Prometheus's Child

shoelaces. That’s what I think.”

Neither operator had ever wanted to dissect their stock in trade: courage under lethal stress. It was not what door-kickers talked about, certainly not as much as guns and gear or babes and baseball.

Breezy looked over his shoulder. Nobody was within earshot so he ventured an opinion. “Hell, dude, you’d do the same as that Aussie. So would any of the guys.”

Bosco leveled his gaze at his partner. “Tell me somethin’, Breeze. What’s the most you were ever scared?”

Brezyinski was tempted to toss off a reply about Charlotte Bernstein’s parents returning unexpectedly early one evening, but he checked himself. Bosco really wants to talk. He thought for a moment. “Oh, I dunno, man. There’s been several, you know?” He catalogued the first few that came to mind. “Prob’ly on my fourth qualifying jump at Bragg. I got a streamer and had to cut away from the main. I popped my reserve just in time. Swung twice and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.” He grinned self-consciously. “Wasn’t pretty.”

“But you did what you had to do,” Bosco prompted.

“Well, sure, dude! I mean, it’s not like I had a choice.” He raised both hands palms up, as if measuring two weights. “Live. Die. Live. Die.” He laughed nervously this time. “Some choice!”

Breezy straightened in his chair, facing Bosco. “Well, that’s what I’m saying, man. You, me, the other guys. We’re here because we reacted like we were trained. It’s like Uncle Sugar programmed the last setting into our brain housing unit, and when the computer was about to crash, we defaulted to our survival program. Right?”

Bosco bit his lip in concentration. He nodded. “Affirm. That’s right. But what’s your point?”

“My point is, man, that what we’re talking about was this much time.” He held up a thumb and forefinger, not quite touching. “We really didn’t have time to think, whether it was a bad chute or a skid on an icy road or a gomer swinging his AK on you. We just reacted. But that WO2, he had time to think about it. I mean, he had this much time.” The thumb extended two inches from the trigger finger. “He could think about what he was going to do before he had to do it.”

“I see what you mean,” Bosco said. “But I still don’t think it makes a lot of difference. Like I said, dude. You or me or anybody we know— we’d all have done what that Aussie guy did. I mean, can you imagine yourself walking away from a bud in deep serious?” He shook his head emphatically. “No way, man. Just no way.”

“So you’d rather die than look bad. That what you’re saying?”

“No, damn it, that’s not what I’m saying. I’d just stick with a friend and try to help him out, you know?”

Breezy pushed the point. “Even if you know you’d die.”

Bosco had heard enough. “Damn it, Breeze, what’s got into you?”

Brezyinski crumpled the newspaper and set it aside. “I dunno. All of a sudden I just got a bad feeling about this Chad thing.” He stood up and stretched. “You wanna get a burger or something for dinner?”

Bosco felt a tiny shiver between his shoulder blades. “After your cheerful conversation, I think I want some brewskis.”

“Well, okay. C’mon to my place. We’ll make some poppa-charlie and pop some lids.”

“Sounds like a date, dude.” Bosco was always up for popcorn. None of that diet variety; the more salt and butter the better.

“Sure, dinner and a movie.” Breezy felt better at the light banter.

Bosco perked up. “What’s the movie?”

“Black Hawk Down.”

“Oh, good,” Bosco replied. “I like happy endings.”

Part 2 CHAD

22

HASSAN DJAMOUS AIRPORT

N’DJAMENA, CHAD

The door opened and Chadian wind blew Saharan dust into the Airbus A-320.

Breezy recoiled. “Geez, you can smell it in here already.”

Bosco’s attention was focused elsewhere. He had been playing visual patty-cake with one of the Air France flight attendants for the last 650 kilometers.

“What’d you say?”

“Never mind,” Breezy replied. He opened the overhead compartment and grasped his valise.

The rest of the SSI team exited in orderly fashion but Breezy had to retrieve his errant partner by the collar.

“Hey, dude,” Bosco protested. “I was just makin’ progress. Her name is Nadine. She used to be a figure skater. Get that? Figure skater. Not ice skater.”

“Like there’s a difference?”

Bosco lowered his Oakley shades from atop his head and flashed a white smile. “Well, sure. I mean, she speaks fluent English, you know? She emphasized it: fig-ure skater. As in, girls with figures.”

“I’d say she came to the wrong part of the world, dude. Not much ice around here.”

With a fond look over his shoulder, Bosco allowed himself to be steered toward the Airbus’s forward door. Nadine waved bye-bye with a coquettish smile.

Breezy wasn’t sure, but he thought the brown-eyed blond winked at him.

* * *

Daniel Foyte assembled the SSI crew inside the passenger terminal while Steve Lee searched for the reception he had been told to expect. Bosco was still craning his neck for another glimpse of Nadine when the assistant attache appeared.

A tall, black U.S. Army officer strode down the corridor. “Gentlemen, you must be the training team.” The voice carried Georgia tones mixed with Barry White resonance.

“Yessir,” Foyte replied. He kept his tone respectfully noncommittal. Tardiness was not a military virtue — certainly not a Marine virtue, anyway.

The officer extended his hand. “I’m Major Roosevelt. Matt Roosevelt, defense attache. Colonel Posen of the military advisory group expected to meet you but he got a last-minute call from the ambassador. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

“Dan Foyte,” the gunny said, giving the Army man an ooh-rah handshake, extra crispy with mustard on top. He quickly introduced the others, taking care to dwell on Martha Whitney. “She and Major Lee are going to be our liaison with the Chad ministries.”

Whitney had already gone on point. She noticed that Major Roosevelt’s left hand was unencumbered by any rings.

The attache, being a well brought up young man, did not offer his hand to a lady. Martha, being polite by her neighborhood standards, slapped him on the forearm. “Pleased to meet you, Major baby. We’re gonna see a lot of each other, I can tell.” She beamed at him. “I bet they call you Rosey.”

Roosevelt did not see her wink at Foyte. The former Marine tried to keep a straight face, wondering when Whitney would treat the major to her African-American speech.

If Roosevelt sensed something passing between the two SSI delegates, he decided to ignore it. Instead he explained, “Most travelers are required to register with theSurete Nationale, the National Police, within seventy-two hours. But because you’re officially with State, you can skip that. I’ll escort you through Customs and then we’ll drive to your compound.”