The tall, black NCO shook his head, smiling at the victim. “Major, I can deal with penetrating wounds, fractures, blunt trauma. Even childbirth. But I cannot cure a major hangover. Nature’s gotta take its course.”
Lee slumped into a chair. “So we let her sleep?”
“Look at her!” In the short interval, Martha Whitney had finally succumbed. When they turned out the light and left the room she was snoring like a rhinoceros.
32
“How much longer?”
Marcel Hurtubise was a past master at controlling his emotions, let alone his voice, but he also heeded his instincts. The mining seemed to be progressing well, but he sensed a need for greater urgency.
The site manager was an elderly French engineer — a piece of colonial driftwood remaining above the high tide mark when the colonial surf had receded. His name was Adolphe something or other, and he had tried returning to metropolitan France two or three times since the 1960s. It never lasted long; Africa kept fetching him back.
Adolphe gave a Gallic shrug — an eloquent gesture communicating infinite wisdom if not immediate knowledge. Four decades in
Hurtubise knew. He had to admit that Adolphe knew his business, both technical and managerial. How he kept the black laggards working on anything resembling a schedule was the next thing to miraculous. “Well,
“You can… rest.” He even managed a smile for the old man.
Adolphe seemed not to hear. He glared at a machinery operator and began cursing him with equal fluency in French and Arabic, not managing to raise his mask over his face.
Hurtubise turned away, seeking Etienne. He found the Belgian supervising the guard change at the top of the hour. Four on, six off, seemed optimum for the limited crew of mercenaries available.
“How goes it?” Hurtubise asked. It was a rhetorical question. Etienne was as reliable as gravity — always there, whether needed or not.
“Well enough,” the husky man replied. Marcel noticed that the Belgian had his sleeves rolled down, either from concern over sunburn or the less likely risk of contamination through a cut or abrasion. But since the guards seldom went near the machinery, and the open-air mine had ample ventilation, there was little cause for concern. Briefly Hurtubise wondered if his colleague — not quite a friend — actually had plans for longevity.
“All right,” Hurtubise replied. “I’m flying back to N’Djamena tonight to put in an appearance at the embassy.”
“So soon?” Etienne realized that his boss had been back and forth twice in the past week — more travel than usual.
“I need to make sure the ministry is coordinating the arrangements here and with the shippers. There’s too much at stake to rely on… a couple of Africans. I’ll be back in two or three days. If you need me…”
Etienne raised a pudgy hand, then tapped the cell phone on his belt. It was there all the time, opposite his Browning Hi-Power. “Say hello to Gabby for me.” He gave a crooked grin; he knew how much she disliked that name — and him.
“I’ll give her more than that,” Hurtubise replied. For a change, he was smiling when he walked away.
33
Steve Lee paced to the front of the briefing room, about-faced, and looked at his team.
“We’ve just received a warning order.”
The SSI operators exchanged querulous glances. Then everybody was speaking at once.
“But we’re a training team!”
“Whose orders?”
“Holy shit!”
The latter sentiment predominated.
Lee raised both hands, urging quiet. When the noise abated he glanced at J. J., who was particularly vocal against going operational again.
Bosco interjected, “Gunny Foyte said just the…”
“Yeah, where is he?” Nissen asked.
Lee was growing petulant. “As I was saying…” He allowed the sentiment to drag out, hanging suspended in the seemingly frigid air.
“As I was saying, we’re advised to start planning for an op. Gunny Foyte is on the horn to Arlington, though he may not get anybody with the time difference. Meanwhile, I’m going to meet with the embassy staff. But before any of you decide to go spastic, maybe you’d like to hear the details.”
The tone of Lee’s voice said as much as his words. After a pause he continued. “By ‘we’ I mean the Co-In battalion. Not necessarily us in this room.”
Johnson raised a hand. “Major, we were just discussing this sort of thing the other day. There’s hardly any junior officers up to speed as near as I can tell. So who’s going…”
“Nobody with SSI is required to do anything. Okay? Get that straight.” Lee lasered the room with his glare, obviously displeased with the response. “But Johnson is right. There’s not enough officers qualified to lead more than a couple of platoons right now. Evidently that’s partly due to some infighting to get assigned to an elite unit. But on the other hand, some experienced Chadians don’t want to join the Co-In force just because it’s considered elite. They’re worried it’ll draw attention from the president’s office and mark them as a potential threat.”
Breezy raised an eyebrow. “Man, talk about damned if you do…”
“Now listen up,” Lee resumed. “We’ve been asked to contribute a couple of French speakers to help out. Officially they’d be liaison. Unofficially, they’ll probably be acting platoon leaders. Otherwise we’ll hope for a couple of you to work with Chadian translators.”
Eyes turned toward Johnson and Joshua Wallender, the most competent French linguists. Chris Nissen was fluent in Arabic and conversant in French.
Sensing the mood in the room, Lee pushed ahead. “First, I’ll emphasize that if anybody volunteers for this op, they’ll be advising more than leading. Second, there’s a hefty combat bonus. That’s already been confirmed by the company. Third… well, we need you.”
“What’s the mission, Steve?” Bosco intentionally used Lee’s given name to inject a note of immediacy.
Lee turned to a map pinned to the wall behind him. “Up here along the Libyan border there’s some activity that interests this government and ours as well. It has to do with mining — that’s about all I can say right now, but more intel is coming. That’s been a hot area for years, going back to the seventies and eighties when Chad and Qadhafi were feuding.”
Wallender, who hardly ever spoke in meetings, leaned forward in his chair. “Major, let me ask something: why us? Why not a regular Army unit?”
“I was just coming to that, Josh. The reason is security. I’m given to understand that the Army units can’t be trusted because the rebels, or whomever, can buy almost any information they want. With corruption like it is in this country, that’s a real concern.”
Wallender sat back, clearly unsatisfied. “Well, what’s to say that none of our guys will sell out?”
“Nothing’s guaranteed,” Lee replied. “But think about it. Our battalion is separated here. There’s almost no
