Part 3
LIBYA
48
“We just heard from Steve Lee,” Leopole said.
Marshall Wilmont took his half-spectacles off the bridge of his nose. “Well?”
Leopole made a point of waving the e-mail. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”
“C’mon, Frank…” SSI’s chief operating officer seldom had time for banter.
The former Marine inhaled, then let his breath out. “Okay. We lost a helo. The bad guys had man-pack SAMs and shot down Marsh’s aircraft. He’s critical and three of the Chadians are dead.”
“My God. What…”
“And the Frenchies got away with a truckload of yellow cake.”
Wilmont was on his feet before he knew it. “Don’t play freaking games with me, Frank! What in hell’s the
The director of foreign operations slid the printout across the desk. “The good news is that they only got away with part of the load.”
Wilmont almost seemed to deflate as he sagged back into his chair. “Tell me,” he croaked.
“Long story short: Steve decided to move in at dawn because he didn’t want his troops running around, maybe shooting at each other in the dark. That was a mistake, seen in hindsight. It gave the mercs enough time to load one trailer and part of another. They drove out the back as our guys approached the front. Steve had a blocking force astride the road leading to the border, but when the helo was shot down, Nissen made a command decision and went to the site. He probably saved Marsh’s life and maybe a couple of others. But…”
“That left the way open for the yellow cake.”
“Affirm.” Leopole leaned forward, elbows on the polished desk. “I think Steve did the right thing, though. He was having Keegan tail the truck, keeping out of missile range, but he didn’t have the muscle to stop it. So Steve recalled him as a med-evac. Keegan took Marsh and the other survivors back to the airfield where there was proper medical care.”
Wilmont emitted a noncommittal “Ummm.” Then he asked, “What about the mine? Did they secure it?”
“Yeah. There was a little trouble after the shootdown. One or two of the FGN guys went spastic and started shooting at our people so they killed them. Nobody else got hurt.”
“So we don’t know where the yellow cake is?”
Leopole shook his head. “I doubt that even Qadhafi knows.”
“Come on,” Wilmont said. “We need to see Mike and Omar.”
It was a small meeting: Derringer, Wilmont, Mohammed, Carmichael, and Leopold. The SSI brain trust.
“First things first,” Derringer began. “I talked to Ryan O’Connor yesterday. He confirmed that State wants our training team to finish its contract in Chad. But I think we need to make some adjustments.”
Leopole’s brow furrowed. “Sir, are you going to pull Steve? I…”
“No, Frank. I think we’ve all been in Steve’s shoes once or twice. He had to make some decisions based on incomplete information. I certainly don’t fault him for that.”
Leopole and Carmichael exchanged glances. If Derringer didn’t catch it, Mohammed did. He could read their minds.
“Very well,” Derringer continued. “Sandy and Frank, operations is your ballpark. What do you recommend?”
Carmichael’s blue eyes fixed on her employer. “Sir, you mentioned some adjustments. I think any recommendations we make would depend on those.”
“Oh, yes. Quite right.” Derringer’s practiced fingers performed a paradiddle cadence, as they often did when he was distracted. “Well, all I meant is that if we’re going to pursue the yellow cake, we’ll probably have to pull some people out of Chad.”
Wilmont picked up some radiations from his sometime golf partner’s emotional antennae. “Mike, you didn’t mention the uranium shipment. Does State really want us to stay on it?”
SSI’s CEO nodded slowly. “I think so. O’Connor is running it up the ladder, but since we’re already involved and we have some assets in the area, we’re likely to get a go-ahead pretty soon.”
“Sir,” Carmichael intoned, her voice low and earnest. “I’d think that sooner is better. That’s why…”
“Yes, Sandy, I know. It takes me back to what we were saying about your recommendations. If we keep the team there for training, who can we put on another team to track down the yellow cake?”
She flipped through her folder. “Well, sir, obviously we want to keep our people there with language ability. That’s Johnson, Nissen, and Wallender. I’m keeping a running tab with Jack Peters and Matt Finch. They’re best equipped to find some more French or Arabic speakers for us.”
Derringer nodded decisively. “Very well, put them on it.”
Mohammed glanced at Marshall Wilmont. If he resented the retired admiral taking over the operating end of things, he did not show it.
Leopole had a thought. “Admiral, I’d like to pull Bosco and Breezy, ah, Boscombe and Brezyinski, from the training team. They’re about the best door-kickers we have. Their talents would be better used on an operational mission.”
Derringer remembered to check visually with Wilmont, who shrugged. Carmichael said, “Concur, Admiral.” Then she asked, “What about Martha?”
No one spoke for a long moment.
49
The heat was everywhere around them, like the heavy, dry air. Hurtubise called a midday stop and parked his Range Rover in the lee of Deladier’s trailer. The four men dismounted — two from each vehicle — and conferred in the shade, such as it was.
“My motor is running a temperature,” Hurtubise began. “I think we’ll wait until later in the day to continue. Maybe we’ll wait until night.”
Alfonso Rivera, Deladier’s driver, knew about working in extreme heat from his days in the Spanish Legion. “As long as we have water for the radiators we should be all right,” he said. “Aren’t we due in Misratah in a couple of days?”
Hurtubise waved a dismissive hand. “We have some time to spare. The ship won’t be ready for a while. Cell communication is erratic out here in the desert, and I cannot always reach our contacts. But I’d rather be late than early. We don’t want to have this cargo sitting around very long before loading on board. Somebody might get suspicious.”
After long hours on the road, with delays for bureaucratic procedures and haggling over fuel, Deladier was growing impatient. However, he knew that Groupe FNG’s Chadian government contacts had greased the skids — and some palms — to ease the journey. But other problems remained. “Marcel, we left in such a hurry. What in hell are we going to do for money? And passports?” Felix Moungar had arranged things at the border but there were intermediate stops as well.
Hurtubise gave a grim smile. “Don’t you ever learn, my lad? I never go anywhere without at least one passport and a thousand dollars on me.” He let the sentiment sink in, then continued. “Don’t worry. We’ll have new
