Prometheus's Child

by Harold Coyle

  Langevin nodded. “Reasonable question. But you’ve just had a hint of the answer from Major Lee: deniability.”

  Breezy wrinkled a brow. “How’s that, Doc?”

  “Almost every uranium ore has its own identification, like a fingerprint. If there’s anyplace on earth that hasn’t been fingerprinted, so to speak, I don’t know where it is. So if the Iranians want to nuke someplace, they’re not going to use material from their own backyard. They have at least three mines but they’ll want to use refined ore from someplace else, the farther away the better. They’d use it from Colorado if they could get enough of it.”

  Bosco, whose scientific interest generally was limited to pulp fiction and Star Wars movies, now took a closer interest. “Excuse me, sir. But how much uranium do you need for a bomb?”

  Langevin grinned hugely. His smile said, Low, slow one over the middle of the plate. Finally he replied, “Well, I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.”

  When the laughter abated, the scientist raised a hand. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. But it’s a fair question. I can’t talk about current weapons, but for the Little Boy that flattened Hiroshima, about sixty-five kilos. Less than 150 pounds.” Warming to his subject, he continued. “But that’s not a very efficient use of a valuable product. Now, take Fat Man, the Nagasaki bomb. That only used six kilos of plutonium, but of course you need a lot of uranium to process plutonium. There’s an intermediate step called a composite, with a core using both uranium and plutonium. A little over three kilos of plutonium and six and a half of U-235.” He shrugged. “Actually, it doesn’t make a lot of difference. An exact duplicate of Little Boy is still about twelve to fifteen KT yield, and we know what that did to Hiroshima.”

  “I have a question.” It was Josh Wallender, who rarely spoke in meetings. “Libya has been awfully quiet for several years, like maybe they learned a lesson. Why would they risk another setback on behalf of Iran?”

  Langevin shifted in his seat to face the Green Beret. “Good question, Sergeant. For some years there was cooperation between Libya and Iran on weapons research, even though Qadhafi’s regime is pretty secular. But there was a Libyan group of Islamic extremists that attacked government facilities inside Libya so Qadhafi had them expelled. They went to Afghanistan, then settled in Iran with some other al Qaeda groups. Along the way, some of their recent knowledge about Iran’s nuclear program got back to Libya, and that had something to do with Qadhafi renouncing WMDs in 2004. So it looks like there’s a connection: Tehran doesn’t want Libya spilling what it knows about the Iranian bomb program, and threatens to return the radicals to Libya if that happens.”

  Wallender emitted a long, low whistle.

  Langevin smiled in appreciation. “Yeah. Welcome to the Middle East.”

  Regaining control of the session, Lee said, “That’s the long way ’round the block to say that we should be prepared for a Libyan reaction. It’s entirely possible that some yellow cake can be moved to Libya with or without the government’s knowledge, and shipped elsewhere. That means we want to do this as slick and quick as possible.”

  He scanned the room, unblinking behind his Army issue glasses. “Anything else for discussion?” He glanced at Foyte, who shook his head.

  “Very well then.” Lee shot a look at his watch. “Let’s get our people moving. Equipment check before the briefing and nobody leaves the compound. We’re wheels in the well in four plus thirty.”

  43

  AOZOU STRIP

  The Cessna 421 braked to a halt on the hard-packed runway and shut down the left engine first. Before the three-bladed propeller had stopped spinning, the door opened and two men immediately debarked. Marcel Hurtubise and Paul Deladier carried overnight bags that contained few clothes. Anyone hefting the satchels would have commented upon the weight.

  Cruising at 190 knots, the trip had taken over three hours. Deladier would have preferred to try to sleep during the trip but his superior had other priorities. In one way, however, Deladier welcomed the diversion. He did not want to dwell upon Gabrielle Tixier.

  Etienne Stevin was waiting. Anticipating the question, he met Hurtubise and said, “We’re almost ready.”

  The three mercenaries climbed into the Land Rover and talked en route to the mine. “Tell me,” Hurtubise commanded.

  Stevin’s stubby fingers grasped the wheel, navigating the unpaved road from the landing strip. “After we got Paul’s message, we reinforced the guard and changed the schedule. We’re now at fifty percent alert during the night, thirty-three percent during the day. Moungar’s assistant is practically using a whip on the blacks; they’re pushing hard to get two full loads ready for loading.”

  “How soon?”

  “The first one—maybe day after tomorrow. No later than Tuesday. The second load maybe later that day.”

  Hurtubise chewed his lip and rubbed his stubbled chin, measuring the time-distance equation. It was going to be tight. He could feel it. He looked at Stevin. “Who is the assistant?”

  “Name’s Jean Djimasta. I thought you met him before.”

  “I did. I just don’t remember the name. Medium-sized, really black, balding. Bit of an attitude for a nigger.”

  “That’s him.”

  Hurtubise glanced over his shoulder to Deladier in the rear seat. “Well, seeing that he’s getting the job done, we can tolerate some attitude. But not too much, eh?” He almost laughed.

  Deladier leaned forward between the front seats. “What about Moungar? Will he be here?”

  “No,” Hurtubise replied. “I’d like to have him here because he represents the government. But he’s making arrangements with our friends across the border.”

  Downshifting to cross a narrow defile, Stevin said, “Boss, I’d like to hear more. What do we really know about the Americans? And how good is the information?”

  Hurtubise dropped the impending grin. “The information is about as good as we can expect, but it’s the usual situation. You never have everything you want. I got suspicious when Gabrielle came back from her second meeting with the American woman.” He shook his head in self reproach. “That was my fault, really. I thought she could handle it. The little shrew was pretty good at getting people to talk but…”

  Deladier felt a small, electric prickling between the shoulders at Tixier’s name. He sat back, grasping a door handle to steady himself as the Land Rover jounced over the graded road.

  “Anyway, she spilled more than she learned,” Hurtubise continued. “When I realized what had happened, I sent her to deal with the American broad but she didn’t come back.”

  Stevin did not know what to say. Deladier had already described the basics so the burly Belgian merely nodded.

  “The rest I filled in with contacts at the embassy, and intuition. The American firm is training a counterinsurgency unit in N’Djamena but we have to assume they can get up here pretty fast if they want. That’s why I want to get at least two loads out as soon as possible. After that, we’ve met our contract. Anything else is a bonus.”

  Stevin turned toward his boss and unzipped a tobacco-stained grin. “I like bonuses.”

  Hurtubise scowled in reply. “You just blow it on gambling and booze and whores. In a couple of weeks or months you’re broke again.”

  The Belgian nodded gravely, looking at the road again. Then he perked up. “But there’s always another job. Thanks to you.”

  The Frenchman regarded his colleague with a sideways glance. “Not after this one, Etienne. Not after this one.”

  BORKOU-ENNEDI-TIBESTI PREFECTURE

  Terry Keegan had a good opinion of his dead-reckoning ability, but he was glad of the GPS set in the borrowed Alouette III. Flying with Charles the mechanic in the seat beside him, the former naval aviator led his two helicopters in a descent to Bardai airfield in the rugged terrain of northern Chad.

  From studying aeronautical charts and Web sites, Keegan knew that only seven of the nation’s fifty-one airports had pav
ed runways. Bardai, at thirty-five hundred feet elevation, was unpaved but its fifty-nine-hundred-foot runway would accommodate the C-130s inbound behind him.

  Major Lowe, flying with Eddie Marsh, handled air-ground communications, such as they were. Though Bardai was a military field, it impressed the Americans as an extraordinarily low-key operation. They air-taxied to the area indicated by the controller, alit side by side, and shut down. The Turbomeca engines wheezed to a stop and the four men debarked. They were mildly surprised when no one met them.

  “Not a bad thing,” Lowe observed. “As long as we can get refueled and arrange security, I’d just as soon be ignored until we’re finished here.”

  While the Air Force officer arranged for fuel, Keegan, Marsh, and Haegelin conducted post-flight inspections on both choppers. “I’m using a little more oil than the manual lists, but I guess it’s okay,” Marsh said.

  “What do you mean, you guess it’s okay?” Keegan never took anything for granted: it was part of the reason he had survived four western Pacific deployments as a sub hunter, operating in big waves off some small decks.

  “Charles says it’s in limits,” Marsh replied. “And he sure knows more about these machines than I do.” The former Army flier quipped, “Hey, I’m an H-47 kinda guy.”

  Keegan tried to suppress a smile, and failed. “Chinooks—they’re like women. You can’t live with ’em and you can’t live without ’em.”

  “No lie, GI. The ’47 was in the inventory twelve years before I was born!”

  A low, insistent pulsing thrummed through the atmosphere, coming from the southwest. The helo pilots turned in that direction, shading their eyes against the slanting westerly rays of the sun. Several moments later Marsh exclaimed, “There! Just above the horizon.”

  The tall-tailed silhouettes of two C-130Hs hove into view at 290 knots, slanting toward the field. They flew a straight-in approach, taking landing interval but not bothering with the traffic pattern. “They probably don’t want to draw any more attention than they need to,” Keegan surmised.

  Charles Haegelin ventured a rare sentiment, as he had not been asked a question. “With that kind of noise, they cannot keep hidden so well.”

  He had a point. Each Hercules’s four Allison turboprops conspired to produce a pulsing resonance that could not be ignored. The lead transport touched down in the first quarter of the hard-packed runway and the pilot reversed the propellers, visibly slowing the big Lockheed, which turned off before the end of the strip. The second plane loitered momentarily in its approach, allowing the dust to disperse. In a few minutes both planes were parked, their engines whining a descending dirge as propellers windmilled into stillness.

  “Hey look,” Keegan exclaimed. “New paint job.”

  Marsh squinted at the 130s. Finally he saw the Navy man’s meaning. Chad’s tricolor cockade was painted over the tactical black-on-gray American insignia on fuselage and wings. There was also a fin flash on the vertical stabilizer. “That’s not going to fool anybody,” Marsh ventured. “Besides, it’s probably not legal.”

  Terry Keegan nudged him. “Like Teddy Roosevelt said, Why spoil the beauty of the thing with legality?”

  44

  AOZOU STRIP

  The mine was a welter of noise and activity. As the mercenaries alit from their Land Rover, they were approached by the foreman.

  “Jean Djimesta,” Etienne reintroduced the African to Hurtubise.

  “Mr. Djimesta.” Hurtubise slung his FA-MAS rifle from his right shoulder, muzzle down. He had already chambered the first round of 5.56mm ammunition from the twenty-five-round magazine. Deladier did likewise; both had carried the compact bullpup design in the Legion.

  The Chadian raised a hand and gestured behind him. “We are proceeding as fast as possible, monsieur.” He anticipated the Frenchman’s concern, adding, “We should be able to load the first truck before sunrise. The second perhaps two hours later.”

  Hurtubise nodded; it was better than he expected. “We can expect uninvited guests before dawn. Keep the men working.”

  Before Djimesta could reply, Hurtubise turned away and strode toward the perimeter. His colleagues followed.

  “Paul, I want you to go with the first truck. Stay with it until it’s ready to leave. You know the procedure at the border?”

  “Yes,” Deladier said. “Moungar already gave us the details.”

  “All right.” He turned to Stevin. “Etienne, you will remain in command of perimeter defense. But I need you sober, you understand?”

  The Belgian ignored the implication, unflappable as usual. “What do you think they’ll hit us with, Boss?”

  Hurtubise rubbed his chin. He needed a shave but hardly registered that fact. “I’m not sure they’ll come in shooting. I think they’ll make a show of force to make us back down without a fight. I wish we had more heavy weapons, but there’s no time to bring them up here. Anyway, I’ll talk to the men in a little while, but be sure they all understand: no shooting unless we’re attacked. If we need to slow them down so the trucks can get away, I’ll give that word. After that it’s up to you again.” He gave Stevin an unaccustomed pat on the arm.

  Good of you to die for me, mon ami. That’s what you seem to want.

  Deladier asked, “What are they likely to bring?”

  “I don’t think they’ll have APCs or anything like that. Probably they’ll arrive in trucks. Maybe a few helicopters. But they won’t pursue us into Libya, that’s for sure.”

  Stevin chuckled aloud. “We can handle a chopper or two.”

  45

  BARDAI AIRPORT

  Steve Lee found himself functioning as a company commander again. It had been several years, but he relished the challenge.

  In a large tent erected well clear of the flight line, he described the plan to his unit: the first platoon plus the SSI team and some support personnel. He spoke slowly and clearly, allowing J. J. Johnson to translate for the Chadians.

  “First platoon is the assault element. Second platoon will provide the blocking force and perimeter security.” He described a semicircle around the entrance to the mine and a roadblock to the north. “We will use both helos: one to lift a squad to overtake any vehicle that gets past the roadblock, the other to insert a second squad as a reaction force, wherever it might be needed.”

  In the orange-yellow glow of the suspended lights, he indicated where he wanted the Alouettes positioned at the moment of the assault. He glanced at Terry Keegan and Eddie Marsh; both seemed attentive and composed.

  “Now this is important,” Lee stressed. He paused longer than necessary after Johnson said, “C’est important.”

  “No one will open fire, even if we are fired upon, unless we take casualties.” Lee awaited the expected murmur of protest from the Chadians. “I repeat: this is important. We want to secure the mine as quickly as possible. If we have to shoot our way in, that gives the smugglers time to get away, possibly with some yellow cake. That’s why we want a blocking force in position, but we cannot assume it will stop everybody trying to escape.”

  When Johnson finished elaborating, Lee continued. “We want to intimidate the guards into surrendering. Therefore, we will not return fire if they merely shoot in our direction. When we close with them, if they’re still shooting, either I or Mr. Johnson will give the order. Is that clear?”

  “Est-ce clairement?”

  Resentful nods and assents came from the audience.

  “Now,” Lee continued. “Once we’ve secured the facility, Mr. Langevin will be in charge. You will take orders from him, especially in regard to any uranium ore, yellow cake, or equipment. If everything goes well, we can pack up and return to the capital day after tomorrow.”

  Keegan and Marsh exchanged knowing glances. Never freakin’ happen.

  Marsh raised a hand. “Sir, how do we know the yellow cake won’t be taken out tonight?”

  Lee assumed a relaxed posture. “We don’t, Mr. Marsh. That’s why Sergeant N
issen and three troopies are watching the roads in and out of there. They left right after we landed. If they see suspicious activity, they’ll call us and both you gentlemen will hustle up there with five Chadians apiece.” He grinned ironically. “Sorry, but you may not get much sleep tonight.”

  Keegan appreciated the plan if not the specifics. “What will the rest of you do in that case, sir?”

  “We’ll man up the trucks and be there in about three-zero mikes.” He looked around. “Yes, Sergeant Bawoyeu.”

  The Chadian NCO asked, “Qu’est connu au sujet des gardes? Sont-elles les combattants expérimentés?”

  Johnson translated: “What do we know about the guards? Are they experienced fighters?”

  Lee responded, “That’s a fair question. We don’t know exactly how many are up there—maybe twelve to twenty. Since they presumably work for Groupe FGN, we can assume they know what they’re doing. Probably several of them are ex-Foreign Legion. But we outnumber them and we’ll have some degree of surprise.”

  Lee consulted his briefing notes, checking off each item. “Oh, yes: prisoner handling. Everybody there will be disarmed and searched. But it should be done professionally, with a minimum of force. Actually, they’re not prisoners, just detainees. If they don’t resist us, they’re not liable to prosecution. So we’ll keep them in a secure area until things settle down.

  “Lastly: casualty treatment. We have a Green Beret medic with us as well as two Chadian corpsmen. The Air Force has part of a combat control team and some PJs on one of the Hercs, and those folks will establish an aid station on board the airplane. If we have to, we can use one of the choppers for a med-evac.”

  He looked around again. “Anything else?”

  When no one responded, Lee gave a brisk nod. “Very well, gentlemen. Unless something pops tonight, we arrive at the mine ten minutes past daybreak.”