by Harold
Ferraro asked, “Has Ms. Pilong been consulted?”
Finch nodded. “I talked to Corin on the phone just before we convened. She’s taking care of a sick child, but she said there’s no contractual barriers.”
Derringer leaned back. “There you have it. Our people are in place, some willing to participate in a clandestine operation, and their assistance is wanted by State and Defense. We won’t make a lot of extra money off it, but I think we should take it. The risk seems fully acceptable, and the operation will gain SSI additional goodwill with our main client. The United States Government.”
Sam Small, a retired Air Force colonel and sometime SR-71 pilot, was first to respond. “Looks like a no-brainer to me. Minimal risk, possible big benefit. I don’t even know if we need to discuss it.”
Wilmont interjected, “Sammy, I understand your attitude, and I share your opinion. But anytime we’re faced with altering a contract, and this involves possible combat, Mike and I think the board needs to consider it.”
Small gave a shrug. “Okay, let’s go.”
Beverly Shumard’s icy blue eyes betrayed no emotion. “Ordinarily I would agree that this proposal, coming from two agencies, is worthwhile. But I wonder if we’re overlooking something.”
“Yes?” Derringer prompted.
“Unintended consequences, Admiral. If, as seems possible, we end up chasing uranium all the way to Iran, we might find ourselves in over our collective heads.”
“Beverly, there’s always the possibility of events spinning out of control. We all accept that fact when we sign on, whether in the military or with SSI. But as I’ve noted, this is a low-risk operation, limited in time and place.” Derringer looked around the room again. “Anybody else?”
No one responded so Derringer called for a voice vote.
“Dr. Craven?”
“Go.”
“General Rowell?”
“Affirm.”
“General Jonas?”
“You bet.”
“Dr. Frisch?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve already heard from Colonel Small. Bev, what do you think?”
Shumard managed a slight grin that dimpled her cheeks. “You know what I think, Admiral. But since we already have a clear majority, I’ll go along.”
Derringer glanced at Mrs. Springer, who was keeping notes. “Then it’s unanimous.” He turned to Wilmont and Carmichael. “Marsh, you can inform State that we’re proceeding. Sandy tell Steve Lee that it’s a go.”
* * * *
36
N”DJAMENA
Hurtubise was in the apartment less than one minute before he sensed trouble.
Gabrielle gave him a perfunctory kiss that set bells ringing—the farthest kind from romantic bells.
Alarm bells.
“What is it?” he asked.
She looked up at him—he was four inches taller—and bit her lip. He mistook it for a pout, and Gabrielle Tixier could pout with the best of them. A sensual, little-girl pout perfected over years. She used it to manipulate men.
When she turned away, he grasped her arm and spun her around. “I asked, what is it?”
“I feel terrible,” she replied.
“Yes, I can see that, Gabrielle.” He modulated his voice, allowing just enough flat tone to imply something pending. Something probably unpleasant.
“I did what you wanted,” she said, immediately regretting the defensive whine building at the end of the phrase. “I met the American woman again and we . . . talked.”
“You did more than talk. You drank. A lot.” It was a statement of fact; a certainty like magnetism or taxes.
She touched her forehead and flicked the light brown bangs. “Yes. All right. We drank. A lot. We learned about each other. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
He folded his arms—a sure sign of irritation—and leaned forward. “Don’t play games, Gabrielle! I set a hen to catch a hen, and now I am beginning to think that the American hen was a chicken hawk.” He stared her down; she never could meet his eyes for more than several seconds.
She plopped into the only comfortable chair and looked at him again. “I . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“What did you tell her?”
Her mouth opened. Nothing followed. Finally she swallowed and croaked, “I ... I don’t know. Not everything.”
He sprang at her, raising a hand, and she flinched from long experience.
Hurtubise stopped in midstride. He realized that if he struck her again, this time she probably would leave. Personal considerations aside, she would also take any useful information with her.
He knelt before her, balanced on one knee. “Gabrielle. I’m sorry. I told you four years ago that I would never do that again. And I keep my word.”
She was crying now, tears tracking down both cheeks. “Marcel . . . I’m so sorry. I thought I could handle her. Honestly I did. But. . .”
The emotional dam burst and the sobs came. She leaned forward on her elbows, her slender torso visibly shaking with each painful exhalation.
He reached out, touched an arm, and squeezed. Harder than he intended, but a calming gesture nonetheless.
Inside, his mind was raging.
Marcel Hurtubise was nothing if not composed. He was aware of the American phrase “control freak.” Commandez le ph é nom è ne was as close as he could come. But however you said it, he had it. “Come here, my darling.” He wrapped his muscular arms around her and pulled her to him. Over her shoulder, he glanced at his watch and estimated that she would tell him what he needed to know in three minutes.
It was more like five.
When she had confessed all she could—everything she could remember or thought she could remember—she allowed herself to relax a bit. By now she was feeling more certain of herself. It had happened before—a long period of good to excellent behavior followed by an inevitable lapse leading to confession, contrition, and forgiveness. Sometimes Gabrielle wondered if Marcel had been a priest in a previous incarnation.
But there was always the penance. In this instance, it came on an icy wind.
“Good, Gabrielle. Very good. It is always best to tell the truth. I cannot make things better without knowing everything. You understand?”
She nodded briskly, not trusting her voice.
“Very well.” He stroked her hair, tracing the line of her cheek with the knuckles of one hand. “We must assume that she knows about the mine, so there is only one thing to do.”
“Yes?”
“Kill her.”
* * * *
37
SSI COMPOUND
“Okay: here’s what we know,” Lee began. He pointed to a map of Chad propped on an easel. “The mine is here in the Aozou Strip up near the Libyan border. It’s been relatively inactive for a few years but apparently some of the equipment has been maintained, maybe with this time in mind. At any rate, our colleagues with Groupe FGN have been using their legitimate work through the French embassy to provide security for the clandestine operation that’s under way at the mine. We do not know the ultimate destination of the yellow cake, but it could be Iran.” He allowed that sentiment to linger in midair for a moment.
“Anyway, that really doesn’t matter. The important thing is, our people here and in D.C. do not want that product to leave the country. That’s why it’s such a hurry-up operation. We don’t know exactly when the yellow cake will be ready for export, but indications are that it’s imminent.”
Lee turned back to his audience and took three steps forward. “Gentlemen, I’ll repeat what I said before. This is strictly a volunteer basis. If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to. Personally, I’m convinced that it’s a low-risk operation, but there could be some shooting. Since you’ve all signed training contracts, you’re at liberty to stay here. But we need experienced leadership on the ground up there, and that’s why our team got the nod.” He looked at each man in turn. “Any questions?”
There were none so Lee nodded to Foyte. “Gunny will conduct the briefing since he’s been working on the op order.”
Foyte walked to the head of the room. “Thank you, Major.” He flipped his notebook open and ran through the standard headings.
“Mission: well, you know that. Secure the mine and prevent any yellow cake from getting out. After we’re done, a joint U.S., Chad, and IAEA team will move in.”
Bosco raised a hand. “Uh, what’s IAEA?”
“International Atomic Energy Agency. It’s a multinational inspection organization.”
“U.N.?” asked Bosco.
“It’s based in Vienna but is chartered by the U.N. Why?”
“Ah, I never trust anybody who wears baby blue berets,” Bosco replied. Some chuckles skittered through the room. Foyte ignored them.
“Enemy forces: probably twelve to twenty French or European mercs from Groupe FGN. That does not include the mine workers. Expect small arms and automatic weapons, and watch for imbedded explosives.
“Friendly forces: well, that’s us, of course. We’re taking two platoons: one to assault and one to secure the perimeter and provide backup.
“Execution: fly to the op area in C-130s and take pre-positioned transport to the mine. We’ll have two choppers in support for contingencies and med-evac. We plan to hit the place at dawn. You’ll get specific assignments the night before.
“Command and control: this is gonna be the kicker. Almost none of our clients speak English so there’s a premium on French and Arabic speakers. We’ll have a couple of translators from the embassy as backup.” He looked at Chris Nissen and J. J. Johnson. Nissen was in—he could use the combat bonus for his daughter’s college fund. Johnson still had not committed.
“We’ll have at least two common frequencies on radios. I’m told that our rotor heads also are getting UHF sets from the blue suits so the helos can talk to us on the ground.
“Security. Well, that’s the reason we’re doing this job. The locals would gladly sell any information to anybody, which is why SSI and our Co-In team has been tasked. We’re administratively and physically separate from the rest of the Chadian armed forces, and nobody’s left the training area for two days. Additionally we’re using our own transportation and USAF 130s. Now, I’m not saying there couldn’t be some word to the frogs, but it looks pretty tight.
“ROE: fire discipline is important here, more for our platoons than ourselves. Yeah, I know—a lot of the Chadians we’re training have been shot at before, but if somebody caps off a round by accident, you know damn well what’ll happen. Firing contagion. With all the civilians in the area, that could be really bad news. So we’re gonna stress that our troops don’t shoot at anybody who isn’t pointing a weapon at them.
“POWs, if that’s the term. We will have to disarm the Frenchies and put them under detention. Major Lee and I hope that a superior show of force will convince them to stand down. In that case, we’ll treat them well and hold them until the suits arrive. If not—well, it’s their funeral. So to speak.”
Foyte looked up. “Questions?”
Breezy stirred in his seat. “Gunny, wouldn’t it be better to go in before dawn? Take ‘em more by surprise?”
The Marine nodded. “Of course. But do you want to take the boys we’re training and have them running around in the dark with loaded weapons?” He did not await a response. “Next.”
Josh Wallender gave the high sign. “What’s the risk of radiation?”
Lee stood up again. “Very slight. You’re going to hear from an expert that the big problem with uranium ore is underground, where there’s poor ventilation. This mine is a big pit in the open. You’ll have respirators for the time you’re actually in the pit but avoid cuts and you’ll be okay. We’re not going to be there very long, anyway.”
Lee asked, “Anything else?” When no one responded, he gestured to a man in the back of the room.
“Gentlemen, this is Mr. Langevin. He’s with the IAEA and has been briefed on our mission. Now, before anybody gets excited, I can say that he’s on our side. He’s a former Air Force nuke who works in the arms control field. He will fill us in on uranium ore.”
Langevin had not reached the front of the room before Breezy leaned to Bosco and said in a loud whisper, “Funny. He doesn’t look like an Air Force puke.”
Boscombe took the hint. He swatted his partner, exclaiming, “You dummy. That’s nuke, not puke!”
Langevin, a short, slightly built man with receding dark hair, turned to the Army men. “What’s the atomic number of uranium?”
Bosco and Breezy exchanged glances. “Uh, 235,” essayed Breezy.
“Beeeep! Wrong!” Langevin imitated a quiz-show buzzer. “It’s ninety-two, because the uranium atom has ninety-two protons and electrons. Now, I don’t expect you snake eaters to understand about earth elements, let alone lanthanide or actinide series. So there’s no way you’re going to understand 92, let alone 235!”
While the grunts in the room tried to absorb the fact that a skinny techno-nerd could take their guff and toss it back, Langevin launched into his briefing.
“A bit of background, gentlemen. Uranium is a naturally occurring element found at low levels in nearly all rocks, soils, and water. It is considered more common than gold, silver, or tungsten, and nearly as much as arsenic or molybdenum. It is found in many minerals such as lignite, and monazite sands in uranium-rich ores. It is mined from those sources.
“Now, as you heard from Major Lee, uranium ore produces radon gas that needs ventilation unless it’s mined in an open pit. Fortunately, that’s the case where we’re concerned . . .”
Breezy interrupted. “Ah, we? As in, you’re going with us? Sir?”
“You got it, son. And I’m packing. If I have to double-tap somebody, I’ll do it, too.”
The former paratrooper raised an eyebrow and regarded the dweeb with new respect. “Ah, yessir.”
“Good.” Langevin shot a glance at Lee and winked. Then he continued.
“Now, it doesn’t really bear on our mission but you might benefit from some background. The U.S. hasn’t had to import uranium for many years, at least not for military purposes. Most people don’t realize that Australia has nearly thirty percent of the world’s known supply, but only exports it for nonmilitary use. However, Canada probably exports more total product though the worldwide demand has dropped. Uranium hit an all-time low of seven dollars a pound in 2001 but has bounced back to about thirty.”
Wallender interjected. “Sir, I don’t understand something. If uranium is widely available, why the concern about deposits in a remote place like Chad? I mean, it’s got to be harder and more expensive to get there than almost anywhere.”
“That’s a good question,” Langevin responded. “The reason is, Chad and much of Africa have ample supplies, but the mines and transportation systems are not monitored very well. Remember, Chad has been named one of the two most corrupt governments on earth. With enough money and minimal resources, almost anyone could obtain enough ore to produce yellow cake and ship it anywhere. Say, like North Korea. Or Iran.”
“Gulp.”
“You said it.”
Langevin began pacing, turning to keep his audience in view. “What we’re concerned with isn’t the ore, it’s uranic oxide, better known as yellow cake, that’s used for processing. It’s roughly seventy-five percent uranate, produced by milling uranium ore. It’s a radioactive powder with a high melting temperature—nearly three thousand degrees Centigrade. It’s insoluble in water.”
“How’s it produced?” asked Foyte.
“Well, the ore is crushed to produce what’s called pulp. That’s dipped in sulfuric acid to leach out the product. What’s left after drying and filtering is the yellow cake.”
“So we’re looking for, like, a yellow powder, right?”
“Well, no. The stuff is actually dark brown or even black. The yellow name is left over from early processes that weren’t as efficient a
s today.”
Johnson, still uncertain whether he would participate, was intrigued. “Sir, how much yellow cake is needed for a bomb?”