Prometheus's Child

by Harold Coyle

  The tone of Lee’s voice said as much as his words. After a pause he continued. “By ‘we’ I mean the Co-In battalion. Not necessarily us in this room.”

  Johnson raised a hand. “Major, we were just discussing this sort of thing the other day. There’s hardly any junior officers up to speed as near as I can tell. So who’s going…”

  “Nobody with SSI is required to do anything. Okay? Get that straight.” Lee lasered the room with his glare, obviously displeased with the response. “But Johnson is right. There’s not enough officers qualified to lead more than a couple of platoons right now. Evidently that’s partly due to some infighting to get assigned to an elite unit. But on the other hand, some experienced Chadians don’t want to join the Co-In force just because it’s considered elite. They’re worried it’ll draw attention from the president’s office and mark them as a potential threat.”

  Breezy raised an eyebrow. “Man, talk about damned if you do…”

  “Now listen up,” Lee resumed. “We’ve been asked to contribute a couple of French speakers to help out. Officially they’d be liaison. Unofficially, they’ll probably be acting platoon leaders. Otherwise we’ll hope for a couple of you to work with Chadian translators.”

  Eyes turned toward Johnson and Joshua Wallender, the most competent French linguists. Chris Nissen was fluent in Arabic and conversant in French.

  Sensing the mood in the room, Lee pushed ahead. “First, I’ll emphasize that if anybody volunteers for this op, they’ll be advising more than leading. Second, there’s a hefty combat bonus. That’s already been confirmed by the company. Third … well, we need you.”

  “What’s the mission, Steve?” Bosco intentionally used Lee’s given name to inject a note of immediacy.

  Lee turned to a map pinned to the wall behind him. “Up here along the Libyan border there’s some activity that interests this government and ours as well. It has to do with mining—that’s about all I can say right now, but more intel is coming. That’s been a hot area for years, going back to the seventies and eighties when Chad and Qadhafi were feuding.”

  Wallender, who hardly ever spoke in meetings, leaned forward in his chair. “Major, let me ask something: why us? Why not a regular Army unit?”

  “I was just coming to that, Josh. The reason is security. I’m given to understand that the Army units can’t be trusted because the rebels, or whomever, can buy almost any information they want. With corruption like it is in this country, that’s a real concern.”

  Wallender sat back, clearly unsatisfied. “Well, what’s to say that none of our guys will sell out?”

  “Nothing’s guaranteed,” Lee replied. “But think about it. Our battalion is separated here. There’s almost no outside contact, and we’ll lock down everything as soon as we know what’s up. Additionally, it’ll be a no-notice deployment as far as the troops are concerned. We’ll have at least a couple days to get ready, but they won’t know it. Far as they’re concerned, we’re doing inventory and training for rapid deployment.”

  Nissen eyed the distance between N’Djamena and the border. “That’s a fur piece up there, Major. How do we get there?”

  “We pre-position some trucks and vehicles, probably here, at Bardai.” He jabbed a finger on the map. “We fly there in two C-130s and we have some helos on standby. In fact, I’ve alerted Terry Keegan and a couple of his rotorheads. They’ll be ready to insert or extract on short notice.”

  Wielding a pointer, Lee said, “There’s two possible fields west of the op area, both unpaved. Bardai is six thousand feet long, about a hundred miles from our objective, and Zouar is forty-seven hundred, even farther away. Another option is Ouinianga Kebir, down here a couple of hundred miles southeast of the area of interest.”

  Wallender was clearly unhappy with the situation. “Either way, that’s a long haul to the target with much hope of surprise. Especially if we’re using Chadian aircraft.”

  Lee grinned wolfishly. “We’re not. Uncle Sugar is sending three Hercs just for this mission. That includes a spare.”

  “Major, I don’t know about the other guys but I’d sure like to know what’s up there that’s so important.”

  Lee laid down his pointer and said one word. “Uranium.”

  SSI OFFICES

  Leopole found Derringer’s door ajar and recognized the “come in” signal. Nontheless, SSI’s foreign operations chief politely rapped twice with his knuckles.

  “Admiral, we got trouble.”

  Derringer looked up from his keyboard. “Well, that’s our middle name when it isn’t ‘Solutions.’ What is it, Frank?”

  Leopole strode to the desk and laid an e-mail printout before Derringer. “Sandy just got this. She’s checking with State right now, but it looks as if our Chad team has been drafted into a clandestine op.”

  Derringer adjusted his military-frame glasses and scanned the short message. Then he looked up. “Why didn’t we get a heads-up? Wasn’t there time to consult?”

  “There was a phone recording from Gunny last night, saying to look for an e-mail. Ordinarily this would come from DoD or State via Marsh as chief operating officer, but he’s hobnobbing with a couple of undersecretaries at Rock Creek.” Leopole glanced at his watch. “By now I reckon they’re on the back nine.”

  The CEO visualized the verdant lushness: narrow fairways flanked by dense trees. It called for serious risk assessment of a kind that Frank Leopole would never appreciate. To the former Marine officer, golf was a silly pastime lacking loud noise, recoil, and supersonic objects. Still, more serious business was conducted on manicured lawns—or in the clubhouse—than most D.C. denizens would ever admit.

  Derringer swiveled in his chair, mulling over the prospects. “All right, Sandy’s next in line as foreign operations officer and she’d have to deal with this development anyway. But getting our people involved in a Chadian government contract didn’t just drop out of the sky. What’s behind it?”

  Leopole slid into a chair, elbows on the desk. “I think I can read between the lines. You remember a few days ago that Steve sent us a summary of his discussion with the defense attaché? Major Roosevelt?”

  “Yes, I saw it. But I didn’t follow the way they connected the dots. I mean, how’d they tumble to this French character’s likely involvement with uranium smuggling? Apparently nobody in the intel business saw the forest for the trees.”

  “Admiral, I guess they just G-2’d it. Plain old good headwork with some help from Martha Whitney. After all, they’re right there with their boots on the ground. But they didn’t expect to have to act on it. Roosevelt apparently sent a memo up the food chain and somebody went Oscar Sierra. Like, ‘We gotta do something, now!’”

  Derringer nodded, sorting out the prospects. “That makes sense, Frank. But wouldn’t it be logical to expect a query from Steve Lee? After all, he’s not going to act without consulting us.”

  “We don’t even know if he’s been approached yet. In fact…”

  Sandra Carmichael strode into the room, not bothering to knock. Derringer looked up. “Sandy, what’ve you got?”

  Without formality, she replied, “Whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on, sir. I hardly replied to State’s liaison office when this e-mail arrived from Steve. He confirms that his team has been asked by the embassy to participate in what he calls ‘an important but acceptably low-risk tactical operation.’ He’s already done some contingency planning and has alerted Terry Keegan, who’s inbound to take over a couple of helos. Steve expects to launch the op up on the Libyan border within seventy-two hours or so. That is, assuming we agree.”

  Derringer rubbed his chin. “Very well. Tell Steve that I’ll call an emergency meeting of the board, NLT tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, he can continue his planning.”

  Leopole stood up. “Sandy, I don’t understand something. Why do our guys and their partly trained outfit have to do this? There must be other units available.”

  Carmichael’s blue eyes gleamed. “Go with your
strength, Colonel.” She liked talking to the former leatherneck as one O-5 to another. “Actually, Steve alluded to OpSec concerns. I’m sure he’ll elaborate, but I suspect that operational security is a big factor, considering how corrupt things are in Chad.”

  “Very well.” Derringer brought up his contacts file and scrolled toward the bottom. Under “Wilmont” he selected his associate’s cell and clicked on “call.” Looking up, he confided, “I just hope I can reach Marsh before they get to the clubhouse. He likes to stay late.”

  34

  CAIRO

  Between them, Terry Keegan and Eddie Marsh possessed nearly all the professional airman ratings available to Americans. As Keegan liked to joke, “Everything but multi-engine jet seaplane.” But in truth, their forte was not flying: it was improvisation.

  It was time to improvise.

  Keegan hung up the phone and turned to his partner. “Okay, things are rolling. We’re going to N’Djamena on a commercial flight and meet the air attaché, or whatever they call him. He’ll give us the info on whatever choppers are available. After that, we’re pretty much on our own.”

  “Sounds like a real purple operation,” Marsh enthused. Keegan, a former naval aviator, smiled in appreciation of the joint ops sentiment. Marsh was an ex-Army warrant officer and they would be dealing with the Air Force.

  Keegan sat down on his bed while Marsh lazed in his. “The big thing is going to be comm. We’re supposed to get hi-freq radios from the embassy and presumably everybody will be able to talk to everybody else: us, the Herc crews, and our guys on the ground.”

  Marsh stretched his lanky frame and stifled a yawn. “You know it won’t work, Terry. It never does.”

  Keegan, who shared the sentiment, wanted to appear more optimistic. “No reason it shouldn’t. I mean, it’s a pretty straightforward situation. We need standardized comm and can’t rely on the radios in the helos because everybody in Chad has those freqs. As long as the HF radios work, it should be no sweat. And we’ll test them before we launch.”

  The Army veteran shrugged. “We’ll see. Hey, not that it matters, but what’re we going after?”

  “There’s some sort of mining operation up along the Libyan border. Our instructors have orders to secure the place with some of the counterinsurgency people they’re training. Steve Lee says it has to be done fast with minimal warning. He’s not even telling his Chadians about it until they board the 130s.”

  “Well, how much info will we have for route planning and timing?”

  “Oh, we’ll have enough. But not much more. It’s a State and DoD operation so…”

  Marsh chuckled. “So like I said. It’s not gonna work like it’s planned.”

  “Never does, pal. Never does.”

  35

  SSI COMPOUND

  “How’s Ms. Congeniality today?”

  Chris Nissen knew the question was rhetorical. He grinned at Lee who entered the hostel at the stroke of 0830. The medic thought, They can keep that clock!

  “Walking wounded.” Nissen thumbed a gesture over his shoulder, toward the bathroom. Lee heard stirrings therein, and assumed that the patient was ambulatory.

  Lee sat down. “Chris, I need her awake and lucid. We have to know…”

  “I know.” Nissen raised both hands. “I know. And she’s a lot better. But I didn’t try to debrief her about her outing with the French chick. Figured you’d want to handle that in person.”

  “Well, can she remember anything?”

  “Major, all she said was something about her brow chakra trying to pull her solar chakra out through her crown chakra. Whatever that means.”

  Lee laughed aloud: a long, genuine cackle. When he gulped in some air, he explained. “Martha’s a spiritualist. Oh, she talks about being Baptist, but she’s a big believer in the Hindu power points of the body. What she’s saying is that her headache is so bad that it wants to lift her stomach out through the top of her cranium.” He chuckled again. “I never heard it explained better!”

  Nissen gave a slight shake of his head. “Never figured you for a Hindu.”

  “Oh, I’m not. If anything I’m a lapsed Congregationalist. But I studied eastern and oriental philosophy in graduate school. Actually, there’s something to the chakras. There’s an internal logic to the wheel of life…”

  “Maje, I’m just a fugitive from the Elm Street boys’ choir. That’s as far as my religion went.”

  “Okay,” Lee said with a grin. “Enough philosophy for now.”

  “Honey, we’re just getting started!” Whitney appeared at the bathroom door, fresh scrubbed and dressed in a striped garment that Lee could only describe as a mumu.

  “My God, Martha. You look … great!”

  She rubbed her hands together in exaggerated fashion. “And I feel great, too. Sergeant Nissen, what’s for breakfast, bro?”

  The medic turned chef rose from his chair. “I’ll get started. But this is no short order house. You get what I fix.”

  She placed her arms akimbo and gave Nissen a stern look. “And you’re likely to get it back on your shoes if’n I don’t like it!”

  “Uh, that chakra thing?”

  “Solar chakra, honey. As in, from the bottom of my stomach.”

  “How ’bout a nice omelette? With black coffee.”

  “Now you’re cookin’, sugar.” She pronounced it “sugah.”

  Whitney slid into the vacant chair and leaned toward Lee. “Now, Major honey. What do y’all want to know?”

  Lee produced a notebook and sat back. “Everything.”

  She told him.

  SSI OFFICES

  “Gentlemen—ladies—we don’t have much time.”

  Derringer scanned the eight people seated around the polished table. He would have preferred a late night meeting or even a phone poll, but most of SSI’s directors had other obligations, and 0800 was the best he could manage.

  “Here’s the short version,” he began. “Our team in Chad has made good progress with the counterinsurgency unit it’s training. But they’re not up to speed and aren’t expected to complete the first cycle for a couple of months. Meanwhile, a potentially critical development has occurred in-country that requires a quick response. There’s a French PMC operating legitimately with the French government but apparently it’s doing some moonlighting as well. Steve Lee, Martha Whitney, and the military attaché in N’Djamena have discovered that a clandestine mining operation is under way along the northern border with Libya. We don’t know for sure but it looks as if our counterparts from Paris are planning on smuggling uranium ore, and possibly processed yellow cake, out of the country.”

  “What’s the destination?” asked George Ferraro. The former naval systems analyst already thought he had a good idea.

  “Well, one of the PMC’s usual suspects is an Iranian.”

  “But we don’t know for certain that’s the end user.”

  “We do not,” Derringer replied. “But State, DoD, and the embassy folks are worried enough to put our team on the operation.”

  Marshall Wilmont spoke up. “I’d like to hear Matt’s appraisal of the personnel aspects.” Matthew Finch of the administrative support division seldom attended board meetings but Wilmont wanted his perspective.

  Finch was a button-down Marylander whom Leopole insisted had been born in a vest. “Well, our contract has a clause saying that SSI training personnel can be activated for operations provided there’s adequate consultation, approval, and so forth. Evidently some of the team is willing to go and others … well, they’re not so eager. In any case, there’s precedent for such action if that’s a concern to anyone. Obviously it doesn’t bother State or DoD. Beyond that, we have an escalating fee scale based on a pretty subjective set of risk factors. Of course, if any casualties occur, the coverage automatically kicks in, regardless of the cause.”

  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?”