considering that four of the opposition goals were scored on free kicks or penalties.
That concluded the first forty-five-minute period. Since it was painfully obvious that the Western Allies were not going to narrow the gap, a near unanimous decision was reached: cancel the second half and get on with the barbecue.
Johnson shook hands with Sergeant Kawlabi, captain of the Specialty Battalion team. They were briefly joined by Sergeant Major Bawoyeu who had served as head referee aided by two Legionnaires. Any concern about his impartiality had dissipated within minutes of the starting whistle — clearly the Chadians required no such assistance in achieving a decisive victory.
Bawoyeu was all toothy bonhomie. “Your team did well, considering how little the men have played,” he offered graciously.
“Thank you,
Johnson turned toward the sidelines and saw Brezyinski sitting on the ground. Chris Nissen was tending a serious bruise on the paratrooper’s left knee. “What do you think, Doc? He gonna live?”
Nissen glanced up at Johnson. “Well, like we say at Bragg. I may not be the best doctor around, but I reckon I’m the best practicing without a license. It’s going to swell if I don’t pack some ice on it right away.”
“What happened, Breeze?”
Brezyinski waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, that big ape tripped me.” He indicated a husky six-foot soldier who glanced in their direction and failed utterly to conceal a smile.
“I’d think you Eighty-second guys would know all about falling down. What do you call it? The parachute landing roll?”
Breezy grunted. “Fall. But you ever try to do a PLF with six goons crowding all around you?”
“Well, consider the big picture. It’s in a good cause. After all, we’ve been lording it over these guys, basically showing them how little they know. It’s only fair that they get to show us something.”
Breezy gave an exaggerated grimace. “Easy for you to say dude. Your picture — my knee!”
While Nissen helped the ambulatory casualty to the sidelines, Johnson was approached by his newfound Legion friends, all of whom understood the significance of the obscure date 27 April 1832. They found that they had heard of some of the same people, which was not surprising. Though
Standing nearby, Bosco observed the Legionnaires — current and past — bonding with one another. They recounted the training and the only way out: climbing the rock, ringing the bell to announce they had enough, but not before spending twenty-four hours in jail before release.
“Unwavering solidarity — leave no one behind!” chanted
Johnson seemed almost sentimental. “I remember what
“Which means?” Bosco spoke nothing but English.
“Trials and tribulations are normal in life — suffering is optional. To avoid suffering, you merely learn to conform.”
“It’s still the same,” the Spaniard offered. “Hours and hours of absurd detail: cleaning and ironing; pleats within a millimeter of specifications.”
Once they had satisfied one another with arcane gestures and slogans, the men fell into an easy comradeship cemented by off-key rendering of the patient, almost ponderous marching song:
“What’s that?” Bosco asked.
Johnson interrupted the songfest just long enough to explain. “It’s the Legion’s most famous song,
Bosco munched a sandwich that he assumed was pork, never considering that he was the guest of a passel of Muslims. Johnson reckoned it was lamb or goat, but decided not to educate his benighted friend. “Sounds way too slow for a march,” Bosco declared.
“Well, in the Legion we take our time with those things.”
Bosco espied Martha Whitney approaching and decided to make himself scarce. His departure allowed him to resume his
Corporal Moratinos regarded the other Americans. “You probably do not have the kind of morale like
“Oh, we have good morale,” Johnson replied. “Our company’s president is a really fine man, a retired admiral. He really takes care of his people.”
The Spaniard absorbed that sentiment, then asked, “What do you make of the French firm? It has several ex-Legionnaires.”
Johnson cocked his head. “What firm is that?”
Moratinos seemed surprised. “You have not heard of Groupe FGN? It’s probably the biggest security contractor in the country.”
“No, not a word. What do they do?”
The Legionnaire rolled his eyes in exaggeration. “What don’t they do?” He looked left and right, as if confirming the need for secrecy. “Come let’s take a short walk,
28
Steve Lee turned from his IBM ThinkPad and greeted his visitors. “Hi, guys. C’mon in.”
Dan Foyte, Jeremy Johnson, and Martha Whitney shoe-horned themselves into the small office that the Chadians had provided for SSI’s administrative use. Johnson gallantly offered the vacant chair to Whitney, who steadfastly refused the gesture. “No thanks, J. J. honey. I may be fat but I can still stand up.” She gave him a nudge in the ribs.
Lee exchanged male-bonding glances with Johnson and Foyte, then got down to business. “After J. J. mentioned the Foreign Legion’s information on Groupe FGN, I checked back with headquarters in Arlington. We had a heads-up that a couple of French outfits were working here but we didn’t know what they were doing. Well, it appears that this Hurtubise character got rid of the competition by one means or another. Marsh Wilmont and Frank Leopold think we should regard him as hostile.”
“How’s he a threat to us?” asked Foyte. “I mean, he’s not competing for our contract.”
“No, but there’s some interesting background info on him. I e-mailed David Dare and his spooks to look into him and they found some interesting stuff. He’s a pro, all right. National service 1982-84, Foreign Legion 1986-91, freelance for a while, then joined FGN Evidently he was going to be excommunicated at one point but he beat the wrap. That puts him in pretty exclusive company because the research guys only found about fifteen people who were dumped by the Catholic Church in the twentieth century, including Castro and Juan Peron.”
Whitney gasped aloud. “My God, what’d he do?”
“It’s not clear, but apparently he took some hostages in a church or monastery in Burundi when he was freelancing several years ago. Some of them, including monks or nuns, were killed in the fighting and he was held responsible. My guess is that he wasn’t declared anathema because nobody could prove that he gave the order.”
“All right,” Foyte replied. “He’s a gold-plated bastard. But like I said, what’s our interest in him?”
Lee nodded to Johnson, who took the hint. “The Legionnaires I talked to all said pretty much the same thing.
