Peggy Springer buzzed the inner office.
“Mr. O’Connor is here, Admiral.”
Michael Derringer punched the button on his console. “Thank you, Peggy. Please send him in.”
The founder and CEO of Strategic Solutions, Incorporated, sat back and almost physically braced himself. Ryan O’Connor was not even on the third page of a single-spaced list of people the retired admiral wanted to see. It was not as if Derringer disliked the tweedy career bureaucrat; it was more that the ex-naval officer objected to the
Derringer knew the basics: Ryan O’Connor (Brown, class of ‘73; MA international relations) had joined State during the Carter administration and had climbed the GS ladder in pedestrian style. Considering that the earnest Bostonian had retained an Ivy League post-Vietnam view of America — aggressively imperialistic, hopelessly militaristic— Derringer occasionally marveled at O’Connor’s advancement under three Republican administrations.
The door opened and Ryan Michael O’Connor entered in all his Foggy Bottomed glory: charcoal gray suit; power tie; $60 haircut; and $350 monogrammed attache case.
Derringer pushed himself out of the padded chair and extended a hand. “Ryan, welcome back.” He shook hands, remembering to grip extra hard, and was rewarded with the flicker of a grimace on O’Connor’s face. “Please, sit down.”
Beneath the cordial tone of his voice, Derringer cordially detested O’Connor’s John Lennon glasses. It was a visceral reaction, not unlike the response the former naval officer had toward slouching, slack-jawed youths wearing ball caps backward. A sign of mindless conformity.
O’Connor took a seat and placed his black leather case on his knees. He did not bother to look around, as he knew the layout of the office, having dealt with SSI on occasion. The good admiral’s walls were adorned with the sort of I–Love-Me esoterica common to retired military officers: lithographs depicting “glorious” historic events; signed photos bearing saccharine inscriptions from Very Important Republicans; and all manner of shield-shaped plaques denoting various assignments and commands. O’Connor almost sighed.
He cleared his throat and began. “Admiral, as you know, I’m here on behalf of Undersecretary Quiller. He’s expanding the role of Arms Control and International Security, and I’m his new deputy for human rights issues.”
“How may we help you, Ryan?”
O’Connor bit his lip. He made a point of playing the Sir and Admiral game with the military types, and in turn they addressed him as if he were an adolescent nephew.
“Well… Mike… I know you’re accustomed to working with DoD, but this time State has the ball. You’ve probably seen the coverage from Saharan Africa, especially Chad. Frankly, we’re concerned about things getting even more out of control in the region, and the military doesn’t have the resources or even the expertise to step in, as usual.”
Derringer permitted himself a tight smile. “As usual.” It wasn’t entirely true, but he conceded that SSI and other private military contractors relied on DoD’s perennial shortages.
O’Connor leaned forward, his vest bulging over the case on his lap. “You should treat this as close-hold for the present, but I can say that we are going to be a major player in that part of the world, both for diplomatic and humanitarian reasons.”
“So the U.N.’s really pulling out.”
The GS-14 sat back and blinked. Behind his rimless glasses, his wide-eyed gaze reminded Derringer of an astonished owl. “Well, I did not say that, Admiral. I certainly did not!”
Derringer shrugged. “Very well, then. Forget I mentioned it. But if we’re getting more involved, obviously there’s some sort of vacuum. With or without the blue berets, American interests are going to include PMCs.” He raised a suggestive eyebrow. “Right?”
O’Connor retrieved the moment by nodding while looking down to unlock his attache case. He withdrew a stapled document and placed it on the desk. “This is a summary of the situation as of last week, with predictions of near- and long-term requirements. Because SSI did such a fine job in Pakistan, Mr. Quiller wants to offer you first refusal on this training contract in Chad.”
Derringer retrieved the paper, which had been left slightly beyond his reach, and idly thumbed through it. “Very well. I’ll take a look and get back to you in a few days.” He plopped the document on his desk pad and folded his hands. “Ryan, I know you’re mainly concerned with human rights. What’s your interest in Chad? I mean, it must have one of the worst reputations on the planet.”
“Well… Mike… we’re not so naive as to think that we can convert the rest of the world to our kind of democracy merely by example. But neither can we affect events there without being involved. You know — directly engaged. When possible, State’s position is to bring about change by helping from the inside rather than exerting force from the outside. As usual.”
“Yes?”
“Germany, Italy, and Japan.”
The elegant attache case snapped closed. “Good day, Admiral.”
“Good day, Mr. O’Connor.”
3
If you wait long enough, you can see interesting things even in the most barren desert.
However, on the south side of the Chad-Libyan border, in the area known as the Aozou Strip, there is precious little to draw sightseers. The scenery is drab and the climate unattractive, often with a daytime low of ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Wildlife, though varied, is rare. Fortunate spotters might see antelope, gazelle, or ostrich.
The unfortunate might witness murder.
Early in the afternoon, amid swirling dust devils, a well-used Land Rover lurched to a stop in Chad’s Borkou- Ennedi-Tibesti Prefecture. Three men and a woman stepped out; the men dragged two human forms from the rear, feet first. Each of the unfortunates was bound hand and foot and gagged. One had nearly suffocated during the long drive to the remote area.
The tallest of the three captors produced a stiletto and cut the straps securing each prisoner. Both raised themselves from the sand; one even bothered to dust himself off.
Both knew what was coming.
The driver leaned into the back of the vehicle and withdrew two shovels. He tossed them at the men’s feet and merely said, “Dig.”
The older of the doomed men folded his arms. “Why don’t you just be done with it?”
“Because I don’t dig.”
“Well, then,
The leader of the captors resisted the urge to knife the insolent bastard where he stood. Instead, he rocked back on his heels and regarded the man. He had courage, and one had to admire courage wherever one found it.
Even in the Sahara. Maybe especially in the Sahara.
One of the captors picked up a shovel and swung it in an overhead arc, connecting with the defiant man’s shoulders. The victim staggered, biting off a cry of pain, then sagged to one knee. “There are many uses for shovels,” the assailant said evenly. He looked to his comrades for appreciation. Finding none, he raised the shovel
