Prometheus's Child s-2

by Harold Coyle

  The younger man awaited a response, then realized there would be none. He smelled the liquor on Stevin’s breath, saw the wild determination in his eyes. Legio pro patria. Stevin turned and shouted to anyone within earshot. “Est maintenant l’heure de faire le camerone.” With that, he paced toward the south gate.

  A South African member of Groupe FGN approached Giroud. “What in the hell is Stevin ranting about?”

  Giroud made a circular motion with one hand beside his head. “He’s drunk or crazy. Or both. He says, ‘Now is the time to make Camerone!’“

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s the Legion’s big holiday. Mexico in 1863. They celebrate it every April thirtieth.”

  “What happened?” asked the Boer.

  “Sixty-five Legionnaires fought two thousand Mexicans. They killed three hundred before they were overpowered.”

  “Well, I don’t believe in last stands. I believe in living to fight another day.”

  Giroud motioned over his shoulder. “Go tell him that, mon vieux.”

  * * *

  The fire was contained. Nissen and Corporal Yodoyman pulled the remains of the cabin door off its mangled hinges and tossed it aside. They heard a low, soft moan from inside the ruined cabin — the first welcome sign since the crash some fifteen minutes before.

  Yodoyman leaned into the cabin, reaching to grasp the nearest soldier. “Be careful!” Nissen warned. “We can’t move them right away.”

  He forced himself past the Chadian NCO and leaned as far inside as possible. “Marsh! Mr. Marsh! Can you hear me?” He realized that he did not know Marsh’s given name.

  No reply came from the front of the helo. The Alouette had pitched violently downward, crashing nose first.

  Someone moved in the rear of the compartment. Another pain-wracked sound came from the interior.

  Nissen weighed the options: survival of some troops versus accomplishment of the mission. He was glad it was not his responsibility. He decided to make the call.

  * * *

  Stevin cast a glance at the north gate, which had been closed following Hurtubise’s departure. He counted it good. Marcel is on his way. Now we cover his withdrawal.

  He stalked to the southwesterly perimeter wire and rested his rifle atop the sandbag parapet. He was feeling buoyant, almost giddy. This is the day!

  Stevin turned to the hired guns around him. “Listen, you wretches. Catteau, Constantin, and Leonhart. They were the last of thirteen Belgians at Camerone. Their blood runs in my veins!” He pounded the top sandbag, exclaiming, “From this place I retreat not one step.”

  He propped both elbows on the sandbags and aimed his rifle toward the nearest truck. Taking up the slack, he fired one round fifteen meters in front of the vehicle.

  Giroud caught up with Stevin and grabbed for his FA-MAS. “You idiot! You want to get us all killed?”

  Stevin shoved the interloper back with a powerful forearm blow. “I command here! Can’t you see what I’m doing? I’m keeping them out while Marcel escapes with the convoy.”

  “Convoy? What convoy? What are you talking about?”

  Etienne Stevin had no time to explain the situation. This fool had no idea of Groupe FGN’s similarity to Captain Danjou’s company, protecting an arms shipment in Mexico nearly 150 years before. It was all part of the Legion’s tradition: the same then as now.

  The Belgian turned back toward the truck and fired another warning round, closer this time.

  Giroud grasped the rifle with both hands. The struggle lasted four seconds before Stevin connected with a crushing right to the Frenchman’s cheek. Giroud reeled, dazed and hurt.

  Stevin shot him twice in the chest. Then he returned to his harassing fire.

  * * *

  Resting his HK-21 atop the cab of Lee’s truck, Breezy bit down the urge to open fire. He was not a machine gunner by profession, but he knew the tools of his trade and was confident that he could solve the problem from where he sat. Eyeballing the distance to the perimeter fence, he made it seventy to eighty meters.

  Bernard Langevin was crouched behind the front tire, wielding a handheld loudspeaker. He was a bit more exposed than Breezy would have liked, but with a bumper, engine block, and thick tire providing cover, it seemed a decent place to be, considering the circumstances. He raised the bullhorn and called again. “Nous sommes des amis. Tenez votre feu!”

  A few more rounds snapped through the still morning air, impacting the hard ground around the truck. “That’s still harassing fire,” Lee shouted. He wanted to ensure that nobody got excited — especially the Chadians, who were exhibiting marked restlessness.

  Lee turned to Bosco, who had taken over the radio in the cab. “This can go on indefinitely. All the time, the yellow cake is getting farther away.”

  “We could go after ‘em, Major. It doesn’t matter what these guys do here, does it? I mean, like, the mine’s not goin’ anywhere.”

  “I know, I know. It’s really Mr. Langevin’s call. If he…”

  “Grunt Four to Grunt One. Over!”

  Bosco picked up the microphone. “Grunt One Bravo here.”

  Nissen’s voice came sharp and clear. “Give me the actual, over.”

  Bosco leaned toward Lee, extending the mike at the end of its cord. The timing could hardly have been worse. Another rifle shot from the perimeter ricocheted off the hard earth and struck Bosco’s forearm. He yelped in surprise and pain, dropped the mike, and shouted, “Geez! I’m hit!” He followed that exclamation with some fervent Ranger blasphemy.

  Lee scooped up the mike, pressed the button, and said, “Chris, stand by one. We’re taking fire.” He dropped the mike and turned toward Bosco, who was lying on his side, below the dash, grasping his injured arm with the opposite hand. Lee saw blood seeping between the operator’s fingers.

  “Breezy! Bosco’s hit! Take out that guy!”

  Breezy leaned into the German gun, focused his gray eyes on the front sight, held low left, and pressed the trigger for one second. In that tick of time, the HK spat out twelve rounds.

  Mark Brezyinski was not much on literature. But having read For Whom the Bell Tolls in high school, he appreciated Hemingway’s phrase: the slick, slippery recoil of a bipoded weapon. Atop his rocky tor, with Franco’s soldiers closing in, Robert Jordan would have given his Republican soul for an HK-21 in place of the Lewis Gun that Gary Cooper wielded in the movie.

  That Bergman gal was a real babe, but even more so in Casablanca.

  Brezyinski rode the recoil impulse to its height, then forced the sights back down through the target as he released the trigger.

  The first round hit the sandbags supporting Etienne Stevin’s firing position. The next four climbed the improvised parapet, and the next three took him off the top row. The others spattered the wooden platform behind him. Stevin fell to the ground, rolled 270 degrees, and twitched to a stop on his left side. He gasped for air and spat up hot blood, staring at the Saharan sand.

  Somewhere far off, beyond a ghostly horizon, he saw a figure in an antique uniform — white kepi, blue jacket, and red trousers — striding toward him to the strains of La Marseillaise. He was every bit a soldier: head erect, shoulders back, arms swinging purposefully.

  The ethereal figure extended a wooden hand toward the fallen Legionnaire as Capitaine Jean Danjou beckoned him home.

  * * *

  Keegan was not sure that he heard correctly. “Say again, Steve.”

  Twelve miles to the south, Steve Lee did a fast three-count. He wanted to keep his voice as well as his temper under control. “Terry, I say again. Return to the crash site. We need an immediate dustoff. Over.”

  “Ah, copy… Grunt.” Keegan knew what must be driving Lee’s order. With the Libyan frontier only a few miles ahead, and no effective way of stopping the yellow cake shipment, Lee had finally decided on behalf of the survivors. Eddie Marsh — or at least some of his crew— required air evac to Bardai and the Air Force medics. He could
cut an hour or more off the transit time by truck. The golden hour that paramedics talked about.

  When Keegan turned the Alouette away from its pursuit, he saw the semi rig speeding north, if anything faster than ever.

  * * *

  Trailing by several kilometers, Marcel Hurtubise watched the helicopter receding in his mirror. He grinned for the first time that day.

  Part 3

  LIBYA

  48

  SSI OFFICES

  “We just heard from Steve Lee,” Leopole said.

  Marshall Wilmont took his half-spectacles off the bridge of his nose. “Well?”

  Leopole made a point of waving the e-mail. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”

  “C’mon, Frank…” SSI’s chief operating officer seldom had time for banter.

  The former Marine inhaled, then let his breath out. “Okay. We lost a helo. The bad guys had man-pack SAMs and shot down Marsh’s aircraft. He’s critical and three of the Chadians are dead.”

  “My God. What…”

  “And the Frenchies got away with a truckload of yellow cake.”

  Wilmont was on his feet before he knew it. “Don’t play freaking games with me, Frank! What in hell’s the good news?”

  The director of foreign operations slid the printout across the desk. “The good news is that they only got away with part of the load.”

  Wilmont almost seemed to deflate as he sagged back into his chair. “Tell me,” he croaked.

  “Long story short: Steve decided to move in at dawn because he didn’t want his troops running around, maybe shooting at each other in the dark. That was a mistake, seen in hindsight. It gave the mercs enough time to load one trailer and part of another. They drove out the back as our guys approached the front. Steve had a blocking force astride the road leading to the border, but when the helo was shot down, Nissen made a command decision and went to the site. He probably saved Marsh’s life and maybe a couple of others. But…”

  “That left the way open for the yellow cake.”

  “Affirm.” Leopole leaned forward, elbows on the polished desk. “I think Steve did the right thing, though. He was having Keegan tail the truck, keeping out of missile range, but he didn’t have the muscle to stop it. So Steve recalled him as a med-evac. Keegan took Marsh and the other survivors back to the airfield where there was proper medical care.”

  Wilmont emitted a noncommittal “Ummm.” Then he asked, “What about the mine? Did they secure it?”

  “Yeah. There was a little trouble after the shootdown. One or two of the FGN guys went spastic and started shooting at our people so they killed them. Nobody else got hurt.”

  “So we don’t know where the yellow cake is?”

  Leopole shook his head. “I doubt that even Qadhafi knows.”

  “Come on,” Wilmont said. “We need to see Mike and Omar.”

  * * *

  SSI OFFICES

  It was a small meeting: Derringer, Wilmont, Mohammed, Carmichael, and Leopold. The SSI brain trust.

  “First things first,” Derringer began. “I talked to Ryan O’Connor yesterday. He confirmed that State wants our training team to finish its contract in Chad. But I think we need to make some adjustments.”

  Leopole’s brow furrowed. “Sir, are you going to pull Steve? I…”

  “No, Frank. I think we’ve all been in Steve’s shoes once or twice. He had to make some decisions based on incomplete information. I certainly don’t fault him for that.”

  Leopole and Carmichael exchanged glances. If Derringer didn’t catch it, Mohammed did. He could read their minds. They don’t want Lee to feel any worse than he probably already does.

  “Very well,” Derringer continued. “Sandy and Frank, operations is your ballpark. What do you recommend?”

  Carmichael’s blue eyes fixed on her employer. “Sir, you mentioned some adjustments. I think any recommendations we make would depend on those.”

  “Oh, yes. Quite right.” Derringer’s practiced fingers performed a paradiddle cadence, as they often did when he was distracted. “Well, all I meant is that if we’re going to pursue the yellow cake, we’ll probably have to pull some people out of Chad.”

  Wilmont picked up some radiations from his sometime golf partner’s emotional antennae. “Mike, you didn’t mention the uranium shipment. Does State really want us to stay on it?”

  SSI’s CEO nodded slowly. “I think so. O’Connor is running it up the ladder, but since we’re already involved and we have some assets in the area, we’re likely to get a go-ahead pretty soon.”

  “Sir,” Carmichael intoned, her voice low and earnest. “I’d think that sooner is better. That’s why…”

  “Yes, Sandy, I know. It takes me back to what we were saying about your recommendations. If we keep the team there for training, who can we put on another team to track down the yellow cake?”

  She flipped through her folder. “Well, sir, obviously we want to keep our people there with language ability. That’s Johnson, Nissen, and Wallender. I’m keeping a running tab with Jack Peters and Matt Finch. They’re best equipped to find some more French or Arabic speakers for us.”

  Derringer nodded decisively. “Very well, put them on it.”

  Mohammed glanced at Marshall Wilmont. If he resented the retired admiral taking over the operating end of things, he did not show it.

  Leopole had a thought. “Admiral, I’d like to pull Bosco and Breezy, ah, Boscombe and Brezyinski, from the training team. They’re about the best door-kickers we have. Their talents would be better used on an operational mission.”

  Derringer remembered to check visually with Wilmont, who shrugged. Carmichael said, “Concur, Admiral.” Then she asked, “What about Martha?”

  No one spoke for a long moment.

  49

  SABHA PROVINCE, LIBYA

  The heat was everywhere around them, like the heavy, dry air. Hurtubise called a midday stop and parked his Range Rover in the lee of Deladier’s trailer. The four men dismounted — two from each vehicle — and conferred in the shade, such as it was.

  “My motor is running a temperature,” Hurtubise began. “I think we’ll wait until later in the day to continue. Maybe we’ll wait until night.”

  Alfonso Rivera, Deladier’s driver, knew about working in extreme heat from his days in the Spanish Legion. “As long as we have water for the radiators we should be all right,” he said. “Aren’t we due in Misratah in a couple of days?”

  Hurtubise waved a dismissive hand. “We have some time to spare. The ship won’t be ready for a while. Cell communication is erratic out here in the desert, and I cannot always reach our contacts. But I’d rather be late than early. We don’t want to have this cargo sitting around very long before loading on board. Somebody might get suspicious.”

  After long hours on the road, with delays for bureaucratic procedures and haggling over fuel, Deladier was growing impatient. However, he knew that Groupe FNG’s Chadian government contacts had greased the skids — and some palms — to ease the journey. But other problems remained. “Marcel, we left in such a hurry. What in hell are we going to do for money? And passports?” Felix Moungar had arranged things at the border but there were intermediate stops as well.

  Hurtubise gave a grim smile. “Don’t you ever learn, my lad? I never go anywhere without at least one passport and a thousand dollars on me.” He let the sentiment sink in, then continued. “Don’t worry. We’ll have new papers and cash at Birak.”

  Alfonso cocked his head. “You’re sure of that?”

  Hurtubise took a step toward him. “Yes, I’m sure! Look, just because we left in a hurry doesn’t mean I haven’t done all the planning. Understand?”

  The young Spaniard looked upward, shielding his face against the Saharan sun. His meaning was implicit: The heat gets to everybody.

  “Sure, Marcel. I understand.”

  N’DJAMENA

  SSI COMPOUND

  Steve Lee waited until Mark Br
ezyinski and Jason Boscombe had finished putting their gear away. It didn’t take long, since most of the equipment used on the mine raid officially belonged to the Chadian Army.

  “I’d like to see you guys in private,” Lee said.

  Bosco and Breezy exchanged quick looks. Breezy had the quicker tongue. “Something wrong, sir?”

  Lee chuckled softly. “You know, you remind me of a guy I knew in the Army. He was an excellent warrant officer but he was always in trouble with his CO in Vietnam. Nickel and dime stuff. Then one day his XO tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Fred, the CO wants to talk to you.’ Fred asked, ‘What did I do now?’

  “The exec said, ‘Well, I think they’re going to give you the Medal of Honor.’“

  Bosco’s eyes widened. “Wow. Like, we’re gonna…”

  “No, Mr. Boscombe. You are not receiving a medal. But something better.”

  Breezy perked up. “Boy, that means money. What’s the job, Boss?”

  Lee winked as he closed the door.

  “You’re right. I heard from Frank Leopole. Most of us are staying here to finish the training contract, but he’s putting together a team to go after the yellow cake that got away. It means working down and dirty and it’ll likely be dangerous.”

  Breezy straightened visibly. With a straight face he declared, “Sir, danger is my middle name.”

  “I thought it was Casimir,” Bosco deadpanned.

  “Libya?” Breezy asked.

  “No, no,” Lee exclaimed. “Maybe Beirut, biggest port in the eastern Med. But it could be almost anywhere in the region. We won’t know until there’s better intel.”

  “Well, if they load the cake on a ship in Libya, why go to Lebanon? Why not just sail right to Iran?”

  Lee nodded in deference to Breezy’s acumen. “Good question, Mark. The answer is, we don’t know. It’s possible they’ll drive a thousand miles or more and load at a Red Sea port in Sudan or even Ethiopia.”