Clean Kill

by Jack Coughlin

  “Have you ever even ridden a camel?” Swanson asked with a grin.

  “Of course. Once. For a holiday photo.” The prince tapped the soft cushion of his seat. “I also do not sleep on a goat’s hide, nor do I use an abacus to count. We embrace modernity and technology but have leapt from camels to pickup trucks in an incredibly short time.”

  “Oil,” Kyle commented.

  “Yes, oil,” Mishaal agreed, and changed the subject. “Are you ready to get to work?”

  “I am ready to help,” Swanson replied. He was more than ready. The prospect of action was surging through his mind and body.

  “I have a feeling we will need every gun we can get.” The prince looked at his watch and picked up a telephone handset on the nearby bulkhead to call his aide, who had been up front at the communications console tracking the developing situation. The prince told him to come back to the main cabin and give them a briefing. They would be landing in about twenty minutes.

  B LACK SMOKE RISING IN columns folded into a single dark cloud over the military base that dominated the flat landscape at Ash Mutayr. A small village by that name lay on the west side of the military facility, between the base and National Route 15. Smoke also spouted from inside the town. The mutiny had spilled beyond the fence.

  The long, paved airport runway was considered unsafe by the local commander, so their plane swooped in for a fast landing on a hard dirt strip on the far side of the main highway and taxied to a halt. The aide popped the door open and they hurried down the stairs and ran toward an old Bradley M2A1 fighting vehicle that was trundling forward to collect them.

  Bright streaks of recent bullet strikes shone against its armor and it paused only long enough to spin on one track and lower the hydraulic rear ramp enough so they could scramble inside. It smelled of spent gunpowder, and all of the cradles that normally held TOW anti-tank missiles were empty. This Brad had been working hard.

  The track commander was a lieutenant in a dirty, stained uniform who was also acting as the turret gunner. He yelled an order for the driver to get moving and opened up with his 25 mm chain gun toward a pair of armored M113 APCs that were charging toward them out of the base and down the main runway.

  The chain gun slammed away like a jackhammer and incoming rounds whonked against the Bradley’s armor. As the brawny vehicle lunged ahead, the lieutenant screamed in pain and toppled from his seat, a chunk of meat missing from his right shoulder. The prince and Captain al-Muallami jumped to aid the wounded officer while Swanson climbed into the turret and took the handles of the big automatic weapon.

  Swinging it around, he opened fire on the nearest APC and saw that the second armored vehicle was attacking the plane that had just landed. The aircraft attempted to escape but it was too slow and as it rolled forward, the rebel APC easily kept pace and tore it to shreds with machine-gun fire. The aircraft exploded on the sand and the APC raked the wreckage to be certain there were no survivors. The second rebel APC broke off its pursuit of the Bradley, and Kyle stopped shooting.

  B RIGADIER G ENERAL M OHAMED H ASHIM could not even salute when the prince ducked into the command post. The base commander’s right arm was broken and rested awkwardly in a sling. Dots of blood were on his shirt from small shrapnel wounds. He was working the radio with his left hand. Hashim had been a soldier all of his life, starting as a common National Guard private. He eventually graduated from the King Khalid Military College and was a veteran, but the fire was gone from within him and his eyes were dull with fatigue.

  “What happened?” asked Prince Mishaal, taking the radio handset and giving it to a nearby officer. He guided Hashim to a chair. “Stay seated, my friend, and tell me what is going on.”

  Hashim grimaced. When he was not busy, he could feel the pain. “I am happy to see you, Mishaal. I just wish you were leading ten thousand soldiers in here to crush this rebellion.

  “The local imam had turned his mosque in town into an antigovernment platform. Yesterday, during the evening prayers, he called for an uprising and convinced several hundred soldiers that they had a holy duty to kill their officers and take over the base. When I learned of that, I had the imam arrested.”

  Mishaal nodded, his eyes probing those of the general. He saw pain and shame. “That was the correct thing to do. You posted additional security?”

  The general said that he did. “About midnight, an armed squad of soldiers decided to rescue the imam and a firefight started. That was all it took, colonel. Just a few shots and everything, all of the simmering tensions of the past few days, blew up. The soldiers started choosing sides and with access to weapons, the mutiny grew larger by the hour.”

  Kyle Swanson saw a map hanging on a wall of the two-story home that was serving as a command post. He did not like the defeatist tone in the general’s voice. The American listened with one ear as he studied the map. The base was laid out in a huge rectangle that began on the edge of the town and stretched several miles to the east. A military runway that was ten thousand feet long underlined the base on the south like a black streak, with a parallel and narrower taxiway. A two-story control tower was at the center point and big hangars were at the eastern end. Swanson guessed, based on his experience in Khobz, that the missile and warhead were down there in the hangars. Various buildings were clustered along internal roads, and a fence lined the perimeter. To the west lay the town, the long runway marked the southern edge, but to the north and east was only desert, as far as the map extended.

  “Where is the rebel command post?” he asked an officer, who hesitated before responding.

  “Tell him everything,” came a sharp voice from behind, and Captain al-Muallami appeared at his side, his tunic stained with the blood of the wounded Bradley track commander.

  “They are using the control tower beside the runway.” The officer put his finger on the map.

  Swanson moved to a window. The square, whitewashed multistory structure topped with aerials stood out in sharp contrast to its surroundings.

  “Do they have any air assets?”

  “There are seven helicopters in the hangars, but apparently none of the fliers defected, or the choppers were disabled. The armor has been our biggest problem.”

  Kyle heard a groan of pain and looked over to where the commander was falling from his chair. A doctor had ripped off the shirt and found a wound pumping blood from beneath the right arm. When he tried to remove the broken limb from the sling, the colonel passed out.

  Prince Mashaal stood aside to let the doctor work. He would have taken charge of the base defenders anyway, but with the general being put out of action, the transfer of command became easier. “Everyone! Give me your attention!” Activity in the room stopped and the officers and soldiers looked to the new, hard men who had arrived. “I am Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid, and by order of His Majesty the King, I hereby assume command of this base. My American friend here is to be given every consideration, also by order of His Majesty. My aide, Captain al-Muallami, speaks with my authority, so listen to him, no matter what your own rank may be. Return to your duties now and someone bring me up to date on the current situation.”

  T HE SHOOTING OUTSIDE HAD not increased in volume, nor in proximity, which allowed Mishaal to establish a sense of calm in the tight confines of the headquarters, simply by his confident demeanor. Kyle listened in on the update.

  There were about 4,000 men on base at the time the rebellion began, and about 2,500 were estimated to be in revolt. They had used the captured armor and exploited the sudden breakdown of command to push the loyal units entirely off the base itself and into the town, where house-to-house fighting was underway.

  Kyle asked, “Prince Mishaal, would you please have him draw a line around our estimated position?” When the briefer did so with a red grease pencil on the map’s plastic overlay, it was clear that the command strong-point was at the southwestern edge of the city, about 500 yards from the end of the runway and 200 yards from the big highway, near
where their plane had been destroyed. Beyond that, smaller red circles denoted other random strong points.

  “Since we are outnumbered, we have to consolidate our force,” the prince said, folding his arms as he stared at the map. “We protect Highway 15 so a relief column can drive in. Maybe we can get an air drop of supplies or some airborne units.”

  Kyle said to him in a soft voice no one else could overhear, “Prince Mishaal, most of your air force is grounded for a good reason. Remember what happened the last time some of those planes went up. Best keep it that way.”

  “You have a suggestion, Gunny Swanson?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m going outside to look around and make a call on my sat phone back to Kuwait to get a C-130 launched to come pick up the nuke. That’s really our goal. You handle the defense of the base. This will be over soon.”

  Mishaal turned to face Kyle and the two men again spoke in whispers. “In case you did not notice, Gunny, we’re outnumbered and outgunned.”

  “Just hold the fort, sir. Pull all of the friendlies back into a strong position around this block of buildings.”

  “Is that all?” The prince was almost sarcastic. It was not his nature to let the other side keep a combat advantage.

  Kyle slung his satellite phone over his shoulder, picked up a couple of grenades and a spare M-16. He slapped in a fresh magazine and stuffed more into his pockets. “No. There is one other thing I need. Where is the prisoner?”

  Mishaal repeated the question to the captain, who pointed to a whitewashed house next door. “Still under arrest, sir.”

  Kyle winked at his Saudi partner. “We will need to let him go.”

  40

  ASH MUTAYR, SAUDI ARABIA

  S WANSON DASHED ACROSS AN open area to a line of storage buildings on the rebel flank without drawing a shot, searched for danger among the street’s rooftops, windows, and doors, and then picked a huge, sturdy structure for an observation post. It was about the length of five normal houses and slightly taller than the neighboring buildings, which would give him some elevation to oversee the area.

  The place looked vacant, as if the workers had closed shop when the shooting started and retreated elsewhere for safety. The door was locked. Kyle paused until there was a burst of some gunfire about a block away to cover the sound of him kicking it open. Finding no opposition, he closed it again. With the M-16 at his shoulder, he carefully cleared room after room as he made his way to the roof. At the top of the stairwell, Swanson gently pushed open the topmost door and when there were no shots, squirmed through, closing that door behind him, too.

  He was not surprised to find the roof unoccupied and quickly made the place his own. First things first: Cover your six, baby. He was alone, and without a partner for cover, he had to be certain that no enemy would show up unannounced. Swanson placed a claymore mine in position to face the doorway, then stretched the tripwire taut and tied it to the knob. Anyone pushing the door outward would trigger the booby trap and some 700 small steel balls would scour the area with a single horrendous blast.

  Next, he needed to construct a hide that would not draw attention from the street or another building. There were four square, vented air-conditioning system ducts available, and he considered tearing the back off of one of them and squeezing inside next to the machinery to peer out through the vents. But there was a lot of junk spread around, which provided a better option. He decided to arrange some empty crates and boxes and other debris just to the left and slightly behind one of the boxy air-conditioning ducts, with cracks and openings to give a good view of the surrounding area. Anyone who chanced to look up would just see the boxes which masked his silhouette. He moved in, sat down, laid his rifle beside him, and took out his binos.

  He was soaked in sweat by the time he looked out to see what the rebels were doing. Damn, there were some easy pickings down there. It was hard for Kyle Swanson to suppress his sniper instincts in such a target-rich environment. For the moment, the satellite phone and his binos were much more important than the rifle.

  Having captured the buildings along the edge of the town next to the military base, the rebels were shifting into positions to press their attack. Their probes were finding points in the defense that were intentionally being left uncovered by Prince Khalid, and rebel patrols were moving to occupy them.

  The rampaging soldiers were trained on flat desert with heavy tracked vehicles and were interested only in an armored slugfest. In the town, the battle was rolling fast, surging between buildings and down streets, with the emphasis on brute force. After taking a building, the rebels would immediately leave it before doing a thorough search and move on, screaming about victory and Allah and ceremoniously firing their AK-47s into the air. Kyle had seen that false euphoria before. It was a comfortingly normal event to him.

  Things were ragged down below, which was also something he had expected. Many officers had been executed in the first hours of the uprising, and other sergeants and soldiers had escaped from the insurgent force. Without leaders, unit cohesion had disappeared and the reins of the fight were in the hands of a bunch of ill-trained morons, Kyle thought. Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid should be more than able to handle this bunch. Keep coming, boys, keep coming.

  T HE SAT PHONE, ONLY about the size of a police walkie-talkie, had a folded aerial that popped into place when Swanson pulled it from a pocket of his gear vest. The electronics hummed to life when he switched it on and a built-in global positioning system provided his exact coordinates.

  His first call went to Kuwait. “Trident Base, Trident Base, this is Bounty Hunter. Over.”

  There was only a momentary hiss of static, then a familiar voice came back: “Bounty Hunter. This is Trident. Send your traffic. Over.” Joe Tipp was on the horn.

  “Roger that, Trident. Another package is ready for pickup,” Swanson said. He wanted the Hercules and the Marines on the way over as soon as possible and it would take the big, slow bird a lot of time to cover that distance. He read out the grid coordinates for Ash Mutayr.

  “Uh…Bounty Hunter. Intel advises that area is hot.” Tipp obviously was surrounded by staff members.

  “Roger that. Just pick up the package, Trident. I will not attend the meeting. Work with my counterpart.”

  The staff people wanted to know what Swanson had in mind, but Tipp cut them short and gave the confirmation. He trusted Swanson’s judgment. “Solid copy. Trident out.”

  K YLE MADE ANOTHER SECURITY check around his perimeter and noticed that the gunfire had become sporadic. Mishaal was breaking contact and pulling back to gain space between the attacking rebels and his defending units. Settling back into the hide, Swanson raised the binos again and scanned the airfield and then looked deep into the base. The rebels were mistaking the sudden lull in the shooting for a preliminary sign of coming victory, taking it as an opportunity to regroup for a final push.

  Armored vehicles were rolling back to a rendezvous point to refuel and rearm, falling into lines at the pumps and ammo sheds. Teams of soldiers were also coming back out of the city and settling beside the perimeter road of the base for a rest and to get some food and water while the armor was replenished. When everything was ready, they could launch the assault.

  He checked his watch. Time to call Mishaal. “Crown, Crown, this is Bounty Hunter.”

  “Bounty Hunter. This is Crown. Go,” the prince responded.

  “In exactly thirty mikes, be prepared to release the imam. Tell him that you wish to negotiate a cease-fire and surrender your remaining forces, but only after he has a guarantee that the rebel leaders will spare the lives of your soldiers. Have a vehicle deliver the imam to within a hundred meters of the control tower at the airfield, then cut him free.”

  “I don’t like this,” said the Saudi officer, with some strain in his voice.

  “You will,” promised Swanson. He briefed the prince about the current rebel activity, then did a time check and ended the call.

  T HE NEXT CA
LL WAS going to be more difficult and would cause a ripple that would reach all the way back to the White House. Precision was necessary, so he paused to do some careful math homework before making it. A battered green sniper’s logbook and a ballpoint pen came from the vest so he could make notes.

  The GPS in the sat phone had provided his precise position, and using a pocket compass, he determined the exact directions from his location through azimuth readings to the control tower, to the fuel and ammo dump zone, and to the broad area where the tired rebel troops were gathering to rest. The third part of the equation was solved with his laser range finder, and he measured the distance between himself and the targets.

  Now for the tricky part. He dialed up a new frequency and called, “Frequent Flyer, Frequent Flyer, this is Bounty Hunter.”

  A U.S. Air Force captain at the communications console aboard an AWACS plane flying in high circles over the Arabian Sea answered with a stone calm voice: “Bounty Hunter, this is Frequent Flyer Seven-Oh. Send your traffic.”

  “Roger, Frequent Flyer Seven-Oh. I have a Black Flag mission. Stand by to copy.”

  “Send your traffic.”

  “Roger. I have targets at grids six niner seven four, five niner six four.”

  “I copy. Six niner seven four, five niner six four. Is this correct? Over.”

  “That is a solid copy.”

  There was a slight pause as the captain punched the numbers into her computer and it flashed a bright red warning. “Bounty Hunter, that is a no go. Those coordinates are in a friendly country and we have no authorization for that.”

  The moment of truth. “Frequent Flyer Seven-Oh. Bounty Hunter. Stand by to copy authorization codes.”

  “Roger that. Send your traffic.” The captain’s fingers were poised over the keyboard on the electronics warfare plane and her total concentration was on the voice coming over her headset. She did not want to miss a syllable.