by Harold Coyle
Sandy found him where he said he would be: with his head in the accessory section of an odd-looking, cherry red airplane. It had a racy, pugnacious appearance, from its chrome spinner to its round tail. She approached him from behind but he sensed her presence.
“Isn’t it great?” Keegan enthused. “I’m a one-third partner in this beauty. Beech built 781 of them and even though there’s a few hundred still flying, they’re real spendy.”
Carmichael was mildly curious. “Why’s that?”
“Well, this is the Beech Model 17, better known as the Staggerwing because of the negative stagger of the top wing. It’s a classic from the golden age of aviation. It dates from 1932, so it’s an antique. You can fly to any air show in the country and automatically park with the exhibitors so you get to see all the other planes up close. Then you can fly home faster than most current light planes.”
“How fast is it?”
Keegan patted the propeller. “She’ll do an honest two hundred miles per hour straight and level, and she’ll outcruise some Bonanzas. In fact, Staggerwings won a lot of races in the 1930s. But she lands at about forty-five, so there’s not many places you can’t get into.”
Carmichael thought she should feign interest. “How old is this one?”
“It’s one of the last twenty, built in 1947.”
Carmichael looked into the cabin and emitted a low whistle. “Boy, it smells like a new car!”
“Yeah, we had the seats reupholstered last year. Mohair and leather were factory standard, so that’s what we got. Carries five people and all the luggage you can stuff into it.”
“Terry, are we going to fly or what?”
The former submarine hunter could not suppress a smile. “Hey, Colonel, why do you think I asked you to meet me here?”
Having already performed the preflight inspection, Keegan helped Sandy into the right seat, then settled in the left. After priming the Pratt and Whitney R985, he turned on the fuel pump, checked left and right, switched the magnetos to Both, and called out, “Clear prop!” The Wasp Junior settled into a throaty rumble. He waited a few minutes, allowing the engine to reach operating temperature.
The pilot closed his door and, satisfied with the pressure and temperature gauges, eased on some throttle. The Beech rolled toward the downwind end of the grass runway, ess-turning so Keegan could see around the nose.
After a final check, Keegan smoothly advanced the throttle. The tail came up and he tracked straight ahead, nudging right rudder to keep the Beech in the center of the strip. Lift quickly overcame gravity as thrust defeated drag and the Staggerwing galloped off the earth behind 450 horses.
The landing gear retracted into the well with a thump-thump as Keegan adjusted power for cruise climb. Headed northeast, he pointed out Warrenton broad on the port beam with Calverton at ten o’clock. He turned to the Alabaman. “Hey, you’re a military pro. There’s Manassas ahead of us and Fredericksburg down there to the right.” He grinned slyly. “Here there be rebels, Colonel.”
Sandy squirmed in her seat and adjusted the earphones. She appreciated Virginia’s verdant vista, but she had other things on her mind. “Terry, you know we’re sending a training team to Chad.”
“Yeah, I heard something about it. I’m glad I’m not going there!”
She turned her head toward him, removed her sunglasses, and looked into his eyes.
He grimaced. “Oooh no…”
“Now wait a minute,” she interjected. “You wouldn’t have to be there all the time. In fact, you wouldn’t have to be there much at all. We just need somebody in the area who could, you know, help out if need be.”
Keegan laughed, then lapsed into his Irish brogue. “Colonel darling, sure and you’re talkin’ about a dustoff on a hot LZ!”
She conceded, “Well, yeah, something like that. It’s not that we actually think anything will happen, Terry. But you know the admiral’s policy. We never leave any SSI people in a position where we can’t get them out, even if we have to do it ourselves.” Terry can’t refuse the admiral, she reminded herself. She knew that Mike Derringer lived by the creed: loyalty down breeds loyalty up.
Terry nodded, scanning the instruments. “Roger that. Remember me? Last Chance Keegan they call me. As in, Guatemala. As in, Pakistan.”
Sandy thought better of pressing the matter so she changed the subject. “You know, my youngest daughter thinks she wants to fly. But she can’t decide if she would rather go with the Air Force or Navy.”
Keegan recalled the naval aviation axiom. Air Force: flare to land, squat to pee. He decided against expressing his service preference. Instead, he observed, “And you an Army family? What’s the matter with that girl?”
Carmichael curled her lips. “Oh, Emily wants to fly jets. Then she wants to pilot the space shuttle.”
“Ah-ha.” Keegan let it go at that. Privately, he disdained females who only saw the military as a way into NASA. He had never known a woman aviator who wanted to bomb and strafe more than she wanted to fly the damned shuttle.
Finally he turned and looked at his passenger. “Tell me more about Chad.”
16
SSI OFFICES
“Admiral, Colonel Main to see you.”
Derringer waved from his desk, beckoning the Army officer into the office. Derringer raised from his chair, extending a hand across the desk. “Good to see you, David. I didn’t expect you today.”
Main crumpled his beret — he wanted to strangle the poofter garment— and slid into a chair. “I’m sorry for the unexpected visit, Admiral. But something’s come up that I need to discuss with you in person.”
“Sure thing. Fire when ready.”
“Well, sir, I’ve just had a call from my back-channel contact at Bragg. Master Sergeant Alford is wired into the SF community like nobody else I know, and he thinks we should reconsider one of the guys we interviewed.”
“Why’s that?”
Main cleared his throat — an unusual sign of nervousness. “Apparently Staff Sergeant Gayler is under investigation for misappropriating funds and equipment. Alford thinks that’s why the Army cut him loose so quickly.” Main shook his head, silently berating himself. “I should’ve caught it, Admiral. I mean, the Army just doesn’t release an Arabic speaker that easily.”
Derringer braced his chin on a bridge of clasped hands. He surveyed Main’s face, sensing as much as seeing the embarrassment there. “David, it’s not your fault. In fact, I’m not certain this Sergeant…”
“Gayler. Fred Gayler.”
“We don’t know if he’s guilty of anything. You said he’s under investigation.”
“That’s true, sir. But… well, Alford says that Gayler also has a temper. He barely got away with spousal abuse because his former CO covered for him.”
“And you accept Alford’s word implicitly.”
A decisive nod. “I’ve trusted my life with him. He deals in facts, not gossip.”
“Okay, then. Gayler’s out. You’d better talk to Jack Peters so his recruiting records are updated.”
“I’ll do that, sir.” He turned to go. “Oh, I saw Steve Lee in the hall. Is he involved in the Chad mission?”
Derringer perked up. “No, at least not yet. I didn’t know he was back from vacation but he must’ve stopped in to check with my niece. He and Sallie seem to enjoy each other’s company.”
“Shall I send him in, Admiral?”
Derringer unconsciously reverted to his percussion habit. His fingers drummed the desk top: paradiddle-paradiddle-tap-tap-tap. He said, “Yes, please. I’d like to talk to him.”
Moments later Lee appeared at the office door. “Hello, Admiral.”
Derringer rose and extended a hand across the desk. “Come in, Steve, come in!” As they shook, he said, “I lost track of the time. Didn’t expect to see you for a week or so.”
“Oh, you know me, sir. I can only stand so much sun, surf, and bikinis.”
“Maui?”
Lee gave
a self-conscious grin. “Actually, I was out in Marana, getting some jump practice. It’d been a while.”
“A parachuting vacation? Well, why not. I hear there’s sunshine in Arizona, too.”
“Yes, sir. Six or eight jumps a day.”
Derringer folded his hands on the desk and looked more closely at Major Steven Lee, U.S. Army, prematurely retired. The admiral saw a fit, self-composed alpha male who looked younger than forty-two. Only the military-issue spectacles hinted at his age.
“Steve, let me ask you a personal question. What do you want to do with your life?”
Lee took three heartbeats to answer the unexpected inquiry. “Just what I’m doing, Admiral. Jumping, shooting, kicking in the occasional door.” The levity in his voice was genuine enough, even if the statement was incomplete. He leaned forward in his chair. “I’ll tell you, sir. Not a day passes that I don’t regret leaving the Army as an O-4. But I had a choice to make and I made it. I tried to save my marriage at the expense of my career. That’s why I like working for SSI. It still lets me do what I was meant to do.”
“Well, I’ve said it before but it bears repeating. You did a fine job in Pakistan. Would you be interested in another contract?”
“Ah, yes, sir. Depending on what it involves. I’m not much interested in security work, you know.”
“No, we’re putting together a training package in Africa. Several months, probably. If you’re interested, ask Peggy to give you the briefing sheet on Chad.”
“Chad! My God.” He laughed. “I haven’t left anything there, Admiral!”
Derringer chuckled in appreciation of the sentiment. “Neither have I, Steve. But you know the State Department pays us pretty well these days.”
“All right, sir. I’ll take a look.”
* * *
It was a three-ring briefing, rare even for a fairly small organization such as SSI.
As director of operations Frank Leopold sat at the head of the room, flanked by Sandra Carmichael, foreign ops, and Omar Mohammed, training. The team selected for Chad occupied the first two rows of chairs. Leopold scanned the faces, mostly familiar: Gunny Foyte, J. J. Johnson, Bosco, Breezy, Martha Whitney, and two newbies from Bragg: newly retired NCOs Christopher Nissen and Joshua Wallender.
Michael Derringer slipped into the back of the room. Few noticed, and those who did see him knew his intent. He was there to observe and learn rather than command.
Leopole stood to make the introductions. “This is the first time the Chad team has been fully assembled, though most of you are well acquainted. I want to introduce our two newest members, Staff Sergeants Chris Nissen and Josh Wallender. They’re fresh out of Fort Bragg, both experienced Special Forces operators. Gentlemen, welcome to SSI.”
Martha Whitney turned in her seat and pointedly looked Nissen up and down. Clearly she liked what she saw. “Hey bro,” she beamed.
Nissen fidgeted slightly. His wife, Shawna, could have given Halle Berry a run for her money, and he was not looking to round out his romantic resume.
Leopole added, “Chris is a weapons instructor and medic who speaks pretty good Arabic. Josh is rated in French and specializes in communications. They’re both well qualified for this mission, and we’re glad to have them aboard.”
He turned to the rest of the audience. “Very well. This meeting will familiarize you with most of the background information on the contract. As you know, it’s a training mission, administered by the State Department, to assist Chadian government forces in developing a greater counterinsurgency capability. Since it’s an overseas training operation it comes under Lieutenant Colonel Carmichael and Dr. Mohammed, and I’ll turn it over to them.”
Sandy rose to her feet. “What do we know about Chad?” she asked rhetorically. “Well, I went to the CIA World Factbook site, which is more current than any almanac. Here’s the short version.” She activated her PowerPoint display, beginning with a map of northern Africa.
“Geography: Chad is bounded by six countries: Libya, Niger, Nigeria, Central African Republic, Cameroon, and Sudan. The area is almost 500,000 square miles, nearly twice the size of Texas. There’s mostly desert in the north, mountains in the northwest, arid plains in the middle, and lowlands in the south.
“Chad was a French possession until 1960 but the next thirty years involved civil war and border feuds with Libya. There was a general settlement in 1990 with a constitution and elections in ‘96 and ‘97. But the next year another internal dispute broke out and continued until 2002. The government and the rebels signed agreements that year and the next but there’s still unrest.
“The government’s controlled by one of the minority factions, but it has enough support to stay in power. There’s been widespread reports of human rights abuses including murder, kidnapping, torture, and extortion. Some military and security forces have been named in specific complaints.”
Bosco raised a hand. “Then why are we helping those people?”
Carmichael blinked. Then she blinked again. “Why, Mr. Boscombe, I do believe you are naive.”
Bosco gave an exaggerated flinch. “Uh, yessma’am. Gotcha.”
Carmichael grinned. “Check. It’s the same old story with PMCs. Deniability. The U.S. Government does not want to appear too cozy with an oppressive regime, so DoD and State call us. Since we’re not wearing the uniform of the day, we’re ‘clean.’ “
Bosco persisted. “But like, what’re we really doing? There must be something more than teaching border guards how to intercept bad guys. I mean, they don’t need us to do that.”
Carmichael squinted behind her glasses. Sometimes Bosco actually showed signs of latent intelligence. “Well, we’d have to discuss it eventually so we might as well explain it now.” She paused, looked at Leopold and Mohammed, and received nods in return. She activated her laser pointer.
“The crucial area is here in the north, along the Libyan border. There are uranium deposits there, and nobody wants that material getting to the wrong hands — including the U.N. So our job is actually more than counterinsurgency. It’s interdiction of illicit strategic materials. Which is why our clients need to be more capable than the regular army. They’re likely to run up against some aggressive, capable opponents.” Like ex-Foreign Legion troops who’ll work for anybody.
“Anyway, you’ll receive more briefings as you get closer to deploying. Meanwhile, here’s the background.
“Demographics: the capital is N’Djamena, over here in the far west just beneath the lake, population at least six hundred thousand. The official languages are Arabic and French. There’s no state religion but the population is over half Muslim and one-third Christian, mostly Catholic. Life expectancy runs forty-seven years.
“Chadian rebels have used Libya as a base for cross-border raids, and there’s a long-standing dispute with three other countries over demarcation lines on Lake Chad. More importantly, huge numbers of refugees have entered Chad from Sudan, where there’s an ongoing famine. The region has what I’d call biblical problems: droughts and locust plagues.
“Population is now pushing ten million. There’s a couple hundred ethnic groups with the Saras the biggest, over twenty-five percent. Most of the population is in the southern half or less, since the north is part of the Sahara Desert. There’s about 120 languages and dialects but less than half the people are literate.
“Health concerns: malaria, meningitis, hepatitis, and typhoid, among others. About five percent of the population has HIV or AIDS.
“In short, it’s a mess.
“Government: officially Chad has a bicameral legislature but only the National Assembly is seated. The Senate hasn’t been formed. Anyway, there’s half a dozen political parties. In ‘05 they passed a referendum allowing the president to run for a third term.”
Bosco wrinkled his forehead. “What’s bicameral?”
Johnson gaped. “Geez, man, didn’t you take civics in high school?”
“Hey, I studied football and bask
etball and cheerleaders. Not necessarily in that order.”
Johnson suspected that Boscombe was playing dumb again, for reasons personal and obscure. “Bicameral, as in bi, as in two, you know? Two houses in the legislature, like Congress and the Senate.”
“Oh. Gotcha.”
Carmichael regained control of the discussion. “The president is basically a strongman, the latest in a long line. The military is more or less loyal to him, as are the police forces as long as they get paid regularly. In turn, the government doesn’t look too closely at how some soldiers and policemen make extra income. In dealing with government officials, always remember that Chad is one of the two most corrupt places on earth.
“Economy: Chad exports cotton to Europe and Asia but only about three percent of the land is under cultivation. So far the greatest export potential is oil, and that’s a growth industry but the country doesn’t have much infrastructure to exploit it. The exchange rate is around 550 francs per dollar.
“Infrastructure: only 267 kilometers of paved highway — that’s, what? Maybe 150 miles. There’s fifty airports or at least landing fields, seven with paved runways. Fortunately cell phones and Internet access are pretty reliable.
“Military concerns: the longest border is with Libya, up here in the north.” She tapped the map, indicating the east-west line. “The Aozou Strip was a disputed area for years, mainly because Colonel Qadhafi wanted the natural resources in the area. That includes the uranium deposits I mentioned. Anyway, Libya occupied the strip in 1972 and there was off and on combat for about fifteen years. In the mid eighties we gave Chad enough help to drive the Libyans out, but they still claimed the strip. Finally, both sides agreed to arbitration and an international court declared that the Aozou belonged to Chad.”
Foyte asked, “What kind of help did we provide, Colonel?”
Carmichael consulted her notes. “Mostly basic stuff: small arms, antitank weapons, medical supplies, even uniforms. I’m told that we put a Hawk antiaircraft battery in the capital but evidently it wasn’t there very long. The biggest thing apparently was training and contract maintenance.”