is not a one Victor can't smuggle into, given a little time. And once they're in hand, the team can carry what it needs by chartered plane or ship . . . or yacht. The rules then are all different."
Stauer still looked skeptical. "Victor, huh?"
Boxer nodded. "I think so. If we had all the time in the world we could use somebody else. There's an Arab in Yemen, I've heard, who's starting to make a name for himself in the trade. But when you need to start a war in a hurry . . . "
"Victor," Stauer finished. He said the name in the tone of a man who's just been told he's got an incurable disease. "Well, I suppose it's not as if he's a complete stranger."
"Indeed not," Ralph said, with a broad smile. "Now if you'll let me get to work until Bridges and Lox get here . . . "
"Bedroom upstairs. The one that's not full of boxes. I hung an S-2 sign on the door. There's a spare computer in it."
"That'll do," Ralph said. Patting a black nylon case, he added, "But I brought my own computer. It has certain . . . mmm . . . features, that yours won't. Now what about that strike team?"
"You know Terry and Biggus Dickus?"
"Terry Welch? Sure. I didn't know Thornton was available."
"Terry's pulling together his old team, part of it anyway, maybe as much as two thirds or three quarters."
"They're all out of service?"
"Got caught up in the same shit I did," Stauer answered.
"Fair enough then. Though two thirds of Terry's team won't be sufficient. You need more men, and some underwater demo guys."
"Biggus Dickus will be working on that."
After Ralph had left, taking his bag in hand, Phillie asked Wes, "Who's Victor?"
"Russian arms dealer," Stauer answered. "No, that's not descriptive enough. Victor Inning is the most unprincipled, unscrupulous arms dealer of any nationality in the world and perhaps in the history of the world. His main virtue is he will supply arms to anybody, no questions asked, and at what-I have to admit-is always a fair price. Ralph and I used him two or three . . . hmmm . . . three times in the past, when we had a mission and needed non-Nato arms delivered in a flash. He keeps his own stocks, his own ships, and his own little air force, too, Air Luck. Though he doesn't maintain the planes for shit, so they only stay up by luck. Still, what he doesn't have on hand he can usually get in a hurry. Speaking of which," Stauer turned his head and shouted, "Ken, have you got the basic OPLAN and Table of Org and Equipment yet?"
"Not yet!" came the return shout from the extra downstairs bedroom.
"Slow bastard! Hurry up!"
"Is it always this much fun?" Phillie asked.
"Oh, hell, no," Stauer answered with a laugh. "Usually it's sheer misery because you spend ninety-five percent-well, eighty, anyway-of your planning time prepping or giving briefings for a succession of military morons and civilian mental midgets . . . "
"We're going to need AMLs, or those with a mix of Ferrets," Ken called from the bedroom."
"Why?"
"Most common combat vehicles in Africa. Just about everybody over there has them. Would raise no eyebrows."
"I know where to get Ferrets," Gordo chimed in, from the kitchen. "Nine of 'em for sale in the UK for dirt. They'd have to be rearmed. AMLs are tougher. South Africa had and built thousands, but they've replaced them all with Rooikats and Ratels. The ones they've got have all been designated as targets."
From upstairs, Ralph shouted down, "The South African ammunition budget is for beans, these days. If those things have been designated to be turned into targets most of them are probably in near perfect shape at Tempe, near Bloemfontein."
"How does he know all this?" Phillie asked.
Wes sighed and answered, "Ralph used to be Assistant Deputy G-2 for the Air Force- "
"G-2?" Phillie asked.
"Intelligence. Then he was with the JCS-the Joint Chiefs of Staff-for a while. I understand they put him to pasture when he bitched one too many times about shading the intelligence reports going to the President. We
Stauer still looked skeptical. "Victor, huh?"
Boxer nodded. "I think so. If we had all the time in the world we could use somebody else. There's an Arab in Yemen, I've heard, who's starting to make a name for himself in the trade. But when you need to start a war in a hurry . . . "
"Victor," Stauer finished. He said the name in the tone of a man who's just been told he's got an incurable disease. "Well, I suppose it's not as if he's a complete stranger."
"Indeed not," Ralph said, with a broad smile. "Now if you'll let me get to work until Bridges and Lox get here . . . "
"Bedroom upstairs. The one that's not full of boxes. I hung an S-2 sign on the door. There's a spare computer in it."
"That'll do," Ralph said. Patting a black nylon case, he added, "But I brought my own computer. It has certain . . . mmm . . . features, that yours won't. Now what about that strike team?"
"You know Terry and Biggus Dickus?"
"Terry Welch? Sure. I didn't know Thornton was available."
"Terry's pulling together his old team, part of it anyway, maybe as much as two thirds or three quarters."
"They're all out of service?"
"Got caught up in the same shit I did," Stauer answered.
"Fair enough then. Though two thirds of Terry's team won't be sufficient. You need more men, and some underwater demo guys."
"Biggus Dickus will be working on that."
After Ralph had left, taking his bag in hand, Phillie asked Wes, "Who's Victor?"
"Russian arms dealer," Stauer answered. "No, that's not descriptive enough. Victor Inning is the most unprincipled, unscrupulous arms dealer of any nationality in the world and perhaps in the history of the world. His main virtue is he will supply arms to anybody, no questions asked, and at what-I have to admit-is always a fair price. Ralph and I used him two or three . . . hmmm . . . three times in the past, when we had a mission and needed non-Nato arms delivered in a flash. He keeps his own stocks, his own ships, and his own little air force, too, Air Luck. Though he doesn't maintain the planes for shit, so they only stay up by luck. Still, what he doesn't have on hand he can usually get in a hurry. Speaking of which," Stauer turned his head and shouted, "Ken, have you got the basic OPLAN and Table of Org and Equipment yet?"
"Not yet!" came the return shout from the extra downstairs bedroom.
"Slow bastard! Hurry up!"
"Is it always this much fun?" Phillie asked.
"Oh, hell, no," Stauer answered with a laugh. "Usually it's sheer misery because you spend ninety-five percent-well, eighty, anyway-of your planning time prepping or giving briefings for a succession of military morons and civilian mental midgets . . . "
"We're going to need AMLs, or those with a mix of Ferrets," Ken called from the bedroom."
"Why?"
"Most common combat vehicles in Africa. Just about everybody over there has them. Would raise no eyebrows."
"I know where to get Ferrets," Gordo chimed in, from the kitchen. "Nine of 'em for sale in the UK for dirt. They'd have to be rearmed. AMLs are tougher. South Africa had and built thousands, but they've replaced them all with Rooikats and Ratels. The ones they've got have all been designated as targets."
From upstairs, Ralph shouted down, "The South African ammunition budget is for beans, these days. If those things have been designated to be turned into targets most of them are probably in near perfect shape at Tempe, near Bloemfontein."
"How does he know all this?" Phillie asked.
Wes sighed and answered, "Ralph used to be Assistant Deputy G-2 for the Air Force- "
"G-2?" Phillie asked.
"Intelligence. Then he was with the JCS-the Joint Chiefs of Staff-for a while. I understand they put him to pasture when he bitched one too many times about shading the intelligence reports going to the President. We
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