The predawn air over the Indian Ocean was thick and salty. At 2 a.m., a converted trawler named *Ville de Majunga* dropped anchor off the coast of Grande Comore. Bob Denard, a 66-year-old French mercenary with a trimmed white mustache, led thirty-three men into rubber dinghies. They wore Comorian army uniforms. They landed unopposed on Itsandra beach, a strip of black volcanic sand. Denard, who had orchestrated three previous coups on these islands, moved with the familiarity of a homeowner returning after a long trip. His men commandeered taxis and drove toward the capital, Moroni. By sunrise, they controlled the radio station, the central bank, and the presidential palace. President Said Mohamed Djohar, awoken by the sound of gunfire, was taken into custody. The coup was complete before most of the 500,000 Comorians had finished their morning prayers.
Denard’s operation was a model of colonial-era audacity, executed with farcical ease. He faced no resistance from the 600-man Comorian army, many of whom he had trained during his previous tenures. The mercenaries’ most significant casualty was a sprained ankle. Denard declared himself chief of staff and installed a puppet president. For six weeks, he ruled from a villa, issuing decrees and awaiting recognition from France. The international community, however, had lost its tolerance for such adventures. French commandos arrived in October to forcibly repatriate him. This final, almost leisurely conquest was the last gasp of a vanishing breed. Denard stood trial in Paris but was never convicted for his actions in Africa. The Comoros returned to a fragile stability, its history permanently punctuated by the visits of a man with private ambitions and a talent for landing on beaches.