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  “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.”

  Bosco nodded. “Some things don’t change.”

  “Plus ça change,” Johnson interjected.

  Breezy wrinkled his brow. “Say what?”

  “Plus ça change, c’est la même chose.” Mohammed nodded toward Johnson. “It means, the more things change, the more they remain the same.”

  * * *

  Huddled in the corner, some of the worker bees commiserated after monitoring the meeting. “Hey,” asked Breezy, “are we gonna have to learn French or something?”

  J. J. Johnson tried to imagine Mark Brezyinski getting his tongue around a European language. It just did not compute. He replied, “Well, besides me, our French-speaking liaison used to be with the Agency. She’s a…”

  “She?”

  “Yeah, she. As in, female. As in, La Belle Dame Sans Merci.”

  “Hey, I never read much Tennyson,” quipped Breezy.

  Johnson tried to keep a straight face. “Keats would be glad to hear that.”

  “Why’s that, dude?”

  “Like, he wrote it, dude.”

  Bosco went on point. “What’s she look like? I mean…”

  Johnson nudged his colleague. “You mean, does she look single?”

  Breezy snorted. “Hell, man, he means, like, does she look female!”

  Johnson, who had met Martha Whitney, allowed himself a conspiratorial smile. “Affirmative on both counts.”

  “Well, when you gonna introduce us?” Bosco demanded.

  “Tous en temps utile.” Noting the vacant stares of the two commandos, Johnson added, “At the right time. Dudes.”

  17

  SSI OFFICES

  Daniel Foyte convened the next briefing with Omar Mohammed alongside as SSI’s chief training officer. They sat at the apex of a semicircle of folding chairs.

  “Okay,” Foyte began in his gravelly baritone. “This briefing will focus on specific mission objectives so it’s more detailed than the overall brief that Colonel Carmichael gave us.”

  He referred to his notes, once neatly typed but now littered with pen and ink hieroglyphics. He felt odd sitting; he was accustomed to standing or kneeling from twenty years of addressing Marines in classrooms, tents, oases, triple-canopy jungle, and other venues.

  “First a little more about Chad’s military structure.” He turned to Mohammed. “Doctor?”

  The urbane Iranian-American required few notes. He began, “The armed forces consist of the army, air force, and gendarmerie, plus more specialized units such as National and Nomadic Guard, which is a border force, the Rapid Intervention Force, and regular police. Presumably the most ‘elite’ unit”—he etched quote marks in the air—“is the presidential guard.”

  Chris Nissen raised a hand. Though brand-new to SSI, he was not shy. “Excuse me, Doctor. Does the intervention force deploy outside Chad?”

  “Not that I know of,” Mohammed replied. “I infer that it’s an internal unit. For what it’s worth, it was originally formed as the Republican Guard.” After an ironic response from the audience, he added, “Any similarity to the Iraqi organization of the same name is probably intentional.

  “Current military spending runs a little over one hundred million dollars. To put that in perspective, it would not buy much over half of an F-22 stealth fighter.

  “The military has a draft for twenty-year-olds for three years,” he continued. “Officially, enlistments are accepted at eighteen, but in truth there’s no minimum with parental consent. You will be dealing with men at least in their second tour.

  “The Air Force has no combat aircraft: mostly C-130s, An-126s, and even some C-47s. Helicopters are Alouette IIIs.”

  Mohammed shifted his weight, speaking extemporaneously. “Now, here’s some background. There’s been speculation over the years why the Reagan administration was so eager to help Chad against Libya. Aside from Qadhafi’s blatant aggression, there didn’t seem much reason for our intervention, even though we were allied with the French. Far as I know, neither of us needed much African uranium, and that caused some raised eyebrows. But I think that the critics overlooked something pretty obvious: if we didn’t need the stuff, other places did.”

  Nissen said, “So it was in our mutual interest to keep the Strip out of Libyan hands.”

  “Just so.”

  Foyte resumed the briefing, turning to his bread and butter: hardware.

  “The Chad Army is pretty much a hodgepodge as far as small arms. There’s no standard infantry rifle: depending on the branch and unit there’s M16s, AKs, FALs, Sigs, and G3s. Squad automatics are RPDs, RPKs, and even some old M24/29s.”

  Breezy asked, “What’re those, Gunny?”

  “They look like the British Bren Gun: a 7.5mm with top-feed magazine. They replaced the Chauchaut after World War I.

  “For the units we’ll train, I’m recommending standardization on the Heckler-Koch system. That means G3s and HK-21s, with obvious advantages: same 7.62mm ammo and the same operating system. That roller-locking action can be hard for low-dedication troopies to maintain but the guns are reliable as tax time. They’ll keep working with minimum maintenance.”

  “Why not M16s?” asked Joshua Wallender. “I mean, we know them inside out and they’re easier to shoot than the .30 calibers.”

  “Concur, as far as you go. If we could ever use decent 5.56 ammo, something designed to kill people rather than meet some pussy standard in Sweden—which hasn’t fought a war in about two hundred years—I might consider M16s. However, in this case we’re contractors to the U.S. Government, so we gotta abide by its regs.

  “But the big problem is that we’re working in Chad. As in, desert. As in, sand. As in, major malfunction. M16s just aren’t reliable enough.”

  Wallender ventured another query. “Well, why not AKs? They work everywhere.”

  Foyte was slightly disappointed in the new man. A veteran NCO should know the reason. “Because the opposition likely uses them. No point giving the guerrillas more guns and ammo that they can use.”

  Wallender seemed to blush slightly. Foyte predicted that he would shut up for a while.

  “Now, personally, I trust AKs and I like FALs,” Foyte enthused. “And I really like Sigs. Good sights, good trigger. But FALs aren’t a lot better than ’16s in the desert and I’ve never used Sigs in that area, so I don’t want to be the one who’s experimenting. So we’ll use G3s and related systems. We’ll get up to speed on those before we leave.”

  Mohammed interjected. “If I may add something.”

  Foyte nodded.

  �
��Because of the language situation, we should review the course material even if the Chadians will not see it. I can work with the French and Arabic speakers to standardize phraseology.” He glanced at Johnson, Nissen, and Wallender.

  Breezy leaned toward Bosco and muttered, “Ignorance is bliss, dude.”

  Foyte speared the former paratrooper with a Parris Island glare. “Something to add, Brezyinski?”

  Breezy sat upright. “Ah, nosir. Gunny.”

  Foyte walked in front of the rostrum and leaned forward, hands akimbo. “Oh, come now, my boy. You would not interrupt Dr. Mohammed unless you had something significant to contribute.”

  Bosco smirked behind one hand, enjoying his pal’s discomfiture.

  “Ah, I was just remarking to my esteemed Ranger colleague here that I consider myself fortunate not to be bilingual. Sir.”

  Foyte squinted as through a rifle sight. “How many times do I gotta say it? Don’t call me ‘sir’…”

  “I WORK FOR A LIVING,” the audience chimed in.

  Mohammed enjoyed the exchange as much as anyone, but decided to make a point. “Gentlemen, regardless of the language, we need to be consistent in our instruction. For example, what is the difference between covering fire and suppressing fire?”

  Bosco and Breezy exchanged looks. “Damn’fiknow,” Breezy responded.

  Bosco shrugged. “I’m not sure there is any difference. Just terminology.”

  Foyte was primed. “Well, for our purposes there is a difference. Covering fire is basically suppressive fire for a specific purpose—getting a squad close enough to engage a defended position, for instance. Suppressing fire is just a straight-up shoot-out. We lay down a heavier, more accurate volume of fire than the bad guys so they stop shooting at us.”

  “Fire superiority, in other words,” Breezy offered.

  Foyte grunted. The audience took that as an affirmative.

  Johnson raised a hand. “Gunny, I don’t mean to seem superior or anything, but are the Chadians going to understand the distinction?”

  Foyte’s grimace said that the un-PC question had struck home. “Well, let’s just say that it’s our damn job to make sure they do. By the way, Johnson, how do you say ‘covering and suppressing fire’ in French?”

  “Covering fire would be Le feu de bache. Suppressing fire would be Suppression de feu.” Johnson paused a moment. “When you think about it, that makes a lot of sense. The literal translation would be ‘the fire that covers’ and ‘suppression of fire.’”

  “Go to the head of the class, Johnson.” Foyte actually smiled at the former Legionnaire. “Now then, we have a lot of other ground to cover. If you’ll refer to your briefing papers…”

  18

  SSI OFFICES

  Strategic Solutions took little for granted. Predeployment planning was thorough for any client, but especially so for overseas business. Aside from contract negotiations—the meat in the corporate sandwich—Michael Derringer kept close contact with his subordinates, none moreso than those charged with operations.

  Sometimes his supervisory duties trod the thin line between too much oversight and too little. After all, Marshall Wilmont was the chief operating officer, but he had multiple pies in the oven. Never a micromanager, the retired admiral nonetheless kept his fingers on his baby’s pulse. And SSI was definitely his baby.

  At the end of a staff meeting, Derringer took Leopold aside. “Frank, I’ve been thinking about leadership of the Chad team. Don’t misunderstand me: I have every confidence in Gunny Foyte. But I wonder how our clients will relate to a former NCO. They may pay more attention to a retired officer.”

  Leopole rubbed his square jaw. Derringer knew the sign: Lieutenant Colonel Leopole was an objective professional. The former Marine was playing mental tug of war between Loyalty and The Mission.

  Derringer interrupted Leopole’s reverie. “I’m thinking that somebody like Steve Lee could run interference for our team, leaving Foyte to do the hands-on work.”

  Leopole had worked with Major Lee and respected him, though they were not close. West Pointer, Ranger, sniper instructor, HALO parachuting instructor, all the bells and whistles. His Been-There-Done-That sheet contained operations in five countries. Despite the glasses, he had command presence that went over especially well in the third world.

  “All right, sir. Lee would do a good job. But I don’t know if he’s available.”

  Derringer smiled imperceptibly. He had checked before raising the matter. “I believe he is, actually.” Derringer knew that Steve Lee, twice divorced with no children, was marking time. Derringer thought, He’s like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now. Waiting for another mission.

  “I’ll call him,” Derringer continued. “He works all right with Gunny Foyte, doesn’t he?”

  Leopold gave an eloquent shrug. “They’re both pros, Admiral.”

  Derringer appeared content with that assessment. It was what he bought and sold: professionalism. “One thing, though, Lee doesn’t speak French, let alone Arabic. German, if I remember correctly. So we’ll have to rely on Johnson, Nissen, and Wallender in that regard.”

  Leopole grinned hugely. “Don’t forget Martha.”

  The admiral returned the sentiment, rolling his eyes. “How could I? She wouldn’t let me even if I could!”

  “Speak of the devil. There she is.” Leopold motioned over his shoulder.

  Martha Whitney announced her presence with a contralto greeting to Josh Wallender. “Bon après midi, mon sergeant.”

  The erstwhile Green Beret returned the salutation with a continental kiss of the hand. “Et à vous, madame. Enchanté.”

  Breezy Brezyinski took in the arcane ritual and shook his head. “Man, oh, man. Looks like we can’t take a contract without a female anymore.”

  Bosco Boscombe knew what he meant. Dr. Carolyn Padgett-Smith, a medical researcher, had been invaluable on the Pandora Project, hunting down an Islamic cell that spread the Marburg virus in the west. “By the way, any word on CPS?”

  Breezy replied, “Last I heard, she was back at work. Don’t suppose she’s doing much rock climbing, though. Not after the exposure she had to that bug in Pakistan.”

  With a skeptical glance, Bosco made a mental comparison between the bejeweled, garrulous Ms. Whitney and the athletic, attractive British immunologist. “I tell you what: this lady has a looong way to go in Doc Smith’s league.”

  “Well, I don’t reckon there’s gonna be many mountains to climb or Taliban to shoot where we’re going. Besides, Whitney’s gig is language and intel, not operations.”

  “Thank God!” Bosco exclaimed. “Queen Latifah meets G.I. Jane!”

  Breezy nearly choked while suppressing a laugh. “Sandy Carmichael says Martha’s supposed to blend into the crowd. Like, mingle with the locals when she’s not coordinating with Steve Lee and the Chad liaison officers.”

  “Major Lee is welcome to that chore. Big time.”

  “Fershure, dude.”

  19

  N’DJAMENA, CHAD

  The operator called Alexander was resigned to his loss. David Olmert clearly was not coming back. It was as if he had vanished off the face of the earth.

  Alexander knew why.

  The reason or reasons would likely remain unknown for years; perhaps forever. David had been careless, unobservant, or committed some error of tradecraft. In any case, he was gone.

  At a café off the Place de l’Etoile, Alex slipped into a chair beside a distinguished-looking Arab gentleman. Which is to say, the well-groomed diner appeared to be an Arab. They spoke Arabic, keeping their voices beneath the background chatter.

  “Etfadel echrab kahwa.” The older man poured some coffee from the pot on his table. “No word?” he asked. He sipped from his own small cup, then absentmindedly brushed his gray goatee. Anyone glancing at him would mark him for a sixtyish businessman; likely a Saudi. In truth he had been born in Jerusalem nearly seventy years ago.

  Alexander shook his head. “Wala
hayoh.”

  Mustafah—for such was his name these days—placed his cup on the saucer. He did not wish to seem callous, but he and his accomplice both knew the lay of the land. One had to expect losses in their profession, and it did not do to take them too personally.

  “Permit me to summarize,” Mustafah said. “We know that the preferred French contractor ran afoul of Groupe FGN, which eliminated the competition.”

  “Of course! David and I saw it ourselves.”

  “And David confirmed that the surviving members of Agents d’Alsace Incorpore’s team left for Paris the day he disappeared.”

  “That was the last thing I heard from him. It would be easy to check their arrival at Orly.”

  “Maalish,” Mustafah replied. “Never mind.” He toyed with his miniature cup. At length he looked at his colleague. “I have my own theory as to why Groupe FGN is behaving so brazenly. I have not heard yours.”

  Alex leaned forward, moving his cup and saucer aside. “My friend, I have not been in the trade nearly as long as you, but I have learned one or two things. For example, I know the danger of drawing the obvious conclusion.”

  “Which is?”

  “Hurtubise and his killers want to remove any competition for the government contract to guard the uranium mine near the Libyan border.”

  Mustafah’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “Obviously they have done so. But to what purpose?”

  “Well, apparently not just for the contract. It would be profitable, yes, but they could have underbid AAI without much difficulty.”

  “Go on, Alex.”

  “It seems clear that FGN has another motive. Maybe I can understand such drastic measures within the mercenary business. But taking David, who was only observing both companies, raises the stakes. I mean, it exposes Hurtubise to Israeli scrutiny. Surely he knows the risk that carries.”

  “You mean retaliation.”

  Alexander’s eyes glinted gunmetal gray. “I should hope so.”

  Mustafah absorbed the sentiment, catalogued it, and continued. “You assume he knows that David works for us.”