SSI COMPOUND
Foyte held sway during the planning session.
“Okay, people. Listen up.”
The gossip and horseplay quickly abated as the operators turned toward the senior delegate. “Major Lee and Ms. Whitney are at the embassy again,” Foyte began, “but here’s what we’re gonna talk about today.” He turned to the white board propped on an easel at the head of the room.
“The course Steve and I laid out has been approved by the Chadian CO, Lieutenant Colonel Malloum. We’re going to start with individual skills, which the good colonel assures me won’t take long.” Foyte cocked an eyebrow by way of tacit comment. “After that we’ll start working at the squad level, which I think is where we’ll devote most of our attention. Fire and movement stuff. You guys can do that in your sleep but that’s why I want to focus on it a bit later. What we take for granted, our clients might have to work at. Anyway, at the upper end we’ll hope to bring it all together with platoon exercises.”
Johnson ventured a question from the front row. “Gunny, I’ve talked to a few of the troops already. I don’t get much of a fuzzy feeling about their interest in mundane stuff like commo or supply. What’s your take on that?”
“Odd you should ask,” Foyte said. “Malloum understands the need for those things, and others besides. For instance, there’s a serious shortage of medics. Not enough for each platoon yet. Oh, some of these boy … guys … have some practical experience, but not much book learning. The Chadians are going to select some candidates and maybe transfer in some others who haven’t ‘volunteered’ yet for an elite unit.” He looked at the recently retired Staff Sergeant Nissen. “Chris is our resident corpsman and he’s working up a syllabus for that class.”
Nissen raised in his seat. “Ah, Gunny, in the Army we’re called medics.”
Foyte deadpanned a response. “Right. As I was saying, Chris will start training some corpsmen. He speaks Arabic so that’s a big plus.” The former Marine unzipped an evil grin. “Staff Sergeant Nissen, how do you say ‘sucking chest wound’ in Arabic?”
Nissen feigned concentration for a long moment. “Inshallah.”
“Isn’t that like ‘the will of God’ or something?”
“It certainly is, Gunnery Sergeant. It certainly is.”
CO-IN BATTALION COMPOUND
Foyte and Johnson coordinated initial weapons training with the battalion sergeant major. He was a short, stocky man of indeterminate age and a sober disposition.
Sergeant Major Hissen Alingue Bawoyeu told Johnson, “Some of these men have little practice with their rifles. Perhaps they should begin by lying down to steady their aim.”
Foyte thought for a moment. “I’d rather have them shoot off a bench or table. There’s less recoil that way. When they’re prone, they feel the recoil more and are likely to flinch.”
Johnson translated for Bawoyeu, who seemed unconvinced. At length the Chadian asked, “A quelle gamme devrions-nous enregistrer nous fusils?”
Johnson said, “He wants to know what distance you recommend for zeroing.”
“Oh, two hundred yards. Er, meters.”
After more back and forthing, Johnson announced, “They don’t have a two hundred-meter range. At least not anywhere nearby. The most they have with a decent backstop is about sixty-seventy meters.”
Foyte pondered for a few seconds. “Tell him that should be okay. We can zero at twenty-five yards and that’ll be close on at two hundred.”
“He wants to know how that’s possible. He says some of his men may not understand that a bullet can shoot to point of aim at two distances.”
The gunny silently ground his emotional teeth. “Jeez, an infantryman doesn’t know the difference between minimum and maximum ordinate?”
Johnson gave a smirk. “In words of one syllable, yup.”
Foyte gnawed on that information for a long moment, then decided that he had seen worse. “Well, I’ve known military trained snipers who don’t know how to use a shooting sling. Hell, my cousin—the one our family doesn’t talk about—joined the Army. He said he met soldierettes who thought magazines came loaded at the factory.” Foyte gave a down-home kind of grin. “Prob’ly the same kinda kids who think milk comes from cartons.”
Sergeant Major Bawoyeu tried to return the advisors to his own problems. Gaining Johnson’s attention, the NCO asked what Foyte perceived as a complex question. Finally Johnson nodded and turned back to Foyte.
“Our colleague here wants our recommendation for squad automatic weapons. I told him we’d have to check with the front office. What do you think, Gunny?”
“Well, as I see it, we have two choices: HK-21s and maybe the new .308 caliber PKMs.”
Johnson agreed. “That makes sense. Both use the same cartridge as the G3 rifle.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to have different ammo for our rifles and SAWs. The HK burns a lot of ammo, though. I think the cyclic is over 800rpm, but it’s semi, three-round, and full auto. Anyway, it takes some technique to shoot well. As I recall, it pulls high and right so you need a seven o’clock or seven-thirty hold. In fact, if you’re not solidly behind the gun, it pushes you back.”
Johnson replied, “We can confirm that with some range tests. But I like the idea of the same trigger group and bolt for the rifle and MG.” He translated for Bawoyeu’s benefit, and the Chadian asked a question in turn.
“He asks, ‘What about the PKM?’ I think he has a point. Obviously it’s reliable, based on the AK-47.”
“We’ll have to see what links they use,” Foyte replied. “The PKM extracts the round from the links rather than pushes them because the original Russian cartridge has a rimmed case. But it’s more controllable than the HK; runs around 650 to 700rpm.” He made a point of looking Bawoyeu in the eyes. “Très bien,” Foyte managed.
For the first time in the Americans’ experience, Sergeant Major Hissen Alingue Bawoyeu actually smiled.