visitor. “Paul?”
The youngest of the trio idly toed the sand, musing again that he was far from the green hills of Gascony. “I’ll take a closer look, but from here I see no reason it shouldn’t work out. We should not stay too long, though.”
“I was told there would be another security firm in the area.”
Sideways glances flicked among the three Europeans. Only an unusually perceptive observer would have caught the import.
“We heard the same thing,” said the older man.
Moungar felt the ephemeral awkwardness, then recovered. “Gentlemen, I shall drive you into the pit for your closer examination. But I agree with Monsieur Laroque. We should avoid prolonged exposure inside the pit — with all that uranium ore.”
7
Colonel David Main turned left off Vass Road onto the two-forked Shaw Road and crossed Little River southbound. A bit farther on he came to Manchester, turned left and proceeded to the Cyclone gate. The sign said “Range 14.”
It looked much like the rest of Fort Bragg: a pine forest redolent with moist soil after a rain. Main always enjoyed North Carolina: the scenery was pleasant, the aroma refreshing, and the sounds familiar. Especially the sounds.
The sonic-metallic clatter came to him.
Somebody was shooting falling plates with a pistol. A delightful way to spend an afternoon, for those who cared about such things.
For an ephemeral moment, the pain returned to Main’s consciousness. Almost six years had passed since Cindy’s death. The frustration had been awful, the knowledge that he could do nothing to help her. Nobody could. The tumor that pressed against her brain had been untreatable, and all he could do was hold his son and daughter tight while Mommy died by inches.
Shooting helped. Someday he thought he might write an article about “ballistic therapy.” On those occasions when he could get away he crammed a stack of loaded magazines in his range bag and went to the local club to shoot plates with his custom Kimber .45. It was more fun than the issue Beretta: single-actions were preferable to double-actions with their heavier triggers.
It was odd: with his electronic timer Main noticed that in the two months before Cindy died, he consistently bested his times on five plates at ten yards. He knew the reason, of course: he was venting his anger and grief through the muzzle. In the three to five seconds when he was slaying dragons in the form of eight-inch steel plates, he was completely free of care. Just sight picture, sight alignment, and trigger control.
Then the grief had eased and he was never so fast again.
Main parked the loaned Hummer and stepped out, feeling conspicuous in his dress greens. He could barely put into words how he loathed the black beret, the floppy legacy of a service politician’s effort to declare the entire Army “elite.” Some soldiers called it “the pet beret” because it actually required grooming to fit properly.
“Hey junior! You lost or somethin?”
Main could not imagine who would possibly wear enough rank to address an O-6 as “junior,” but then the voice carried its own answer. Turning toward the raspy baritone, Main saw a toothy grin approaching in ground- eating strides. The colonel smiled in spite of himself.
“Sergeant Major Alford, I believe.” Main extended a hand.
“How you doing, Red?”
“Just fine, Colonel. Just fine.” Alford made a point of touching the silver eagle on Main’s epaulette. “Nice to see they finally recognized a good man for a change. ‘Bout time, too. Hell, it took me nearly four years to make a decent soldier out of you.”
Main shook his head, trying to suppress a smile. He had long since lost track of the times that his onetime top sergeant had provided subtle advice or an emotional kick in the pants to Lieutenant — later Captain— Main. “Red, can we talk somewhere?”
“Sure, let’s take a walk.” Alford called over his shoulder. “Tyler! Stay with Sergeant Drago. You can shoot the Beretta until I get back.”
As more pistol shots clattered on tempered steel, Main regarded his longtime friend. “You still keeping your shootin’ eye?”
Alford ruefully shook his head. “Naw, not really. But I want my grandson to get a leg up on shooting and moving. He’s gonna be Airborne all the way. Doesn’t even want to attend college.”
“How old is he?”
“Fourteen goin’ on twenty-nine, if you know what I mean. I’ve talked to his mother a few times. She’s dead set against him being a soldier like his dad and me, but she’s smart enough to know she can’t refuse him. So she goes along with me. This war on terror — it’s gonna outlast us, isn’t it?”
Main looked down at his mud-spattered shoes. “Yup.”
Alford nodded. “Well, there you go. The boy’s gonna be in it, and I want him to have the basics dialed in before he ever hits Basic.” The former NCO eyed his friend. “How’re your kids, Dave?”
“Jenny’s doing pretty well. Smart as a whip, pretty as her mother. Starts college next year, can you believe that?”
“And the boy?”
“Oh, he’s coming along. He’s big on sports, especially basketball, but I sort of worry, you know? He doesn’t seem to have much focus other than athletics. That’s why I’m thinking of putting in my papers.”
“What would you do?”
Main stopped pacing and turned to Alford. “You recall the PMC that I mentioned a while back?”
Alford stuffed his hands in his field jacket and nodded. “Strategic something?”
“Solutions. Strategic Solutions in Arlington. I’ve been liaison with them for a while, as well as some other contractors. It’s a good outfit with top-notch leadership. Admiral Derringer says I can start work for him at noon tomorrow if I want.”
“Doing what?”
“More of the same — for good money and damn little travel. It’s just about perfect, especially with Brian still in school.”
“Well, sir, how can I help?”
“Red, this is close hold for now. That’s why I called to say I was coming in person.” He allowed himself to smile. “Besides, it’s good to get out of D.C.”
“Hoo-ah that, sir.”
“Strategic Solutions is likely to have a job with the State Department in Chad.”
Alford rocked back on his heels as if struck on the jaw. “Oh… my… God!”
Main chuckled aloud. “All right, you see where I’m headed with this. It’s a training mission: weapons, tactics, and counterinsurgency.”
“And Third Special Forces Group just happens to have the African part of the world! No wonder you came down to Bragg. You’re a damn headhunter, Colonel!”
