U.S. Pushes Anti-Terrorism in Africa

After scouting out the cacophonous, crime-ridden capital, with its Internet cafes and dilapidated French cinemas, the soldiers concluded that it was ripe for terrorists. Worshipers outside the grand mosque denounced the war in Iraq. Booksellers sold Islamic fundamentalist tracts and photocopied images of a girl transformed into a large rat because she threw a Koran, the Islamic holy book, on the floor.

Across the Chari River, youths ran a brisk operation smuggling sugar from Cameroon into N'Djamena markets under the noses of Chadian customs guards.

Arms traffickers move easily across Chad's 3,500 miles of unguarded borders, and airport security is lax, U.S. officials say. "This place is so easy to move through," observed Sgt. 1st Class Jasper, an intelligence soldier with the 10th Special Forces Group team, which will prepare a classified report on its mission.

From N'Djamena, the U.S. troops headed south across the broad, meandering Chari River. Pushing into the desert, they moved into two mud-brick military camps inhabited by livestock and camel spiders as big as a man's fist. There, they found Chadian forces as disorganized as they were ill-equipped. Ranging from 14-year-old boys to men pushing the limits of Chad's male life expectancy, 46 years, some had zero experience and others were combat veterans of Chad's decades-long civil war. They wore everything from Vietnam-era tiger-stripe uniforms to gym clothes, along with flip-flops, boots, dress shoes or no shoes.

Gary's team trained a group of 160 men equipped with 23 AK-47 assault rifles. Some aimed with the wrong eye and fired wildly, but most learned to shoot and clean the guns. Brian's team worked with a more experienced battalion of 200 men outfitted with weapons, radios and 13 Toyota trucks. They appeared enthusiastic but still lacked basic skills. So, the Americans started demonstrating tactics using GI Joe action figures in the sand, until one day the Chadians appeared ready for a platoon-size attack on "the Cardboardians," a row of cardboard torsos set in tires.

"The biggest thing is making sure they don't shoot each other," said Jasper, striding through the brush preparing for a live-fire drill. Nicknamed the Big One by Chadian troops, Jasper, from rural West Virginia, has bushy sideburns and a short fuse. When the Chadians refused to aim their rifles properly, relying instead on what Jasper calls "Kentucky windage," he swore at them and made them back up 100 yards to prove they could not hit their targets.

As the Chadian soldiers loaded their ammunition, small muddy pigs trotted across the makeshift firing range. Sgt. 1st Class Brett, the team engineer, shooed away children from a nearby village who had gathered to scavenge for bullet cartridges.

A squad of Chadian soldiers, crouching low, began moving toward the target. But suddenly, before the signal had been given, a machine gunner on their flank started shooting. His ammunition ran out before the assaulting squad got into position -- leaving them dangerously vulnerable. Jasper shook his head and ordered the squad that misfired to practice again without ammo.

"Bang! Bang! Bang-bang-bang!" the Chadian soldiers shouted.

Jasper, Brian and the rest of the team gathered under the shade of a feathery shamis tree, offering a scathing critique of the morning. "Mistakes happen," Jasper said with a sigh.

Later, a Chadian soldier asked Brian, "Why is the Big One always so angry?"

Conflicting Agendas

A gust whipped a billow of dust across the blistering hot range, and out of nowhere, Lt. Abdullah Issa Djerou whirled into action. After hanging back for weeks during the training, the short, stern-faced Chadian officer suddenly took command, barking orders to a squad of men rushing a target.