SABHA PROVINCE, LIBYA
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 papers and cash at Birak.”
Alfonso cocked his head. “You’re sure of that?”
Hurtubise took a step toward him. “Yes, I’m sure! Look, just because we left in a hurry doesn’t mean I haven’t done all the planning. Understand?”
The young Spaniard looked upward, shielding his face against the Saharan sun. His meaning was implicit: The heat gets to everybody.
“Sure, Marcel. I understand.”
N’DJAMENA
SSI COMPOUND
Steve Lee waited until Mark Brezyinski and Jason Boscombe had finished putting their gear away. It didn’t take long, since most of the equipment used on the mine raid officially belonged to the Chadian Army.
“I’d like to see you guys in private,” Lee said.
Bosco and Breezy exchanged quick looks. Breezy had the quicker tongue. “Something wrong, sir?”
Lee chuckled softly. “You know, you remind me of a guy I knew in the Army. He was an excellent warrant officer but he was always in trouble with his CO in Vietnam. Nickel and dime stuff. Then one day his XO tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Fred, the CO wants to talk to you.’ Fred asked, ‘What did I do now?’
“The exec said, ‘Well, I think they’re going to give you the Medal of Honor.’”
Bosco’s eyes widened. “Wow. Like, we’re gonna…”
“No, Mr. Boscombe. You are not receiving a medal. But something better.”
Breezy perked up. “Boy, that means money. What’s the job, Boss?”
Lee winked as he closed the door.
“You’re right. I heard from Frank Leopole. Most of us are staying here to finish the training contract, but he’s putting together a team to go after the yellow cake that got away. It means working down and dirty and it’ll likely be dangerous.”
Breezy straightened visibly. With a straight face he declared, “Sir, danger is my middle name.”
“I thought it was Casimir,” Bosco deadpanned.
“Libya?” Breezy asked.
“No, no,” Lee exclaimed. “Maybe Beirut, biggest port in the eastern Med. But it could be almost anywhere in the region. We won’t know until there’s better intel.”
“Well, if they load the cake on a ship in Libya, why go to Lebanon? Why not just sail right to Iran?”
Lee nodded in deference to Breezy’s acumen. “Good question, Mark. The answer is, we don’t know. It’s possible they’ll drive a thousand miles or more and load at a Red Sea port in Sudan or even Ethiopia.”
Bosco ran the options in his gambler’s mind. “Major, wouldn’t it make more sense to fly the stuff? I mean, just a couple of big planeloads should do it, and that’d be a whole lot faster.”
Lee agreed. “Yes, it would. But there’s complications having to do with international flights. So Arlington thinks that the cake will go by sea.” He hunched his shoulders. “If the Frenchies and Iranians do fly it, we’re out of the picture.”
“So what do we do, sir?” Breezy began unloading a G3 magazine, returning the cartridges to a box on the worktable.
“All you guys have to do is tell me if you’re interested. Frank wants you on the action team, and of course the combat bonus applies.”
“Who’d we be working with?” Bosco asked.
“I don’t know yet, but I’d think that Jeff Malten will be involved. SEALs know how to take down a ship.”
Breezy went to work on a stick of gum. “Jeff did good in Pakistan. I’d go to war with him again.”
Bosco nodded. “Me, too.”
“All right,” Lee replied. “You two continue working with Gunny Foyte but we’ll start easing you out of training work. Carmichael and Leopole are leaning on their talent scouts to find other instructors, preferably with some language background. I’ll get back to you on your rotation schedule.”
Bosco and Breezy exchanged ritual knuckle taps. In their arcane world, it meant, “Get some” and “Me, too.”
* * *
Steve Lee turned down the corridor from the small armory and looked into the cubicle that served as SSI’s office. He found the person he sought.
“Hey there.”
Whitney looked up from some paperwork. “Hey yourself, Maje. How you?”
“I’m just precious,” Lee quipped.
“I knowed that, honey.” She gave him the Aunt Jemima grin again.
Lee sat in the vacant chair. “Martha, I wanted you to hear from me before somebody else. Headquarters is calling you home. You’ll be leaving in a couple of days, no more than three.”
She nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He cocked his head. “You don’t seem surprised. Or disappointed.”
“Naw, I’m not. After the operation went down, there wasn’t much else for me to do. I been helpin’ Gunny with le Français, you know?”
The West Pointer could not stifle a laugh. “Yeah, I know. If there’s such as thing as Redneck French, I guess he’s fluent.”
She was all spunk and vinegar again. “Ain’t that the truth? Wait’ll I tell Sandy and Frank about the way he pronounces chemin de fer, let alone la pièce de résistance or la boulangerie!”
A pause settled over them. They both squirmed in embarrassment. At length Lee said, “Martha, you’ve done a good job here. I just…”
“I know, Steve. I know.” She touched his hand. “It’s just that I keep thinking, maybe I could’ve handled things a little … different. You know?”
Lee dropped his gaze to the cluttered desktop. When he looked up, he said, “Sure. All of us could always do things differently. But we don’t. We only get one chance to do anything the first time. If you’re thinking that you could’ve saved that French gal…”
“Gabrielle.” Whitney pronounced the name in a low, husky whisper. “Gabrielle Tixier.”
“Martha, she was in way over her head. She should’ve walked away from that bastard years ago.” He stood up, eager to end the conversation.
She looked up at him. “Get him for me, Steve. And for her.”
“Martha, it’s out of my hands. But Arlington is putting together a covert team right now. They’ll get him. You know they will.”
“I’m counting on that, Maje. I truly am.”