Time to Kill: A Sniper Novel kss-6

by Jack Coughlin

  Tianha and Swanson appeared at the door. Before the doorman drifted away back to his post by a small platform, he whispered. “They are booked into separate suites, but I think they are probably sleeping together. There is a connecting door. I will let you know.”

  The English woman and the American man were both in cool, casual attire, ready for a night on the town. She wore long sleeves, a traditional black shawl covered her head, and her skirt was modest. Her matching expensive purse carried, out of sight, a pistol and a camera.

  “Hello again, Dr. Bialy. Did you have a good rest?” Omar Eissa asked with a slight, polite bow.

  “It was excellent, Omar,” she said as she slid into the rear seat of the car. “Just what I needed after that long flight.” Kyle walked around and got in the other side, surveying the scene as he moved. No serious watchers.

  As soon as Eissa pulled away from the entrance canopy, they put aside the acting. “Hurghada, as you know, is near the choke point for the Red Sea and the Suez Canal,” he said. “Ship traffic moves freely through the area all the time, which gives it strategic importance. Not to give you a geography lesson, but just to put what you are about to see into proper perspective. Tianha, get your camera ready. We will be there in just a minute.”

  They looped south through streets of small, white-walled homes where people lived who could never afford a single night in a luxury hotel. “Omar, Hurghada is just a dot on the map. Sharm would be the defensive bulwark around here because it controls more of the vital waterways,” Bialy said. “I’m as curious as Kyle. What are you talking about?”

  The quiet sedan turned onto Al-Farouk, the main coastal highway. “You are absolutely correct. Sharm would be the prize for any real battle, so what do you make of this? Over there at the ten o’clock position.”

  A large olive green truck with the markings of the Egyptian Air Force was parked in a turnaround off the highway, its nose facing the sea. It had a stubby little cab, but the broad rear deck and heavy load required three sets of double wheels on the back. Flat on the deck was a rack of four missiles.

  “Jesus!” exclaimed Swanson. “Are those Harpoons?”

  “Yes. My sources say that the air force bought that particular mobile missile battery system several years ago from the Royal Danish Navy. It is served by a two-man crew, and both of them are over there with it.”

  Kyle noticed the truck was not protected by a large guard detail, nor even a stack of sandbags, giving the impression that it had just pulled in there to park temporarily, as if in the middle of a long trip. He heard Tianha’s camera clicking images into the memory chip. “Back in the day, Harpoons were the shit,” he commented. “Over-the-horizon capability and a range of about seventy miles, with a big boom on some ship at the end. Consider that to be a significant threat, boys and girls, and go ahead and report it.”

  Tianha put the camera aside. “A threat to what?”

  “Four Harpoons could cause some major damage out there, although I can’t imagine why Egypt would want to sink an oil tanker.” Eissa turned back inland. “I don’t want to pass them again so quickly.”

  “Yeah. The good news is that the tubes were flat on the platform, and they have to be raised for a launch, so nothing immediate is happening. We can give it a final check in the morning before we leave.” He briefly considered going after the missile battery tonight and monkeying around with the hydraulic lifting system. That would probably require killing the two crewmen, which would compromise the overall mission. He decided to leave it be and let the allied intel services, which would have Tianha’s photos and report, keep an eye on the installation from a satellite. If the launcher went to an offensive posture, someone else could make the decision on whether, and how, to take it out.

  “I would love to know if it has a specific purpose, or if it is just there as a precautionary defense measure during the troubles,” Tianha wondered.

  “Oh, it has a target,” said Kyle. “Bet on it. Otherwise it would be parked at the base rather than be out here on its own. Now let’s go get some dinner.”

  11

  CAIRO

  Colonel Naqdi of the Army of the Guardians was at his desk in the Palm Group headquarters offices early and watched a majestic dawn break on what was to be an important day. Urgent messages from the commander of the First Naval Zone in Bandar Abbas were waiting on his desk, but the rear admiral’s pleas would be ignored. The man had already been told that the mission would not be canceled under any circumstances at this point. Either he cooperated or he would be replaced, just as a broken-down old ship could be replaced. The admiral needed to be reminded that the creaky Iranian Navy was gone forever, a relic of the shah’s regime, and that he was now just another cog in the reorganized Navy of the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution.

  The ship in question was the old Babr, an antique Pakistani-built utility vessel of the Delvar class with a 1,300-ton displacement and a crew of twenty officers and sailors. More than fifty years old, its only armament was a single ZU-23 23 mm antiaircraft gun. The superstructure sat aft, near the blocky stern, and the midships was broad and flat, suitable for the role it had been playing as a replenishment vessel for the Iranian fleet that had been chasing Somali pirates in the Gulf of Aden. That gave the colonel a pause to chuckle to himself. The United Nations itself had let this little wolf in sheep’s clothing go on the prowl by stating that vessels of different countries could enter the area of the Gulf of Aden to combat piracy, and the Iranians had actually done well in that role. From that position, the Iranians had expanded their reach to penetrate north in the shipping lanes into the Red Sea.

  The Babr was innocent and scruffy enough not to draw much attention as it meandered up the coast. Its only possible hostile military use would be to lay mines, so it would be kept under loose observation. The captain had orders to proceed to a point that was carefully plotted on his map through the use of a military-grade GPS navigational system, then slow down and maintain only enough speed to keep headway when his ship reached the invisible mark on the water. A high-frequency beacon would be activated; then he was just to await further orders. Since he carried no commercial cargo, the skipper deduced his ship was being used just to push the envelope of tolerance of the other nations for having an Iranian presence of any sort in the energy-rich shipping sector. When the secret mission was over, the Babr would probably return to the 16th Fleet and help chase some more pirates. He could feel the vibration as the twin diesel engine lazily turned the propeller shafts. The captain realized he probably would never know the real purpose of this little voyage, for that was the domain of those higher in rank than he. His job was to follow orders. The sun had come up to starboard, and he was sitting in his padded chair, sipping a cup of hot tea, and watching the giant vessels plying the shipping corridor.

  Colonel Naqdi was finally satisfied that everything was as it should be, and he issued a final flurry of encrypted communications and orders. Last among them was an official letter of commendation for his chief of staff, Major Mansoor Shakuri, citing the excellence of his performance in coordinating today’s complicated action.

  HURGHADA

  Kyle Swanson whipped through an hour’s worth of isometrics, crunches, and push-ups before stepping into the steaming shower and pondering Tianha Bialy. Why was she really on this trip? So far she had accomplished absolutely nothing other than setting up a good car service with a decent undercover agent who had happened upon an antiship missile battery. Omar could easily have replaced her as a translator, if needed. Granted, Hurghada was just a stopover on the way to Sharm, so maybe he was expecting too much, and she would perform some MI6 magic over there.

  He took his time getting into another rich-guy tailored business suit and knotting a branded silk necktie that Lady Pat had bought for him. The shoulder harness for his pistol ruined the line, so he left the jacket unbuttoned. Showtime. He called the concierge to send someone up to collect the bags, because that was what rich guys did.


  Tianha was waiting at a table in the restaurant, reading news from her laptop computer. “Not much to report, Kyle. A lot of unrest after the Iranian soccer team massacre in Cairo the other day.” She had a cup of coffee to one side, and a basket of pastry was in the middle of the square table, along with fresh flowers.

  A waiter appeared, poured a hot cup of coffee for her, and took Kyle’s order for fruit and cereal. “Perhaps nothing much is being reported, Tianha, but this place is strung tight as a violin.”

  She looked around to be sure no one was listening. “I made contact about that missile battery to London last night. No further orders.”

  “Another piece of data for a big picture that we can’t see.”

  “I just feel we should do something more about it.”

  Kyle bit into a fresh croissant and chewed thoughtfully. “Not our job. Well, it might be yours, because I still don’t know your assignment. But it’s highly doubtful that you are supposed to have a shoot-out over a parked Harpoon battery.”

  Bialy sniffed and went back to her computer. “We will discuss this later,” she said. “This is not the proper place.”

  “Well, if we ever get to the proper place, will you let me know? Freezing your partner out of the loop sucks.”

  Her dark eyes looked steadily at him. “I’m under strict orders, Kyle. You just have to believe me.”

  “I want to. Just try not to get us killed while you follow those orders, OK?”

  Thirty minutes later Omar Eissa arrived at the hotel to pick up Swanson and Tianha, right at nine o’clock, and was assured by the doorman that the maids had told him that the two wealthy visitors had not slept together the previous night. The connecting door remained closed and locked on both sides. The doorman thought it strange, he said, accepting the usual tip while he helped load the luggage. The American businessman must be sick for not pursuing such a beautiful woman and for being so obviously cool toward her. They did, however, tip better than the Russians, who wanted everything for nothing. The Germans were the worst of all, but right now he would welcome any customers at all, even Greeks.

  Omar cut the conversation short and got his customers into the car. The fast ferry ran over to Sharm three times a week, as did a slow ferry, although the schedules of both had been disrupted by the revolution. If they missed the ten thirty departure, there was no telling when another would sail. Omar told the doorman he wanted to be early.

  He swept the Mercedes out into traffic and retraced the previous night’s journey along the coast road, slowing down as they approached the parked military truck. “Oh, no,” he said. “That’s trouble.”

  Swanson and Bialy followed his stare. The truck was in the same position, but the rack of missile tubes had been raised to a 45-degree angle, with steel struts planted on the ground around the deck to soak up recoil. The two technicians who had appeared lazy yesterday were now busy on the platform.

  “What does it mean?” Tianha asked.

  Swanson gave a fatalistic laugh. “Getting those tubes up means the missiles are probably hot, programmed, and ready to fire.”

  “My God. We have to stop it,” she exclaimed, her eyes wide.

  “Will you stop that? If we attack with a couple of pistols and an AK-47, we could take out the technicians, but that would also expose us to arrest. All you can do is update London. Other people have to handle this, Tianha.”

  Omar had been watching and listening as he drove. “Swanson is right, Tianha. My hope is that they are not going to shoot at our ferry. We had best get to the pier.”

  * * *

  They remained in the automobile while the aft ferry ramp was cleared and the barrier opened. Omar followed signals into a short line of vehicles that disappeared quickly into the broad covered parking deck. At a signal, he shut down the ignition, and all three got out as the Mercedes was chained into position, bumper to bumper with cars in front and behind. A biting wind channeled through the open space, chilly enough to make passengers hurry up the metal staircase to the shelter of the twin lounges for the hour-and-a-half crossing to Sharm.

  About 150 people were aboard the sparkling white Hurghada Turbo Sea Jet 1, half of its normal capacity, and it carried only a dozen vehicles. The absence of weight would allow the ferry to lift almost out of the water when it picked up speed and headed across the Red Sea. The frequent travelers had already staked out seats away from the metal bulkheads and near heating vents so they would be warmer than the tourists who clustered at the windows to view the passing scene.

  Omar and Tianha grabbed a table while Kyle went to the cafeteria bar and brought back coffee and bottled water for them all. Orange midmorning sunshine poured into the lounge, giving it an almost cheerful glow, an oasis of peace in a country that seemed intent on devouring itself. Kids were already restless and zooming through the aisles, or just standing in place, staring at each other until a new friend was made.

  “Things are always like this at the start of a crossing,” Omar said. “By the time we disembark, these quiet people will be rude and impatient, ready to commit mayhem to get one place ahead in line.”

  With the rumble of engines and a loudspeaker announcement, the Sea Jet 1 dropped its lines and headed away from the long pier. Omar opened an Egyptian magazine, and Tianha spread out a tablet and two textbooks. Neither was inclined to talk, for there was little more to say. “I’m going on deck for a while,” Swanson said, pulling on a Burberry trench coat. Ignored by all, he walked away, tying the belt and flipping up the broad collar. The deep right pocket sagged a little and jingled as he walked.

  “He is going to freeze out there. Just because the sun is shining does not mean it will not be cold on the water.” Omar put aside his magazine.

  “Good.” She looked at Omar hard. “Safe to talk here?”

  “Yeah, as long as Swanson stays gone. What’s happening, Tianha?”

  She glanced around and lowered her voice a bit. “MI6 has a new source in Egypt who has been furnishing us with extraordinary information that proves the Iranians are orchestrating much of the unrest, in concert with the Muslim Brotherhood.”

  “So? Everybody knows that already.”

  “This is not rumor or hearsay, Omar. The source is providing ironclad proof, including names and numbers and exact times and orders stretching all the way back to specific people in Tehran.”

  “Who is this person? How does he have such access?”

  “We don’t know. He, assume it is a he, goes by the code name of Pharaoh, and I have been sent to find him. Right now, he is operating on his own, and we want to give him protection and guidance.”

  Omar smiled. “You want to run him as an MI6 agent.”

  “Just like us, Omar. Just like us. So far it has been a one-way street, with him contacting us when he wishes. We have sent a message back down the chain that someone is being sent to Egypt to establish a point of contact and provide him with protection, or whatever he wants, plus offer a way out if things go bad for him.”

  “And you are to be that agent contact?”

  “Yes. Eventually.”

  “You gave him your name?” Omar was astonished. An agent never intentionally unmasked his or her identity and walked around in the open. “Not only is that suicide, Tianha, but it will ruin your cover as a respected academic and researcher.”

  “Of course not. We are sending a quiet alert to him, but I also want you to spread the word through your networks that an influential new friend has arrived and wants a private meeting with the Pharaoh. The contact’s name is Kyle Swanson, and he works for the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. You already have our schedule, so you can put that out there, too.”

  Omar puffed out his cheeks and blew out a long breath. “Does Swanson know about this?”

  She gave a small smile. “No, so let’s keep that between ourselves for the moment, shall we? I’ll tell him when he needs to know.”

  “You’re playing a hard game, Tianha.” Through a lounge windo
w, he saw Swanson staring at the water with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Is he really CIA?”

  “No. He’s just an American Marine.”

  * * *

  Kyle was not uncomfortable on the open deck. With the heavy overcoat, only his feet were cold. Supple leather shoes were made to look good, not to repel frostbite. The harsh January wind bit at the exposed skin of his face, but the brightening sunshine was warming things fast. He fished in his pocket for an Egyptian one-pound coin and plugged it into the slot of a big telescope mounted on the deck so tourists could watch the harbors and the passing ships. No one else was interested in taking a look, so he stayed with it; two minutes for an Egyptian pound, which was worth sixteen U.S. cents and falling.

  The shipping lanes seemed filled; giant oil tankers and container ships lumbered forward and stopped in a delicate dance of elephants as they lined up for access through the Suez Canal to the Mediterranean. Smaller vessels easily moved about them with discipline and care: a few yachts, fishing boats, and speedy pleasure craft. Here and there he picked up the silhouettes of naval ships. The Red Sea was busy. Swanson edged the big lens back down the swirling wake of the Sea Jet 1 to look back at Hurghada.

  So far, so good. Maybe the Harpoons were just there for a regular drill, because one of the strengths of a missile platform mounted on a truck was a mobility that could quickly move it to a point of threat. Every branch of every armed force on the globe regularly ran exercises, so would the Egyptian Air Force be any different? He hoped that was so. The Harpoons were not exactly surgical tools, and even the best guidance systems would be challenged to pick one specific ship from among a cluster of targets. Many neutral fishing boats, airplanes, and human beings had been destroyed over the centuries simply for being too near, or mistaken for, legitimate military targets.

  Two minutes elapsed, and the telescope shutter snapped closed with the suddenness of a triggered rat trap. He stood upright and wiped away some tears brought by the wind. Please let me be wrong about this. Kyle fished in his pocket, retrieved another coin, and was in the process of inserting it into the machine when his eye was drawn back toward Hurghada by a flash of light that was followed by a rising white column of exhaust smoke. Launch! He spun from the telescope and pounded on the window of the lounge to get the attention of Tianha and Omar, and was back at the scope, watching a second launch, by the time they ran onto the deck. He didn’t even have to point; a pair of shipkillers were in the air, chalking their way high into the sky and accelerating.