Prometheus's Child

were working together better than before, partly because Mr. Boscombe was beginning to recognize certain useful phrases. Apart from fusil automatique and other technical terms, he had just mastered the phrase “Keep your elbow under the weapon.” “Gardez votre coude sous l’arme.”

Nissen did not bother to explain that Bosco’s pronunciation left worlds to be desired.

“So whatchathink, Sarge?”

Nissen shot a glance at the budding commandos departing the arena. “Well, they’re making progress. We have to remember that some of these guys have never had any foreign training. Believe it or not, I’ve seen worse.”

Bosco took a pull at his bottle and regarded his new colleague. “Would you trust them in combat?”

“That depends. Against who?”

“Well, let me rephrase it. Would you trust them not to run off and leave you high and dry?”

Nissen looked around, confirming that nobody else was within earshot. “Within limits, yeah. I would. But it depends on who’s leading them. I mean, doesn’t it seem odd to you that we hardly ever see any officers?”

Bosco was ready for that one. He dipped into his stash of patented responses and brought one to the surface. “Why let rank lead when ability does better?”

Nissen’s face was serious in the slanting evening light. “Lieutenant Colonel Malloum shows up once in a while, and I guess he’s busy with admin jobs. But we’ve only seen a couple of company-grade officers. It’s like they’re just passing through.”

A bulb flicked on in Boscombe’s cranium. He sat up straight. “Wait a minute. Are you saying that we are gonna have to hand-hold these dudes through their first few ops?”

Nissen shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, that’s not in our contract. And I know for sure that J. J. doesn’t plan to do any fieldwork. But still…”

“Damn!” Bosco threw the half-empty bottle at a trash can and missed. He ignored it. “We need to talk to Lee. Muy pronto.”

“That’s Major Lee, maggot.”

Bosco turned at the sound of Foyte’s voice. “Hey how ‘bout it, Gunny. Are we expected to fill in for the junior officers?”

Foyte took a DI’s stance: hands behind his back, feet spread, slightly inclined forward. “In words of one syllable — what an Army puke would understand — there’s no pukin’ way.”

Nissen grinned despite himself. “Hey, Boscombe. You know how Marines count?”

Bosco rose to the occasion. “No, Staff Sergeant Nissen. How do Marines count?”

“Hup, two, three, many! Hup, two, three, many!”

Foyte ignored the jibe — he had heard it dozens of times. He knelt before the two Army veterans. “I been talkin’ to Johnson and a couple of the others. These guys seem to understand fire team and squad tactics: fire and movement stuff. That’s good. It’s the basic building blocks. We’ll keep reinforcing those maneuvers, but we’re also gonna bear down on marksmanship. Too many of these boys think that ammo capacity equals firepower. And I’m here to tell you…”

“Firepower is hits on the target!” Boscombe replied. Nissen did not answer: he was pondering Foyte’s use of “boys” again.

Foyte removed his cover and rubbed the stubble on his head. “Well, I’m glad that somebody understands that. Now look here.” He pulled his ever-present notebook from a pocket. “I have a list of the twenty best shooters in the battalion. I’m gonna suggest that we reassign them throughout the platoons so there’s some depth in each unit. Then I think we should put about half of ‘em on the belt-fed guns.”

Nissen frowned in concentration. “Wouldn’t they be better used as precision riflemen?”

“Maybe later. But for now we don’t have any precision rifles, and won’t for at least a few weeks. Meanwhile, I keep thinking of what a very great man once said.”

Bosco nudged Nissen. “What great Marine was that?”

Foyte was serious. “Well, since you ask, I’ll tell you. His name was Merritt Edson, and he was a Distinguished Rifleman who got a Medal of Honor at Guadalcanal. Maybe you heard of it.”

“Is that anything like the Erie Canal?” Bosco was enjoying the banter, but knew he could only push Foyte so far.

Foyte turned to Nissen. “Red Mike Edson wrote that only accurate firepower is effective, which is why he put expert riflemen on his BARs. I think that makes a lot of sense, especially since not many of our guys are very proficient shooters.”

Nissen nodded. “Concur, Gunnery Sergeant.”

Foyte stood up, giving the black NCO a comradely tap on the arm. “Like I always said: people are smart when they agree with me!”

31

N’DJAMENA

Steve Lee and Chris Nissen leaned over Martha Whitney, whom they had poured onto the couch. She failed in her effort to suppress a loud belch. Regaining her breath, she inhaled deeply and accepted the cold cloth that the medic offered.

“Martha, what did she say?” Lee did not want to seem too insistent but he was eager to learn the results of Whitney’s latest meeting with the Frenchwoman.

“Oooh, my goodness,” Whitney exhaled. She forced herself to focus. “That girl can drink but she can’t hold it.”

“You mean you drank her under the table?”

Whitney waved feebly. “I mean, she couldn’ hoi’ it. Puked all over her shoes an’ mine!”

“But what did she say? What are they up to?”

“Oooh my.” Whitney pressed the cloth closer to her eyes. “Not so loud, Maje.”

Lee and Nissen exchanged empathetic looks. Both men were trying not to smile. Neither objected to seeing the self-confident Ms. Whitney brought down two or three pegs.

Lee moderated his voice. “All right, Martha. Try to concentrate. Did you get anything out of her?”

“Oh, ‘bout three quarts I’d say. My shoes…”

Chris Nissen turned away, clasping a hand to his mouth. Lee saw the sergeant’s shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

Steve Lee pried the wet cloth from Whitney’s stubby fingers. She blinked in the light. “Martha, listen to me. What… did… she… say?”

The former spook smacked her lips loud enough to be heard, then tasted the taste. “Oooh my.” Finally she gestured toward her purse. “Wrote it down in th’ taxi.”

Nissen went through her bag and fetched a notebook. He flipped through the first few pages with assorted notes unrelated to the meeting with Gabrielle Tixier. Then he held the notebook out at arm’s length. A few seconds later he looked at Lee. “I can’t make out anything. Just a couple of words.”

Lee took the pad and squinted. Finally he shook his head. “Martha, we can’t read your handwriting. You’ll have to read it for us.” He held it before her, knowing she lacked the strength to sit up.

Whitney blinked in concentration, trying hard to focus. She raised her head, put a hand on Lee’s, and adjusted the focal length. After a valiant effort she slumped back. “Nobody can read that. Not even me.”

“My God, what’d you drink?” Nissen asked.

“Oooh my, what didn’t we drink? She was ready for me, tha’s fershure, honey. Started with wine, then whiskey. Then somethin’ else. I was doin’ okay. Then she brought out the cognac…” Whitney burped again.

“Brandy?” Nissen frowned. “If you can handle whiskey, why not…”

“Eighty proof,” Whitney ventured. “Seven years old.”

Lee stood up, his hands wide in exasperation. “Chris, we have to sober her up. Time’s important.”