SSI OFFICES
Strategic Solutions took little for granted. Predeployment planning was thorough for any client, but especially so for overseas business. Aside from contract negotiations—the meat in the corporate sandwich—Michael Derringer kept close contact with his subordinates, none moreso than those charged with operations.
Sometimes his supervisory duties trod the thin line between too much oversight and too little. After all, Marshall Wilmont was the chief operating officer, but he had multiple pies in the oven. Never a micromanager, the retired admiral nonetheless kept his fingers on his baby’s pulse. And SSI was definitely his baby.
At the end of a staff meeting, Derringer took Leopold aside. “Frank, I’ve been thinking about leadership of the Chad team. Don’t misunderstand me: I have every confidence in Gunny Foyte. But I wonder how our clients will relate to a former NCO. They may pay more attention to a retired officer.”
Leopole rubbed his square jaw. Derringer knew the sign: Lieutenant Colonel Leopole was an objective professional. The former Marine was playing mental tug of war between Loyalty and The Mission.
Derringer interrupted Leopole’s reverie. “I’m thinking that somebody like Steve Lee could run interference for our team, leaving Foyte to do the hands-on work.”
Leopole had worked with Major Lee and respected him, though they were not close. West Pointer, Ranger, sniper instructor, HALO parachuting instructor, all the bells and whistles. His Been-There-Done-That sheet contained operations in five countries. Despite the glasses, he had command presence that went over especially well in the third world.
“All right, sir. Lee would do a good job. But I don’t know if he’s available.”
Derringer smiled imperceptibly. He had checked before raising the matter. “I believe he is, actually.” Derringer knew that Steve Lee, twice divorced with no children, was marking time. Derringer thought, He’s like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now. Waiting for another mission.
“I’ll call him,” Derringer continued. “He works all right with Gunny Foyte, doesn’t he?”
Leopold gave an eloquent shrug. “They’re both pros, Admiral.”
Derringer appeared content with that assessment. It was what he bought and sold: professionalism. “One thing, though, Lee doesn’t speak French, let alone Arabic. German, if I remember correctly. So we’ll have to rely on Johnson, Nissen, and Wallender in that regard.”
Leopole grinned hugely. “Don’t forget Martha.”
The admiral returned the sentiment, rolling his eyes. “How could I? She wouldn’t let me even if I could!”
“Speak of the devil. There she is.” Leopold motioned over his shoulder.
Martha Whitney announced her presence with a contralto greeting to Josh Wallender. “Bon après midi, mon sergeant.”
The erstwhile Green Beret returned the salutation with a continental kiss of the hand. “Et à vous, madame. Enchanté.”
Breezy Brezyinski took in the arcane ritual and shook his head. “Man, oh, man. Looks like we can’t take a contract without a female anymore.”
Bosco Boscombe knew what he meant. Dr. Carolyn Padgett-Smith, a medical researcher, had been invaluable on the Pandora Project, hunting down an Islamic cell that spread the Marburg virus in the west. “By the way, any word on CPS?”
Breezy replied, “Last I heard, she was back at work. Don’t suppose she’s doing much rock climbing, though. Not after the exposure she had to that bug in Pakistan.”
With a skeptical glance, Bosco made a mental comparison between the bejeweled, garrulous Ms. Whitney and the athletic, attractive British immunologist. “I tell you what: this lady has a looong way to go in Doc Smith’s league.”
“Well, I don’t reckon there’s gonna be many mountains to climb or Taliban to shoot where we’re going. Besides, Whitney’s gig is language and intel, not operations.”
“Thank God!” Bosco exclaimed. “Queen Latifah meets G.I. Jane!”
Breezy nearly choked while suppressing a laugh. “Sandy Carmichael says Martha’s supposed to blend into the crowd. Like, mingle with the locals when she’s not coordinating with Steve Lee and the Chad liaison officers.”
“Major Lee is welcome to that chore. Big time.”
“Fershure, dude.”