"As far as you and the U.S. government are concerned, we don't exist," Armont continued. "It's better if we keep things that way."
Nichols looked around and examined their gear, trying to figure it. The stuff was from all over the place—German, British, French, Greek, even U.S. And not only was it from all over the globe, it was all top notch, much of it supposedly not available to civilians. Where . . . and then it hit. "You're the jokers we were trying to keep from coming in."
"You did a pretty good job of slowing us down." Armont nodded.
"Not good enough, it would seem." He laughed, a mirthless grunt. "You're a crafty bunch of fuckers. I'll grant you one thing, though. At least you knew enough not to put up with micromanaging from the other side of the globe. You ended up doing exactly what we would have if anybody had let us. Vietnam all over again." He was reaching into his pocket for a Montecristo. He pulled out two. "Care to join me? Castro may not be able to run a country for shit, but he can still make a half-decent cigar."
"Thank you," Armont said, taking it. He hated cigars.
"By the way, I'm Eric Nichols."
"I know," Armont said. "JSOC." He had followed Nichols's career for years, always with an idea in the back of his mind. "I also know you've got one more year till retirement, but you don't seem like the retiring type."
Nichols stared over the lighted match he was holding out and smiled. "Tell me about it." Then he looked around at the men of ARM, the pile of balaclavas and MP5s, vests of grenades. And
discipline, plenty of discipline. It was a sight that did his heart good. "Your boys look like they've been around."
"In a manner of speaking." Whereupon Pierre Armont proceeded to give Major General Eric Nichols an overview of the private club known as the Association of Retired Mercenaries. Including the financial dimension.