Major Matthew Roosevelt wasted no time in the orientation briefing. “There’s a lot of crime in the city,” he began. “We do not recommend going anywhere alone, especially after dark.”
Breezy raised a hand. “What about packing?”
Roosevelt’s eyes widened. “You mean, carrying a concealed weapon?”
“Well, sure. Most of us have pistols.”
Roosevelt rubbed his jaw. “I’m not sure. I mean, I understand your desire to defend yourself. But—”
Lee interrupted. “Major, I think we can claim diplomatic status. I mean, we’re contracted to the State Department and we have ID to that effect.”
Lee’s intent was clear: if any SSI people had to shoot for blood, they would invoke immunity.
Roosevelt walked to the door and made a point of closing it. When he returned to the head of the room he inhaled, held his breath, and let it out. “All right, look. You did not hear this from me. I’ll deny it if anybody quotes me, okay?”
Lee nodded. Foyte uttered an “Ooh-rah.”
“I hardly go anywhere without my Hi-Power. But if I ever had to use it, I’d probably be out of the Army by noon the next day, if I wasn’t in jail. What I’m saying is, I’d go a loooong way around the block to avoid having to shoot somebody.”
“Certainly,” Lee replied. “We’ve been in that situation before.”
The assistant attache surveyed the audience. “What do you guys carry?”
Foyte responded. “We settled on nine millimeters, Sigs and Glocks. We brought a couple cases of Romanian ammo so any brass we leave behind will be untraceable. If we need more, nine mil’s easy to get.”
Roosevelt grinned despite himself. “Gunny, you are one sneaky son of a… gun.”
“Roger that, sir.” Foyte managed a deadpan expression.
“Any nonlethal stuff?”
“Like what?” Bosco asked.
“Pepper spray, Tasers, that sort of thing.”
Foyte and Lee glanced at Martha Whitney. She almost blushed. “Maje, honey, I got both. I also got two knives including a switchblade.” She flashed her Aunt Jemima grin. “And, Sugah, Ah knows how to use
Roosevelt ignored the endearment and nodded gravely. “Well, if you can disable an assailant without killing him, there’ll be a lot less paperwork.”
Steve Lee and Dan Foyte entered the American embassy on the south side of Avenue du Gouverneur Felix Eboue, about four hundred meters west of Rue Victor Schoelcher. They were close enough to the embankment to smell the ambience of the Chari River.
Matt Roosevelt and Colonel Brian Posen were waiting for them.
Posen showed the SSI men to a secure meeting room and wasted little time with formalities. Taking the chair at the head of the table, the chief of the advisory group looked at Lee. “I understand your meeting with Kadabi went pretty well.”
Lee glanced at Foyte, who realized that a mere NCO counted for little. It was not the first time.
The erstwhile West Pointer squirmed slightly and, with a sideways glance, said, “Well, Colonel, as I was telling Gunny Foyte, I found Mr. Kadabi both friendly and forthcoming.”
Posen nodded, hands folded before him. “That’s fine, Major. Fine. As far as it goes.” He chewed his lip for a moment. “Let me warn you, though. If Francois Kadabi is acting friendly, it’s because he wants something. Oh, he’s not entirely disingenuous. He can be genuinely helpful, but in our experience it’s only when he sees an advantage for himself.”
Lee nodded. “Very well, sir. What’s that mean where we’re concerned?”
Posen nodded to Roosevelt, who swiveled in his chair. “Steve, I was taken by your mention that Kadabi warned you about jealousies within the Army and security forces. Ordinarily that’d just be common sense in a place like this. But we know that Kadabi pulled strings to get the liaison job with SSI. Apparently he called in one or two markers.”
Beneath his breath, Foyte began whistling “The Marines’ Hymn” when Lee kicked him beneath the table. In a rare gesture of interservice harmony, Foyte shifted to “The Caisson Song.”
“All right,” Lee replied. “What’s the significance?”
Roosevelt flipped his notebook. “He went over his department head to make sure he worked with you. It took a little pull because of the diplomatic connection on our end, but he got it done. He’s working with an upper- level manager in the natural resources ministry.”
Lee shrugged. “So?”
“So,” Posen interjected, “that gentleman is a cousin of Kadabi’s. He deals with Chad’s uranium exports.”
Lee and Foyte exchanged raised eyebrows. Lee asked, “Then why weren’t we told about that before?”
“Steve, I just found out about it myself,” Roosevelt replied. “Apparently it was worked out a couple of months ago but they’re keeping it quiet. For obvious reasons.”
Foyte decided that he had endured enough of being ignored. Looking at Roosevelt, he asked, “Sir, I’m just a retired jarhead noncom. What’s obvious about it?”
Roosevelt fielded the question before Posen could visibly take offense. “Ah, excuse me, Gunny. I was speaking about the connection between the counterinsurgency force you’ll be training and the country’s uranium deposits. One of our main Co-In concerns is keeping those assets out of rebel hands. In other words—”
“In words a Marine can understand,” Foyte interrupted, “you don’t want this Kadabi character making deals with his cousin while SSI’s clients provide his muscle for him.”
A question occurred to Lee. “Who’s the cousin?”
Posen shook his head. “Excuse me?”
“Kadabi’s cousin. Who is he?”
Roosevelt consulted his notebook again. “Moungar. Felix Moungar.”
“Does he have authority in security matters?”
Roosevelt thought for a moment. “He might. But if he doesn’t, Kadabi sure does. Their main advantage is a lot of information and mutual back scratching.”
Foyte whistled aloud. “Then it’s like we discussed with Frank Leopole before we left. We damn well better decide just how well we’re gonna train these boys.”
Roosevelt grimaced. “Ah, Gunny, I would caution you against describing black men as ‘boys.’“
Foyte opened his mouth, then pressed his lips together. Political correctness and racial sensitivity ranked in his esteem somewhere between women’s lib and communism. He merely nodded, staring into the assistant attache’s brown eyes.
Lee retrieved the situation, deftly saying, “Your point is well taken, Matt, but Gunny’s question still stands. We discussed it before leaving, but of course it’s not an SSI decision. So… just how well is this new outfit to be trained? For that matter, how much training can it really absorb?”
Roosevelt and Posen exchanged glances. The senior officer took up the subject. “The background is in your briefing packet,” Posen began, “but I’ll summarize.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Most of the men you’ll deal with have field experience within the past couple of years. Many of them have combat experience. All of them speak French, many Arabic as well. They come from units that have received training from U.S. or French instructors, and that combined with what you’ll teach them is expected to result in a two-tiered mission: greater operational capability and providing a cadre for domestic training as well.”
Lee replied, “Yes, sir. That’s my understanding. We were told that we’re going to build up to battalion strength.”
Roosevelt made a politely skeptical sound, not quite a snort. “Well, yes, officially. But actually the unit is going to look more like a reinforced company: about 240 men at first. It’s commanded by a lieutenant colonel because that’s commensurate with a battalion.”
Foyte ventured another opinion. “Then we’ll be operating in platoon strength most likely.”
“Well,” Roosevelt responded, “we don’t expect you guys to operate with them, but you might provide, ah, advice on occasion. But essentially yes, they’ll probably deploy with thirty to forty men most of the time.”
