Johnson winked. “Gotcha.” He thought for a moment, then said, “There’s something you should know. Frank Leopole and Sandy Carmichael, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I’ve had lots of time to think about this kind of work since… the last job.”
Bosco knew enough when to keep quiet.
“I’m going to Chad because it’s a training job,” Johnson explained. “I don’t plan to work in the field again. Ever.”
Bosco set down his beer. “J. J., I think I know where you’re coming from. But if you’re still worried about what happened in Pak…”
“Damn straight it’s about what happened over there. I compromised a mission and put good folks in the crosshairs because… because I…” He swallowed hard.
“Because the bastards tortured you. Is that it?”
Johnson took a pull at his bottle. He hardly noticed it was empty. Finally he managed to speak. “No, man. Not because they tortured me.
“Well, hell, J. J.. Everybody breaks. Look at all those guys in the Hanoi Hilton. The gooks broke every one of ‘em. It’s not like you’re the only one who ever had too much pain. C’mon, man.”
“No, that’s not quite right, Bosco. Some of them didn’t break. They died before they’d give in.”
Bosco leaned forward and punched his friend’s arm. “Makes my case, J. J. If you hadn’t talked, the ragheads would’ve killed you. You know that. Besides, nobody got hurt because you talked.”
“That was just luck. So I don’t ever want to be in that position again. There’s just too…”
Boscombe was more perceptive than the hey-dude persona he showed the world.
“J. J., I know you’re prob’ly still having, well, trouble, with what happened there. Bad dreams? Things like that?”
The brief nod again. “Something like that.” He stared into the empty long-necked bottle. He wondered how much he could tell Bosco and keep his self-respect. The scars on his back, buttocks, and upper thighs were physical reminders of the scalding he received at the hands of the Islamist cell in Pakistan, headed by the tormented genius determined to destroy the SSI team sent to find him and prevent the spread of the Marburg virus.
But the emotional scars went bone deep.
Almost without realizing it, Johnson found himself talking.
“I met a girl, Bosco. A really good woman. We knew each other before she got married but now she’s divorced and we ran into each other not long ago. We’re getting serious. I mean… really serious, you know?”
Bosco wondered how to respond when Johnson continued. “It’s like, I keep visualizing what it’s going to be like the first time we go to bed. She’s going to see my scars and if I haven’t told her about it, she’ll wonder why. But if I tell her before, she’ll know that I cracked and she…”
“You think she won’t want to be with you?”
Johnson shrugged. “Maybe. I mean… hell, man, I just don’t know.”
Bosco let a feral grin escape his lips. “Shee-it, J. J., do I have to draw you a picture? Unless you want to spend the rest of your life holding hands with women, tell her the whole story. Maybe it won’t matter. Hell, maybe she’ll want to comfort you. But at least you’ll be over the hump, you know? Either it’ll work out with her or it won’t. If not with her, then with another gal.” He finished off his Coors and set it down. “Next subject.” He belched and added, “Gimme another brew.”
13
Leopole and Mohammed had some news to share.
Addressing the staff, Leopole began, “I’ve heard from some embassy folks in Chad, and I think you all need to know what you might find over there.
“We learned that at least two French PMCs were operating in-country. The frontrunner is called Groupe FGN, which is named for the original three partners. Apparently only one of them is still alive— chap named Geurrier — but he’s largely retired. His family runs the company but the hands-on guy is a hard case named Marcel Hurtubise, ex-Foreign Legion and jack of all mercenary trades. He’ll literally work for anybody, and has, especially in Africa: Sudan, Libya, Algeria, and so on.”
“I wonder how he stays legit with those clients,” Carmichael said.
Leopole gave a sardonic grin. “Well, he also works for the French government. One of his recent jobs was UXB removal in Kosovo, and that sort of work lends respectability. It checks the Humanitarian box.”
Sandy shook her head. “UXB?”
“Unexploded bombs, or ordnance generally. It’s an old Brit term but today it usually means land mines. They’re really un-PC in some circles.”
“Oh, yes. I remember. That was one of Princess Di’s big causes.”
“Yeah. I guess she never heard of the DMZ.”
“Which one?”
“The one along the thirty-eighth parallel. It sort of keeps North Korea out of South Korea.”
Foyte fidgeted. “All right, so how does the French outfit affect us?”
“I don’t know that it does for sure, but there’s something going on. The two senior members of the other PMC disappeared several days ago. The others went home on Air France.”
Foyte emitted a long, low whistle. “You think…”
“Yeah.”
Carmichael leaned forward, her hands clasped. “Frank, I see where you’re going. But there must be other explanations.”
The crew-cut head bobbed. “Sure, lots of ‘em in that area. But we can’t overlook the possibility that there’s been some corporate feuding.”
“Man, talk about cutthroat competition!” Foyte almost smiled. “Are we likely to rub noses with these guys?”
Leopold arched an eyebrow. Dan Foyte’s idea of rubbing noses had nothing in common with Eskimo greetings. “Don’t know, Gunny. But it’s something to keep in mind.”
Foyte accepted that advice and shifted gears. “All right, what can we expect in Chad right now? Who will we work with before the French take over?” The team leader needed to know for planning purposes.
“Well, evidently the blue beanies will leave some folks in place for transition, though the U.N. generally isn’t real happy with the situation. But there’s not much choice. Either they help hand over to us and the French or they leave the place totally on its own, which simply isn’t realistic.”
Leopole looked around the table. “All right, people. It’s crunch time. We need to select a training team leader and his deputy.” He circled something on his briefing paper. His choice had already been made.
Sandy Carmichael saw the motion, knew its meaning, and tacitly concurred. “How about Gunny?”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Leopole replied.
Foyte was genuinely surprised. “Hey I don’t speak French, let alone Arabic.”
Leopole chuckled to himself.
Carmichael conceded, “No way around that. But you’ll have our translators as well as whatever the Chadians have over there. And J. J. Johnson’s fluent in French. You’ve worked together before. You two should make a good team.”
“So he’s going?” Foyte asked.
“Yup.” Carmichael gave a sly grin. “Seems that he took Bosco fishing— and Bosco landed him!”
“That’s not how I heard it,” Leopole replied.
“What do you mean?”
“I called J. J. last evening. He admitted that he already decided to go. Just wanted to have some company so he lured Bosco in. Played him like — well, like a trout!”
