“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:
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.”
“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
