outside contact, and we’ll lock down everything as soon as we know what’s up. Additionally, it’ll be a no-notice deployment as far as the troops are concerned. We’ll have at least a couple days to get ready, but they won’t know it. Far as they’re concerned, we’re doing inventory and training for rapid deployment.”
Nissen eyed the distance between N’Djamena and the border. “That’s a fur piece up there, Major. How do we get there?”
“We pre-position some trucks and vehicles, probably here, at Bardai.” He jabbed a finger on the map. “We fly there in two C-130s and we have some helos on standby. In fact, I’ve alerted Terry Keegan and a couple of his rotorheads. They’ll be ready to insert or extract on short notice.”
Wielding a pointer, Lee said, “There’s two possible fields west of the op area, both unpaved. Bardai is six thousand feet long, about a hundred miles from our objective, and Zouar is forty-seven hundred, even farther away. Another option is Ouinianga Kebir, down here a couple of hundred miles southeast of the area of interest.”
Wallender was clearly unhappy with the situation. “Either way, that’s a long haul to the target with much hope of surprise. Especially if we’re using Chadian aircraft.”
Lee grinned wolfishly. “We’re not. Uncle Sugar is sending three Hercs just for this mission. That includes a spare.”
“Major, I don’t know about the other guys but I’d sure like to know what’s up there that’s so important.”
Lee laid down his pointer and said one word. “Uranium.”
Leopole found Derringer’s door ajar and recognized the “come in” signal. Nontheless, SSI’s foreign operations chief politely rapped twice with his knuckles.
“Admiral, we got trouble.”
Derringer looked up from his keyboard. “Well, that’s our middle name when it isn’t ‘Solutions.’ What is it, Frank?”
Leopole strode to the desk and laid an e-mail printout before Derringer. “Sandy just got this. She’s checking with State right now, but it looks as if our Chad team has been drafted into a clandestine op.”
Derringer adjusted his military-frame glasses and scanned the short message. Then he looked up. “Why didn’t we get a heads-up? Wasn’t there time to consult?”
“There was a phone recording from Gunny last night, saying to look for an e-mail. Ordinarily this would come from DoD or State via Marsh as chief operating officer, but he’s hobnobbing with a couple of undersecretaries at Rock Creek.” Leopole glanced at his watch. “By now I reckon they’re on the back nine.”
The CEO visualized the verdant lushness: narrow fairways flanked by dense trees. It called for serious risk assessment of a kind that Frank Leopole would never appreciate. To the former Marine officer, golf was a silly pastime lacking loud noise, recoil, and supersonic objects. Still, more serious business was conducted on manicured lawns — or in the clubhouse— than most D.C. denizens would ever admit.
Derringer swiveled in his chair, mulling over the prospects. “All right, Sandy’s next in line as foreign operations officer and she’d have to deal with this development anyway. But getting our people involved in a Chadian government contract didn’t just drop out of the sky. What’s behind it?”
Leopole slid into a chair, elbows on the desk. “I think I can read between the lines. You remember a few days ago that Steve sent us a summary of his discussion with the defense attache? Major Roosevelt?”
“Yes, I saw it. But I didn’t follow the way they connected the dots. I mean, how’d they tumble to this French character’s likely involvement with uranium smuggling? Apparently nobody in the intel business saw the forest for the trees.”
“Admiral, I guess they just G-2’d it. Plain old good headwork with some help from Martha Whitney. After all, they’re right there with their boots on the ground. But they didn’t expect to have to act on it. Roosevelt apparently sent a memo up the food chain and somebody went Oscar Sierra. Like, ‘We gotta do something,
Derringer nodded, sorting out the prospects. “That makes sense, Frank. But wouldn’t it be logical to expect a query from Steve Lee? After all, he’s not going to act without consulting us.”
“We don’t even know if he’s been approached yet. In fact…”
Sandra Carmichael strode into the room, not bothering to knock. Derringer looked up. “Sandy, what’ve you got?”
Without formality, she replied, “Whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on, sir. I hardly replied to State’s liaison office when this e-mail arrived from Steve. He confirms that his team has been asked by the embassy to participate in what he calls ‘an important but acceptably low-risk tactical operation.’ He’s already done some contingency planning and has alerted Terry Keegan, who’s inbound to take over a couple of helos. Steve expects to launch the op up on the Libyan border within seventy-two hours or so. That is, assuming we agree.”
Derringer rubbed his chin. “Very well. Tell Steve that I’ll call an emergency meeting of the board, NLT tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, he can continue his planning.”
Leopole stood up. “Sandy, I don’t understand something. Why do our guys and their partly trained outfit have to do this? There must be other units available.”
Carmichael’s blue eyes gleamed. “Go with your strength, Colonel.” She liked talking to the former leatherneck as one O-5 to another. “Actually, Steve alluded to OpSec concerns. I’m sure he’ll elaborate, but I suspect that operational security is a big factor, considering how corrupt things are in Chad.”
“Very well.” Derringer brought up his contacts file and scrolled toward the bottom. Under “Wilmont” he selected his associate’s cell and clicked on “call.” Looking up, he confided, “I just hope I can reach Marsh before they get to the clubhouse. He likes to stay late.”
34
Between them, Terry Keegan and Eddie Marsh possessed nearly all the professional airman ratings available to Americans. As Keegan liked to joke, “Everything but multi-engine jet seaplane.” But in truth, their forte was not flying: it was improvisation.
It was time to improvise.
Keegan hung up the phone and turned to his partner. “Okay, things are rolling. We’re going to N’Djamena on a commercial flight and meet the air attache, or whatever they call him. He’ll give us the info on whatever choppers are available. After that, we’re pretty much on our own.”
“Sounds like a real purple operation,” Marsh enthused. Keegan, a former naval aviator, smiled in appreciation of the joint ops sentiment. Marsh was an ex-Army warrant officer and they would be dealing with the Air Force.
Keegan sat down on his bed while Marsh lazed in his. “The big thing is going to be comm. We’re supposed to get hi-freq radios from the embassy and presumably everybody will be able to talk to everybody else: us, the Herc crews, and our guys on the ground.”
Marsh stretched his lanky frame and stifled a yawn. “You know it won’t work, Terry. It never does.”
Keegan, who shared the sentiment, wanted to appear more optimistic. “No reason it shouldn’t. I mean, it’s a pretty straightforward situation. We need standardized comm and can’t rely on the radios in the helos because everybody in Chad has those freqs. As long as the HF radios work, it should be no sweat. And we’ll test them before we launch.”
The Army veteran shrugged. “We’ll see. Hey, not that it matters, but what’re we going after?”
“There’s some sort of mining operation up along the Libyan border. Our instructors have orders to secure the place with some of the counterinsurgency people they’re training. Steve Lee says it has to be done fast with minimal warning. He’s not even telling his Chadians about it until they board the 130s.”
“Well, how much info will we have for route planning and timing?”
“Oh, we’ll have enough. But not much more. It’s a State and DoD operation so…”
Marsh chuckled. “So like I said. It’s not gonna work like it’s planned.”
“Never does, pal. Never does.”
