“Rivers aren’t supposed to have tides,” said Gondorf.
Centuries of Egyptian pharaohs, nomadic Baggara tribesmen, and Nile basin farmers were familiar with the amaranthine floods. Not Gondorf, however. Between July and October, the Nile would swell from snowmelt in the Ethiopian mountains. In June, the river would subside, leaving dark fertile mud,
“There are militia patrols everywhere, boats on the river, scavengers on the riverbanks,” said Gondorf.
“How long have those cases been out there?” said Gable. “Why don’t you get your gomers to retrieve ’em?”
“I can’t. They’re out of contact,” said Gondorf.
“What’re you talking about? You can’t contact your assets?”
“I can’t find them; they don’t respond.”
“Jesus wept,” said Gable, flipping the binoculars to Gondorf. He walked down the hall to the Milatt’s office and introduced himself to Colonel Bianchi, who was tall, dark, ramrod straight, with hair combed straight back and shiny with brilliantine. He was in civvies: a light suit with a blue shirt and plain black tie. He wore a marine corps pin on his lapel. Gable sat down and explained the problem. Bianchi shook his head.
“I’ve known a lot of you spooks over the years,” he said, with Mississippi in his mouth. “But that boy of yours is as sharp as a sack of wet mice.”
“Yeah,” said Gable, “he’s a real asshat. Colonel, those cases have been immersed for three to four months, and now they’re covered in mud. Any chance those stingers will be functional?”
“Those cases are water-resistant, but not waterproof,” said Bianchi. “If some of the gaskets on those cases held up, you probably got a handful that would light up and fly. But nothing reliable.” He shook his head. “But that’s not a worry. The militia finds those Stingers there will be more political trouble than we can handle.”
“Militia any good?” asked Gable.
“They ride around town, four to a jeep, with AKs, looking for trouble. Not much training, but pretty mean.”
“You got anyone who could help me get those cases out tonight?” said Gable. Bianchi shook his head.
“My office is down to two, my deputy is on home leave, and the ambassador wouldn’t approve of using the marines. Something happens out there and we lose our embassy watchstanders.” He watched Gable’s reaction before he spoke again. “We might be in luck. Two SEALs from Team Eight working with AFRICOM are here doing embassy-evacuation surveys. They might be willing to help.” He picked up a phone, and in two minutes the SEALs knocked on the door.
They were both in their twenties, lean and quiet. They wore jeans and flip-flops. Senior Chief Petty Officer Gilbert “Gil” Lachs was blond and freckled. He was a breacher, a demolitions expert, who could open a can of peaches with a few grains of RDX without spilling the syrup. Petty Officer First Class Richard “Ricky” Ruvo, was Italian swarthy with Staten Island wise-guy eyes. He was a sniper who could drive a nail into a tree at fifteen hundred yards. They sat slumped in chairs, arms crossed over their stomachs, looking at Gable like sleepy leopards on a tree limb.
“I need some backup. I figure we get a truck with a winch and drag those cases out of the mud,” said Gable. He turned to Bianchi. “What we got for weapons?”
“Not much,” said Bianchi. “Glocks in 9mm and Remington 870s. We have rifled slugs and buck.” Gable nodded.
“Glad to help,” said Ruvo. “I’ll stand overwatch while you guys get the cases.”
“Bullshit,” said Lachs. “I outrank you. You get in the mud.”
“Gil, you can’t hit shit,” said Ruvo.
“I always shoot first and call whatever I hit the target,” said Gable.
The SEALs nodded. An unspoken code had been transmitted and received: Gable was okay. “You CIA guys still recruiting frogmen?” asked Lachs, whose time in the Teams was running short.
“Yeah, we got a whole division that teaches squids how to use a knife and fork,” said Gable. “But it’s filling up fast.”
Ruvo, Lachs, and Bianchi all laughed.
