32
Egyptian troops flooded into the Sharm airport, disarmed the Iranians, and kept them under loose guard. They were easy prisoners, for they had nowhere to go even if they escaped, and they willingly helped fill the holes in the runway and mixed hot asphalt that would patch it up temporarily. The Egyptians could get around to laying rigid concrete later, but this would be enough to handle the commercial jets that would be used for the exodus back to Iran. Their commander, Brigadier General Medhi Khasrodad, signed the surrender papers in a private meeting and was allowed to stay with his men until they were safely evacuated. The Egyptian and Iranian troops arranged soccer matches for exercise. Khasrodad knew that his military career was over, and he did not really want to return to Tehran, but his family was there. He would not abandon them, although he was certain to be imprisoned and probably executed when he returned. Maybe something could be worked out. He didn’t know.
Abdel El-Din remained in the hospital for a few more days, then went back to work on the beachfront, which was already returning to normal. The still-mending arm wound prevented him from doing a lot of heavy work, but there was still plenty to do because business was phenomenal as tourists and residents flocked to the Gold Sun to see and cheer the hero of the rebellion. After a week, he accepted the invitation of the chief of police to go on a fishing trip for a few days, out on the water and visiting little shoreline villages where no reporters could find them. By the time the trip was over, Abdel had agreed to become a cop.
A short time thereafter, the decayed body of Iranian Colonel Yahya Naqdi was found in a desolate stretch of desert to the north. The corpse sagged against the ropes that lashed it to a tall pole; a hood was over the head, the body was riddled with bullets, and scavenging animals had been feasting. An official notification of his death was sent to Tehran.
* * *
Kyle Swanson missed all of that. The day after his private talk with the colonel, and a full ten hours of sleep, he made arrangements through the hotel concierge to go home. A private helicopter was chartered and was waiting for him on the beach in the morning. No more suits, no more local clothes, no more weapons. Today it was back to jeans and sweatshirt and running shoes, and he climbed into the chopper easily, buckling in beside the pilot.
The Red Sea appeared glassy smooth as Kyle looked down from the helicopter at the long thicket of tankers and other vessels that were starting to unsnarl the knot of shipping that had gathered at the mouth of the Suez Canal.
“Oil prices will go down today,” the pilot said over the headphones.
“Take me for a quick tour so I can get a good look,” Kyle replied.
“It’s an hourly rate,” said the pilot, and Swanson replied he didn’t care. His plane would wait. For the next forty-five minutes, they cruised the unchallenged sky in lazy circles, hovering for a few minutes to watch the cleanup crews that had finally contained the oil slick from the sunken tanker.
The Hurghada airport was still operating its commercial side, and he could see that the military area was still armed to the teeth, ready for a fight if the deal with Iran fell through. The chartered bird sat down easily on the concrete apron within walking distance of a gleaming white executive jet bearing the insignia of Excalibur Enterprises, which had been dispatched by Sir Jeff. Once he was welcomed aboard and made comfortable by the hostess, Kyle heard the big Lear’s twin engines whining to life, and it was climbing into the cloudless sky five minutes later.
THE PENTAGON
“Hey,” said Lieutenant Colonel Sybelle Summers when Kyle walked into the inner sanctum offices of Task Force Trident. She didn’t look up from the screen on her computer.
“Hey? That’s all?”
Commander Benton Freedman leaned back in his chair in his adjoining office and looked at him with disinterest. “You back? Want to go over your expense report?”
“Yes, I’m back. Glad you noticed. No, on the expenses.”
Master Gunnery Sergeant O. O. Dawkins walked in from the hallway and punched Kyle hard enough on the arm to knock him sideways, then kept on walking to a big door and announced, “Gunny Swanson, sir.”
“Is he in proper uniform?” asked the gruff voice of Major General Bradley Middleton.
“Yes, sir. He’s in his service alphas.”
“Then haul his ass in here.”
Swanson blew out his cheeks. Not a decent Hello, good job, let’s get a beer in the bunch. He walked into Middleton’s office, came to attention, and reported in.
“You know the commandant?”
For the first time, Kyle was aware of another man, who was rising from the couch by the window, a tall man with neat gray hair and a penetrating set of green eyes that matched his uniform tunic, on which were six rows of honor ribbons, the gold jump wings of a master parachutist, and four silver stars on each shoulder. General Oden Harrison smiled warmly. “Welcome home, Gunny Swanson.”
Kyle was able to stammer, “Thank you, sir. Good to be back and to meet you.”
“Well, thank you, and I thank General Middleton for allowing me to come into his secret bat cave and hang out with the team for a few minutes.” Sybelle, the Lizard, and Double-Oh had filtered into the room and stood alongside the general’s desk. Middleton stood, which surprised the hell out of Swanson.
General Harrison came closer, and in his hands was a small oblong black case, which he used both hands to open. Inside on a bed of purple lay a ribbon of dark blue with a white stripe down the middle and a gold medal beneath it. “I’m proud to represent the president of the United States today in awarding you the Navy Cross for your actions against an enemy of the United States.”
Kyle could feel the blood rushing to his face in a blush, but he controlled himself. He accepted the medal and shook the commandant’s hand.
“You saved an untold number of lives and helped prevent a possible war,” said Harrison. “It was an outstanding performance, son. Just outstanding.” The general paternally slapped him on the shoulder. “Medal of Honor and now two Navy Crosses, two Silvers, and one Bronze with a V. You’re going to have more medals than Chesty Puller before you’re done.”
The Trident team let out a round of cheers and applause, and the general made his good-bye and left.
“Dawkins, open that bottle of champagne,” ordered Middleton, moving to his wall safe. “And you, Swanson, give me that damned medal. You can’t wear it for a year or two until this heat blows over. The citation goes in your classified file, and even that is redacted so that it doesn’t show much more than your name.”
Kyle reluctantly handed it over. “I just got it and you’re taking it back? How’s that work?”
“Awww. Come and cry on Mommy’s shoulder,” said Sybelle as she wrapped him in a hug.
A cork popped, Dawkins poured glasses for each, and they toasted Kyle’s return. “Good stuff,” said General Middleton, wiping his mouth. “Now everybody take a seat and let’s get going on a preliminary debrief, all the way back to the sniper attack on the Maryland shore. Just the overview first, Kyle, then I can go brief the White House, where the Man is waiting for word. After that, we can get to the details. You know the drill.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Since you can’t wear the Navy Cross for a while, is there anything that we can give you? The president will probably let you have South Carolina or Idaho if you want it.”
Kyle unbuttoned his green jacket, knowing this was going to be a long session. “I’ll settle for two weeks of vacation.”
“Back to the beach and your cheerleader girlfriend Maddy?” teased Sybelle.
“You’re dating a cheerleader?” Dawkins curled his lips in distaste.
“My last vacation was interrupted,” Kyle said.
“Good enough. Two weeks’ leave. Permission granted,” said the general.
“After the expense report,” added the Lizard.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Author photo credit: Jack Coughlin by Dave Eckenberg, Tumbleweed Photos,
Yucca Valley; Donald A. Davis by Robin Murphy Davis
GUNNERY SGT. JACK COUGHLIN was with the 3rd Battalion, 4th Regiment of Marines during the drive to Baghdad and has operated on a wide range of assignments in hot spots around the world.
DONALD A. DAVIS is the author of twenty-three books, including multiple New York Times bestsellers.
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Time to Kill: A Sniper Novel kss-6 Page 28
