The pilot eased into Foyte’s “guest chair,” a folding metal fixture calculated to keep guests uncomfortable and visits short. “You want to talk about contingencies for Chad.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Affirm.” After a four-count, Keegan realized that Foyte expected him to carry the conversation. If the ex- Navy man had learned anything about Marines, it was the futility of trying to be one of them. The Corps was like the IRA of Keegan’s ancestors: “Once in, never out.”
“Well,” Keegan began, “the admiral always wants a backup in case local exits are blocked. So I’ve been looking at a couple of ways to extract you guys.”
“Fixed wing or helo?”
“Both, depending on conditions. The Chadians have Alouettes, which is a plus. It’s one of my three go-to choppers like the Huey and the Hip because you find it everywhere. Something like fifty countries use Alouettes. Anyway, I try to stay current in them because you never know when you might have to steal one.” He did not smile when he said it.
“Uh, have you ever had to?”
Keegan finally grinned. “I don’t understand the question.”
“Gotcha.”
“Thing is, if we have to extract the whole team, we’ll need at least two choppers, maybe three I’d rather use a twin-engine plane: something that can get in and out of a small field in just one trip. Also, something with enough range to get us out of Dodge on one tank of gas.”
“Like how far?”
Keegan unfolded a map of Saharan Africa. “Well, of course it depends on where we start from. I mean, Chad’s a pretty big place: about a thousand miles north to south, and Libya’s the only northern exit.” He fingered the capital. “For starters, let’s assume we’re near N’Djamena. That’s down here, right on the border with Cameroon. With enough warning, we could easily drive into Cameroon or fly straight across the northern part into Nigeria. That might be advisable, depending on the political situation in those countries. I think Nigeria is pretty friendly.”
“What kind of fighters operate in those countries?” Foyte asked.
“Niger just has some military transports. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the nearest airfield is over here at Zinder, about four hundred miles west of N’Djamena. But Zinder has a six-thousand-foot runway. They speak French but that’s probably the best bet for a friendly reception. The capital is Niamey, and I have a contact there.”
Foyte scanned the map, gauging the distances and geometry. “What do they fly in Nigeria?”
Keegan smirked. “They had Jaguars and MiG-21s but those have been down for a long time. The government wanted to sell them to help finance newer equipment but apparently it didn’t happen. Anyway, Maiduguri is only 150 miles from Chad, and has a nine-thousand-foot runway. Also, they speak English there. Apparently Sandy Carmichael served with the current defense attache, who’s another West Point gal.”
Foyte merely nodded. After two divorces he had a decidedly unromantic attitude toward females. “Any problems with Cameroon?”
“Well, their Air Force has a few Alpha Jets and Magisters. Not much, really, but they could cause a helo a big-time hurt. However, we’re on pretty good terms with the place right now. The nearest city to N’Djamena is Maroua, less than 150 miles south. It’s a good field: 6,800 feet paved. Garoua is even better: 11,000 feet but maybe 250 miles from N’Djamena.”
The former noncom leaned back, hands behind his head. “Okay. Sounds like you’ve got the threats all doped out. But what about nav aids in that part of the world? It looks like a lot of open space.”
“Well, there’s a saying: the desert is an ocean in which no oar is dipped.”
“Who said that?”
“I think it was T. E. Lawrence. Or maybe Peter O’Toole.”
“Who?”
Keegan should have known that Dan Foyte was not a movie fan. “Ah, he played Lawrence of Arabia. In
Foyte shook his balding head. “Okay. What’s it mean?”
“Just that navigating over featureless terrain is no different than over water. You’re back to time and distance, which is something naval aviators know about. If the nav aids go down, we still have GPS. If that goes down, we fall back on dead reckoning.”
Foyte rubbed his chin, playing the perennial game of What If. “Okay, let’s say we get away from Chad with no big problems. If we’re in a hurry, and haven’t filed a flight plan or anything, how do we know where to land?”
Keegan’s eyes twinkled. “Hey, my attitude about unauthorized landings is that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”
The former Marine gave a grunt that seemed to imply approval. Finally he asked, “Is the admiral going to spring for renting some choppers or a charter jet?”
“Too soon to say, Gunny. But I’ll have at least two prospects lined up before you guys hit Chad. After that it’s a matter of monitoring the situation.”
In truth, Terrence Keegan knew empirically that a pistol barrel in someone’s ear could cut a great deal of red tape when “renting” an aircraft. “Anyway, we have four possible airports from 150 to 400 miles from N’Djamena. All are paved with long runways. Depending on what shakes out, I’ll plan on cross-border hops by helo into Cameroon or longer flights to Cameroon and Niger with Nigeria as second alternate.”
Foyte beamed. “Nice to have options, ain’t it?”
“Freakin’ right, Gunny. Freakin’ right.”
21
“Look at this,” Breezy exclaimed. He straightened the pages from a week-old
“What?” Bosco was barely interested in the news; he was engrossed in his sci-fi thriller.
“Well, it says here that an Aussie just got the Victoria Cross. First time in about forty years.” Breezy paused for effect. “In Chad.”
Bosco turned from voluptuous Carmogian females wielding phased-array plasma weapons in the Second Virgo Galaxy War. “You mean, the guys we’re replacing?”
“Guess so.” Breezy read aloud. “The queen has been graciously pleased on the advice of her Australian ministers to approve the posthumous award of the Victoria Cross to the undermentioned:
“Warrant Officer Class Two Derrick Jasper Martin, the 138th Signals Squadron.
“ ‘Warrant Officer Martin carried out an act of great heroism by which he saved the life of a comrade. The act was in direct face of hostile forces, under intense fire, at great personal risk leading to his death. His valour is worthy of the highest recognition.
“ ‘While engaged in peacekeeping operations near Massenya, Chad, on fourth September, Martin’s vehicle was destroyed by hostile fire that killed two crew members. Nevertheless, Martin pulled his badly wounded driver from the burning vehicle and, exhibiting selfless courage, carried him to temporary safety while employing his personal weapon to suppress close-range fire from local gunmen. Upon reaching temporary shelter in a nearby building, Martin defended his comrade with the greatest determination, accounting for a large number of hostile rioters. Without succor from security forces, with whom he could not communicate, Martin passed his driver to friendly civilians and continued covering their withdrawal until his ammunition was exhausted. When last seen he was retrieving an enemy weapon to continue his extraordinarily gallant fight against overwhelming odds.’ “
When Breezy finished reading, Bosco made no comment, flippant or otherwise. It was unusual for the mountaineering ex-Ranger, SSI’s rappelling expert. His friend asked, “What do you think, man?”
Jason Boscombe seemed to be focused somewhere beyond the wall. Finally he turned to the onetime paratrooper and said, “I think that the Silver Star they pinned on me in Iraq doesn’t amount to that dude’s
