Clean Kill

by Jack Coughlin; Donald A. Davis

  “If the king falls, would Ebara replace him?” asked the president.

  “More likely is that they would do away with the throne entirely. The government would become something along the line of the Iranian model, sir. Some goofy front men would be set up with a titular head, but Ebara would be the man behind the scenes, with his religious police forming the backbone of the enforcers. The Grand Mufti would be isolated.”

  “Well, gentlemen, I simply am not going to allow that to go forward much further. This emergency is to be placed beneath the Al Qaeda Network Executive Order. Bart, do I have to increase the ExOrd authority in order to do that?”

  “No, sir. Al Qaeda could very well be involved. The ExOrd was designed to combat terrorists on many levels. This certainly qualifies.”

  Under the secret ruling issued shortly after 9/11, the United States was allowed to employ its military assets beyond official war zones. The members of the Principals Group that performed oversight were all in that one room of the White House at the moment. Secretary of State Waring had also been part of it, and his successor would be brought aboard only after she had settled into her new job.

  “General, I want you to put Task Force Trident on this Mohammed Abu Ebara. If the rebellion spins much further out of control, he will be dealt with. Bart, your Agency will assist in every way possible.”

  “Are we talking about an assassination, sir?” asked Geneen.

  Tracy dodged the question. “At this time, I just want to bring Task Force Trident and Kyle Swanson into the game. In fact, Swanson can pull double duty for us by going into Saudi Arabia to help check on the nuclear weapons at the same time that he checks on Ebara.”

  “A precise and low-visibility solution, Mr. President,” said Geneen. “Swanson is effective and reliable, and after all, he was the one who brought us this development about the nuclear weapons in the first place. And the actions of any one man will be lost in the chaos of a national rebellion.”

  General Turner laughed. “Gunny Swanson is not just any one man, Bart. He’s a dangerous weapon himself and has to be carefully deployed. Things happen when Swanson gets involved. What kind of authority do we give him, Mr. President?”

  Steven Hanson moved to the table and laid a leather folder before each man. Inside the folders were orders that gave Trident a Green Light Package, pre-authorized permission to do whatever was necessary.

  20

  ENGLAND

  SYBELLE SUMMERS ENTERED THE clinic dressed for success: blue silk blouse beneath a cream jacket, a single gold locket and matching earrings, black high heels, and her long legs striding beneath a black skirt cut several inches above her knees. Her eyes were startlingly clear. Her hair had been freshly trimmed, with a few touches of gold offsetting the black sheen. Light makeup. Men turned for another look as she went through the hospital doors, unaware that a large caliber pistol rested near her manicured fingernails in the leather purse over her shoulder. She pulled a small black suitcase behind her. A Green Light Package had come in from Washington, so she would not be returning to the hotel.

  The repair and cleanup of the damage from the terrorist attack was well underway, the smell of fresh paint lingered on the hallway walls and the destroyed door had been replaced. As Sybelle entered Sir Jeff’s room, she took in a scene that reminded her of old, melancholy Dutch paintings. Muted sunlight reluctantly illuminated three tired people seated in chairs near the bed, where Jeff lay thoroughly still, sedated, and sound asleep. His head was swathed in bandages and an array of medical devices monitored his condition, constantly reporting electronic readings. A clear plastic oxygen mask was on his face, but no breathing tube was down the throat.

  “Hey, everybody,” she said quietly and took a knee between Lady Pat and Delara Tabrizi, kissing both on their cheeks and taking their hands. “How’s our boy?”

  “Hey,” Kyle said. “What’s with the fashion show?”

  “None of your business.”

  “You went out on a date, didn’t you?” His head was cocked to one side as he took in the outfit, head to toe, and mischief played in his eyes. He was used to seeing her in casual jeans or battle dress camo, but he thought that Sybelle could make a burlap sack look good.

  “There was no date, so drop it, Kyle.” Her voice was soft but with a hard edge. “We have some urgent business to discuss.”

  Lady Pat shushed them both. She had long grown used to special ops warriors exiting suddenly and reappearing just as quickly, never offering an explanation for anything. If Sybelle had not been around, there was a good reason. “Jeff made it,” Pat said. “He’s going to be okay.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “Yes.” Pat glanced at Kyle, then gave Sybelle a tired smile. “Just ignore Kyle. You look lovely today.”

  Sybelle padded over to the bed, slid a hip onto the mattress, then reached out and stroked Jeff’s mussed hair. Leaned close and kissed him on the forehead, then closer and whispered for a time, so quietly that the others could not hear a word. She smoothed the sheet around his shoulders and went back to Lady Pat, stood behind her and massaged her shoulders.

  Delara got up and walked toward the door, motioning Sybelle to follow, and the two women went silently down the hallway, past the nurses’ station, to gain some distance from the room.

  “What’s the prognosis, Delara?”

  “Sir Jeff has a long recovery ahead. The spinal injury will confine him to a wheelchair during physical therapy, but should heal enough that he eventually might walk again.” She exhaled and her shoulders slumped, as if she was carrying a heavy weight. “The concern is that his brain sustained some damage and the neurosurgeon says that only time will tell whether Sir Jeff will ever come back 100 percent. We’ve seen it already. His thoughts can be totally normal one moment, then just fade out like a bad radio signal. The doctor says some of that is the sedation at work, but that the brain is so complicated that he cannot predict the future with certainty.”

  “Oh, my God! How is Pat taking that?”

  “She’s just happy that he’s still alive. Oh, Sybelle, what a tragic thing to happen to such a nice man.”

  The two of them embraced, then Sybelle held her at arm’s length and looked squarely in her eyes. “I’m going to need your help now, Delara. I have to take Kyle away, and he won’t want to go. You and Pat have to help to push him out the door. Believe me, Delara; it is a true emergency.”

  Delara composed herself. “I know. That trouble in Saudi Arabia is drawing you two like a magnet pulling a paper clip,” she said, crossing her arms. “There’s really nothing else Kyle can do right now to help Jeff, and I will make sure that Pat does not slide into depression. She hasn’t fully come to grips with what the future may hold for them.”

  She looked at Sybelle, at the warrior steel behind the pretty face. “Promise that you will send Kyle back to me safe and sound? I hate that he has to be gone so often.”

  “You know I can’t make that promise, Delara. These are dangerous times and his focus has to be total. He is going to be in a quiet rage when we make him leave here, then when he gets on the scene, he will become scarily unemotional and normal on the surface. Once into the fight, he will be burning. My job is to point that fury in the right direction.”

  Delara nodded in understanding and they walked back to the room. “So why are you so dressed up? It’s a terrific outfit. Are you in a relationship of some sort?”

  “I just like to get out of my work clothes from time to time. Remind myself that I’m still an attractive woman who likes bubble baths and candlelight.”

  “He must be a special guy.”

  “It’s nothing serious. I just have to keep him separate from my professional life. He thinks I work for a real estate trust.”

  Delara gave a small laugh. “Real estate trust, huh? Married?”

  Sybelle changed the subject. “How are things with you and Kyle?”

  “We’re getting there. Sometimes I feel like a lion tamer in
a circus. He’s so strong and determined, but with a very tender side that he keeps under wraps most of the time. Terrible memories haunt his subconscious.”

  Sybelle said, “He’s a very complex individual who operates on several different levels at one time, like he is playing three games of chess simultaneously. His mental computer is always humming, especially in combat. Since he cannot talk about what we do, he deals with his actions only after the fact, when the dust has settled.”

  “How do you deal with it?”

  “I’m smart enough to take some time off and go back to my fictional job in commercial real estate for a while. Go places and do fun things and hang out with normal people. Don’t read newspapers or watch the news. Oh, by the way. I’m sorry about wrecking your pretty car,” Sybelle said, with a gentle hint of sarcasm.

  Delara kept her voice low. “Jeff bought it for me. I would have preferred a little sedan, but he insisted on that big beast. I couldn’t handle it and even programmed the talking map thingie on the dashboard to remind me if I exceeded the speed limit.”

  “Ah. Our friend Linda. That’s why she got so bitchy when I was speeding.”

  “Linda has issues.”

  “Not any more.”

  NOTHING HAD CHANGED IN the room, where tension hung like a curtain because Kyle knew what was coming. A potential war was brewing out in the real world and he would have to play a part. The decision on whether he would have to get involved in Excalibur Enterprises had been lifted with the prospect that Jeff would recover. Postponed, not decided.

  Sybelle took an envelope from her purse and handed it to him. “Read it,” she said.

  Kyle only held the folded sheet. Did not open it. Tried to give it back. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not moving. I’ve got plenty of built-up leave time.”

  “Read the damned thing, Kyle.”

  He looked over at Pat, who gave a slight nod, and he reluctantly unfolded a single sheet of paper. The jaw muscles tightened.

  “A Green Light Package, Kyle. We have to go now.”

  Pat put her elbows on her knees and bent forward until her eyes were shaded by her hands. Her back shook in sobs and Delara slid a comforting arm around her.

  “I can’t leave,” Swanson said.

  Pat snapped her head back up. “Yes, you can…You must go, Kyle! I do not want Jeff waking up to discover that you are disobeying a direct order. That would upset him even more, particularly because of why he is here in the first place.”

  “But, Pat…”

  She shook her head sharply. “No. Don’t say anything else.”

  He twisted the paper into smaller folds, creasing it with his fingernails. “Things have changed. The Excalibur business, this situation with Jeff now…”

  Pat shook away Delara’s arm and stood, defiant. “All of that can be resolved when you return. Forget whatever is on the paper. Here is an order to you straight from me, Lady Patricia Cornwell to Kyle Swanson: Go out there and find the terrible people who did this to my husband. The suicide squad is dead, but whoever ordered the attack is still on the loose. You find them and then you kill them. Understand me, Kyle? Am I making this clear enough? I want their damned heads on pikes and their guts served to me on silver plates!”

  Swanson slowly rose, and wrapped Pat in a big embrace that picked her off her feet for a moment. Then he put her gently down and said, “Yes, ma’am. I can do that.”

  “When do we leave?” he asked Sybelle.

  “As soon as I change clothes,” she replied. “Say your good-byes and we’re out of here.”

  21

  SAUDI ARABIA

  FLYING IN THE OPEN skies over the desert countryside had been life’s greatest pleasure for Captain Nawaf bin Awadh of the Saudi Royal Air Force. In the cockpit of his F-15C Eagle, he never ceased being awed by the amazing power at his fingertips. All of the flight data was on a heads-up display and each of the two Pratt & Whitney turbofan engines produced more than 23,000 pounds of thrust. Thousands of gallons of fuel in the internal and external tanks, an M-61A1 six-barrel 20 mm cannon in the nose and wing rack slung with Sidewinder and Sparrow missiles.

  He keyed his microphone as he blazed over the trackless brown countryside, with the pure sky above. “Palm Leader to Palm 2. How are you on fuel?”

  “Palm 1. It is odd sir, but since we just took off, the gauges are in the green. The ground crew did not forget to fill it up.” First Lieutenant Fayez al-Khilewi smiled beneath his oxygen mask. His flight leader was a man of few words but was in a good mood today, as determined as always to put in a flawless mission. His words had been almost pleasant.

  They were flying combat air patrol over a long stretch of air space that was off limits to all other aircraft and was centered on a remote royal palace in which the king was spending a few days. Fayez could easily see the place, a bright spot of green trees and water in the middle of an otherwise empty landscape.

  A new voice came up on the circuit, the flight controller in an E-3A AWACS, fifty miles away, the radar-studded bird that directed all traffic in and around the area. The controller quickly guided them into the protective circle and allowed the two fighters that had been on station for several hours to return to base. They were all part of the most sophisticated air force in the region, but the C4I—the command, control, computer, and intelligence—system had never been foolproof. It was a vital weak spot, because without capable communication in a combat crisis, things could get dangerous very quickly. They had the tools, but not the experience born of years of practice.

  Ten minutes later, the captain went to the private, internal radio circuit and spoke a single word to his wingman, “Execute.”

  Fayez wheeled his F-15 in a sharp turn, kicked in his afterburners to increase speed and was dashing toward the AWACS almost before the controller recognized the course change. The lieutenant turned off his radio and activated his weapons display to paint the lumbering, defenseless control plane with a radar beam. In a matter of seconds, he was within range and fired a pair of AIM-9H Sparrow air-to-air missiles. The weapons slid off the rails with a jolt and Fayez felt as if the fighter jet had hit a speed bump as a thousand pounds of dead weight flew from the wings. The twelve-foot-long missiles spewed white vapor trails from their solid-propellant motors as they burned straight for the AWACS and smashed the 88-pound high-explosive warheads into the target. Fayez nosed straight through the fireball and heard bits of flying debris from the destroyed plane click against his fuselage. He curved up and around to join the captain, who was already attacking the palace.

  When their ordnance was expended, both of the fuel-loaded planes crashed into the smoking wreckage of the building.

  22

  BEIJING, CHINA

  “LOOK OUT THERE. TELL me what you see,” said Jiang Julong with a sweep of his arm toward a broad window.

  General Zhu Chi obeyed. “Not much, Mister Chairman. The pollution is very bad today. I had to wear a mask coming over here.”

  The chairman of the Central Military Commission of the Chinese Communist Party smiled blandly and resumed his theme. “I will tell you what we both see, comrade general. Progress. We see large avenues filled with automobiles. Where once there were only bicycles, the Beijing area alone now has a thousand new cars on its roads every day. China leads the world in buying new Rolls Royces. We see women who used to wear peasant clothing now adorned with boutique makeup and buying designer label dresses. We see factories turning out products that are snapped up in foreign lands: Eighty percent of all toys and seventy-two percent of all shoes bought in America are made in China. Millions of Chinese workers are making money to spend at our own stores, which are stocked with consumer goods. We see a nine percent growth rate per year. Despite economic bounces, we see a new and strong and proud China.”

  He paused. Enough statistics. He reached to a nearby shelf and carefully picked up a round-bellied 1000 milliliter Pyrex laboratory flask that was about half-full of a viscous liquid. Oil. A printed label identifie
d it: Saudi Sweet. He handed it to the general. “Here is what will sustain our future growth.”

  General Zhu had expected the private meeting to be a discussion about the deteriorating situation in Saudi Arabia, but wanted the chairman to broach the subject. It was unwise for a soldier to say too much to a politician. So he carefully returned the flask to its metal stand, put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels, remaining silent.

  Both were well aware that China’s main oil fields in Manchuria, the South China Sea, and the Bohai Gulf had not been keeping up with increased domestic demand since 1993. Those once-deep domestic fields were being rapidly emptied of the precious resource. Drilling in the Tarim Basin was difficult if not impossible. China was now the second largest oil importing country in the world and in a few years it probably would surpass the gluttonous United States.

  “Half of our imported oil comes from the Middle East, comrade general.” The voice was silky, confident. “I have been asked to assess how the events in Saudi Arabia might impact our economy. At first, I believed it not to be our concern, because we do not need to meddle in the internal politics of other countries from which we purchase oil, as long as the oil flows.”

  The chairman began to pace in measured steps as he read from a piece of paper. He stopped and dropped it on his desk. “Things have changed. The deaths of the king and his heir apparent have created a political power vacuum and now we have these intelligence reports that the Saudis possess some nuclear weapons. Suddenly it is an unstable and very serious situation for China. The delicate balance has been upset.”