“How many Americans?”
“Five, including Cowens.”
They were speeding east along the coast, which was mostly barren. It reminded him of the desert. The majority of the nearby buildings were ravaged—bombed out, burned, pockmarked with bullets. Arabic graffiti scrawled over everything. More black flags.
They turned and stopped at a heavily fortified gate. The blue-and-white NATO flag flew at half mast. Soldiers in battle fatigues and blue helmets leaned into the windows of the SUV, anxiously scanned their faces, checked a clipboard, then waved them in.
Through the waves of heat rising from the sand he saw a runway, a control tower, and several badly damaged buildings. Tall palm trees in the distance. They stopped at a long three-story building that was under repair. Men on scaffolds were painting it a funny mustard color that seemed to clash with the vivid blue sky.
Crocker wondered if the local construction workers could be trusted, which reminded him a little of Iraq, where you couldn’t distinguish your enemies from your friends.
That sense of uncertainty put him on edge.
“This is it,” Remington announced, stashing his pistol in the SUV door’s pocket and grabbing his briefcase.
“This is what?”
Remington was already bounding ahead, sunglasses reflecting the strong sun. Crocker had to move fast to catch up.
Tall, good-looking African soldiers in dark green uniforms stood at attention and saluted as they entered. Asian soldiers on duty inside wore odd-colored camouflage and maroon berets. On the chest of one, Crocker read MONGOLIA.
“What are we doing here?” Crocker asked. “What’s the agenda?”
“The absolute disaster last night,” Remington said out of the side of his mouth.
He had the long legs and stride of a runner. Crocker followed him up a flight of stairs and into a crowded conference room. The table was covered with papers, cups, half-empty water bottles. A mélange of nationalities and uniforms.
Three dozen weary-looking men and one woman were focused on a tall man at the head of the table. His face was grim and creased with concern. He wore frameless oval glasses and an ironed khaki shirt with red bars on the collar. On his epaulets shone three gold stars.
“Communication,” he said in a British accent as he kneaded his hands. “The lack of it, primarily. That’s what we’re dealing with here. We’ve spoken about this problem week after week for months. Now we’re faced with a tragedy. A terrible tragedy. Is this what had to happen before we learn this basic lesson?”
His tone and words didn’t seem to fit the situation. Way too scholarly and intellectual, Crocker thought.
One of the men at the table said, with tears in his eyes, “We had no warning, general. None at all.”
Then several of them starting speaking at once. They were all excited, emotional, and stressed. A stocky Italian officer with close-cropped gray hair stood and tried to shout down the others.
“It’s an insult to all of us! A kick in the nuts!”
Someone else shouted, “We can’t operate like this…like stupid sitting ducks! What’s our role here, general? Define the mission.”
The British general clapped his hands and said, “First, we need to cooperate. Communication works for those who work at it. This isn’t communication. It’s shouting.”
“And accusations!” the Italian added.
“What happened to the Italians who were supposed to establish an outer perimeter around the hotel?” the only woman in the room asked.
The Italian waved a sheet of paper and threw it on the table. “Read the order! We were scheduled to relieve the Dutch at 2200 hours. The outer perimeter was the responsibility of the French.”
A French officer stood up. “That’s false! The order says, and I quote, ‘Platoon Henri IV will be deployed at the discretion of the watch commander.’ We never received a call from the commander.”
“Untrue.”
“Gentlemen, please!” the general said, trying to establish order.
Crocker had a hard time keeping the faces straight.
“Clearly, we have considerable work to do,” the general added.
“That’s an understatement.”
Someone disagreed. “The problem’s not communication, it’s cooperation. And how can we cooperate if members of the alliance have different goals?”
It was a good question, but Crocker didn’t know enough about the situation there to know what the speaker meant.
The British general cleared his throat. “Let’s talk for a minute about the specifics of what happened last night. My executive officer, Colonel Anthony Hollins, has drafted a damage and assessment report. Listen carefully.”