Prometheus's Child

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 more so 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 micro-manager, 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 apres midi, mon sergeant.”

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

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