the hands-on work.”
Leopole had worked with Major Lee and respected him, though they were not close. West Pointer, Ranger, sniper instructor, HALO parachuting instructor, all the bells and whistles. His Been-There-Done-That sheet contained operations in five countries. Despite the glasses, he had command presence that went over especially well in the third world.
“All right, sir. Lee would do a good job. But I don’t know if he’s available.”
Derringer smiled imperceptibly. He had checked before raising the matter. “I believe he is, actually.” Derringer knew that Steve Lee, twice divorced with no children, was marking time. Derringer thought, He’s like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now. Waiting for another mission.
“I’ll call him,” Derringer continued. “He works all right with Gunny Foyte, doesn’t he?”
Leopold gave an eloquent shrug. “They’re both pros, Admiral.”
Derringer appeared content with that assessment. It was what he bought and sold: professionalism. “One thing, though, Lee doesn’t speak French, let alone Arabic. German, if I remember correctly. So we’ll have to rely on Johnson, Nissen, and Wallender in that regard.”
Leopole grinned hugely. “Don’t forget Martha.”
The admiral returned the sentiment, rolling his eyes. “How could I? She wouldn’t let me even if I could!”
“Speak of the devil. There she is.” Leopold motioned over his shoulder.
Martha Whitney announced her presence with a contralto greeting to Josh Wallender. “Bon après midi, mon sergeant.”
The erstwhile Green Beret returned the salutation with a continental kiss of the hand. “Et à vous, madame. Enchant é .”
Breezy Brezyinski took in the arcane ritual and shook his head. “Man, oh, man. Looks like we can’t take a contract without a female anymore.”
Bosco Boscombe knew what he meant. Dr. Carolyn Padgett-Smith, a medical researcher, had been invaluable on the Pandora Project, hunting down an Islamic cell that spread the Marburg virus in the west. “By the way, any word on CPS?”
Breezy replied, “Last I heard, she was back at work. Don’t suppose she’s doing much rock climbing, though. Not after the exposure she had to that bug in Pakistan.”
With a skeptical glance, Bosco made a mental comparison between the bejeweled, garrulous Ms. Whitney and the athletic, attractive British immunologist. “I tell you what: this lady has a looong way to go in Doc Smith’s league.”
“Well, I don’t reckon there’s gonna be many mountains to climb or Taliban to shoot where we’re going. Besides, Whitney’s gig is language and intel, not operations.”
“Thank God!” Bosco exclaimed. “Queen Latifah meets G.I. Jane!”
Breezy nearly choked while suppressing a laugh. “Sandy Carmichael says Martha’s supposed to blend into the crowd. Like, mingle with the locals when she’s not coordinating with Steve Lee and the Chad liaison officers.”
“Major Lee is welcome to that chore. Big time.”
“Fershure, dude.”
* * * *
19
N’DJAMENA, CHAD
The operator called Alexander was resigned to his loss. David Olmert clearly was not coming back. It was as if he had vanished off the face of the earth.
Alexander knew why.
The reason or reasons would likely remain unknown for years; perhaps forever. David had been careless, unobservant, or committed some error of tradecraft. In any case, he was gone.
At a caf é off the Place de l’Etoile, Alex slipped into a chair beside a distinguished-looking Arab gentleman. Which is to say, the well-groomed diner appeared to be an Arab. They spoke Arabic, keeping their voices beneath the background chatter.
“Etfadel echrab kahwa.” The older man poured some coffee from the pot on his table. “No word?” he asked. He sipped from his own small cup, then absentmindedly brushed his gray goatee. Anyone glancing at him would mark him for a sixtyish businessman; likely a Saudi. In truth he had been born in Jerusalem nearly seventy years ago.
Alexander shook his head. “Wala hayoh.”
Mustafah—for such was his name these days—placed his cup on the saucer. He did not wish to seem callous, but he and his accomplice both knew the lay of the land. One had to expect losses in their profession, and it did not do to take them too personally.
“Permit me to summarize,” Mustafah said. “We know that the preferred French contractor ran afoul of Groupe FGN, which eliminated the competition.”
“Of course! David and I saw it ourselves.”
“And David confirmed that the surviving members of Agents d’Alsace Incorpore’s team left for Paris the day he disappeared.”
“That was the last thing I heard from him. It would be easy to check their arrival at Orly.”
“Maalish,” Mustafah replied. “Never mind.” He toyed with his miniature cup. At length he looked at his colleague. “I have my own theory as to why Groupe FGN is behaving so brazenly. I have n
ot heard yours.”
Alex leaned forward, moving his cup and saucer aside. “My friend, I have not been in the trade nearly as long as you, but I have learned one or two things. For example, I know the danger of drawing the obvious conclusion.”
“Which is?”
“Hurtubise and his killers want to remove any competition for the government contract to guard the uranium mine near the Libyan border.”
Mustafah’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “Obviously they have done so. But to what purpose?”
“Well, apparently not just for the contract. It would be profitable, yes, but they could have underbid AAI without much difficulty.”
“Go on, Alex.”
“It seems clear that FGN has another motive. Maybe I can understand such drastic measures within the mercenary business. But taking David, who was only observing both companies, raises the stakes. I mean, it exposes Hurtubise to Israeli scrutiny. Surely he knows the risk that carries.”
“You mean retaliation.”
Alexander’s eyes glinted gunmetal gray. “I should hope so.”
Mustafah absorbed the sentiment, catalogued it, and continued. “You assume he knows that David works for us.”
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 decor 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 p
lan 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.”