“Yeah, but they can’t work the toggles of their chutes and aim at the same time. Their first job is to get down, and then to use the superior firepower in the attack. Until then, we have an edge.”
“Ready?”
“Do it.”
Swanson pushed hard on the exterior door and when it flew open, he followed it around. Sybelle came out in a crouch, running the other way.
Three parachutists were coasting in a line of rectangular chutes, with the lowest one just about to touch down and eyeing the target zone rising beneath his feet.
“You take number one. I got the second guy,” Kyle yelled.
Sybelle ran toward the first man, closing the distance fast so that her pistol would have a chance. Beyond twenty-five meters she was toast. The guy was sailing fast and right toward her, helping resolve the distance equation, and did not see her until one of his comrades yelled a warning. By then, Sybelle was in a combat stance with her Glock sighted center-mass on the descending parachutist. She followed his drop for a few feet, then blasted almost a full magazine into him before breaking her stance and diving back into the protection of the stairwell as a burst of machine gun fire from the uppermost skydiver stitched the rooftop and the door behind her.
Kyle ran at an angle that kept the air-filled dark parachute of the body that Sybelle was shooting between himself and the next man in the set of paratroop assassins. Only a thin, silk wall of concealment, but better than nothing. Sybelle’s target collapsed when it touched down and the canopy lost its air, falling over the body like an instant shroud. Kyle saw that his target had drifted off to the right and was frantically working the toggles of his parachute to control the landing while simultaneously attempting to bring up an automatic rifle into a firing position. It was almost impossible to do both at the same time.
Swanson scrambled behind a small air-conditioning unit to get a little bit of cover as higher up and some thirty meters back, the final skydiver popped off a long burst of fire that chewed around Kyle, then stopped to control his own parachute, working the nine elliptical panels of his canopy to alter the final glide path away from unexpected danger below.
Swanson now could plainly see his target and sighted in with his Colt. Had the man been just a little farther away, the chances of hitting the falling, moving target with a pistol would have been only a fantasy, shooting on a wing and a prayer, but with the reduced distance, Kyle had him cold. The man wore a black full-face helmet and a black jumpsuit and a chest vest packed with extra magazines. Various grenades hung on his web harness. He was only ten meters away, looking across his right shoulder toward Kyle and trying to swing his rifle around but watching the big pistol tracking him, looking to be about the size of a cannon, and then Kyle opened fire.
He squeezed the trigger and ignored a return burst of machine-gun fire, the ricocheting, zzzzzing sound of the bullets passing close and chipping concrete in order to match the movement of the skydiver who was descending about 45 degrees to his right. He got a hit in the man’s right thigh, then kept the bucking pistol tight on target and let the torso of his man fall through the target picture. The large .45 caliber bullets marched up to the head, the final shot smashing through the helmet. Kyle spun to look for the third skydiver. Not there.
THE SPACIOUS SUITE IN which Sir Geoffrey Cornwell lay immobile on a bed occupied the entire east end of the hall on the top floor of the clinic. It included the patient’s room and an adjoining private bathroom. The sterile look of the medical area ended at the doorway, for a comfortable sitting room separated the patient’s room from a second bedroom, giving the suite a hybrid look of being both a physician’s paradise and an elegant hotel. Everything had been considered during the design process except that the room might some day be the site of a last stand during a terrorist assault.
Jeff was a former colonel in the British SAS, but his normally sharp gray eyes were unfocused due to the light sedation and he could only see what was happening as if he were watching it underwater. Both legs were in casts and a thick bandage was wrapped around his head, a rubber tube leading from beneath the covering to drain fluid from the head injury. He had already undergone emergency surgery for internal bleeding caused by tiny fragments of stone.
Lady Pat, her own left arm in a sling, and both eyes circled by purple-green bruises, was seated beside the bed, gently stroking her husband’s cheek and whispering to keep him calm.
Delara Tabrizi stood just inside the open door, keeping the small pistol pointed at the floor. There was no option of moving Jeff to a more secure location, but the nurses pushed the bed out of the direct line of the doorway, and were busy adjusting the IVs and monitors.
Prince Abdullah, a tall, slender, handsome man wearing freshly pressed black trousers and a loose blue shirt instead of Arab robes, hobbled down the hallway toward the room, leaning on a cane with one hand and with the other upon the arm of his fifteen-year-old son, a younger version of himself. He smiled at her.
“Miss Tabrizi. Fully armed and dangerous,” he joked when he saw the small pistol.
“Mr. Ambassador. Please excuse me for having a weapon in your presence.” She gave a slight bow of her head in respect.
“Nonsense, Delara. That shooting we are hearing up on the roof means that your weapon is most welcome in our current situation.” He looked over the situation, shifted his attitude and took command.
“Let me have the pistol, Delara. I’m an old soldier. I will stand guard while you and my son and the nurses shift all the furniture you can just outside the doorway here to create an obstacle. Make sure the legs are pointed outward, toward any attacker. Lock the adjoining doors to the sitting room.”
The prince looked over at Sir Jeff. Lady Patricia could not smile back, and ever so slightly shook her head in dismay. Abdullah walked over and squeezed Jeff’s hand, then went back to the door, checked the pistol and knew it was really no protection at all against a military-style assault. The only open question was whether the man and woman who had gone charging up the stairwell were really capable of fighting trained terrorists. He shrugged and settled a shoulder against the doorframe. Allah’s will.
KYLE SWANSON HUSTLED TO the small parapet that lined the edge of the roof, keeping his head low but still having to duck when a crisp three-shot burst of fire slashed into the concrete and sent big chips flying. He fired blindly twice over the edge, then carefully looking over it, he saw only a thick and spreading cloud of gray smoke. “He popped a smoke grenade! Probably going inside two floors down.”
Sybelle was rummaging through the equipment on the two dead terrorists, tearing off the H&K MP5 submachine guns and pulling spare magazines from the chest pouches. She gave one of the weapons to Kyle as he ran past and followed him back into the stairwell.
The intruder was disoriented. The firefight had forced him to land on the roof of the third floor of the clinic and his target was on the top floor. Under the smoke cloud, he kicked his way through the door of the adjacent building and found himself on the floor of a wide landing that led to the ascending staircase. With the MP5 tight against his shoulder, he moved slowly up the steps.
SWANSON HALTED BEFORE GOING beyond the landing on the fifth floor and whispered to Sybelle, “Don’t use the MP5s yet. We have to draw him out, so stay with the pistols. Make him think that’s all we have.” He cracked two rounds from his Colt .45 down the stairwell, the sound amplified by the enclosed, area, and the bullets gouged out chunks of the wall and whined away in wild ricochets.
The attacker below paused on his step, but did not see anyone, which meant the defenders had no clear line of sight and the firing was meant only to slow him down. A pistol, not an automatic. Move. He ascended two more steps and stopped at the middle landing, where the stairs zig-zagged higher. A blue door with a white number 4 painted on it was to his right. He leaned out and fired a short burst through the door to clear it, then another burst upward in retaliation for the few shots that had come down. Keep their heads down.
Kyle shifted back into the main corridor on the fifth floor and tucked into the slight recess of the elevator entrance, which provided partial concealment and a minimum of cover along the length of his body. On his call, Sybelle dashed out, closing the door behind her and then rolled over the flat counter of the vacant nurses’ station.
At the east end of the building, the doorway to Jeff’s room looked like a porcupine, with the legs of chairs and small tables pointing outward in a jumble of furniture that had been stacked to block entry. Kyle saw a few heads of people watching, and waved for them to get their heads down and take cover.
Almost as he signaled, the door to the fifth floor hallway was blown inward by a small amount of C-4 that the terrorist had applied to the hinges. A terrific roar jarred the entire floor and debris needled straight out into the hallway opposite the destroyed door. The man was moving fast, knowing he had to complete his mission before assistance could arrive for the opposition.
Kyle had counted on that. He turned away from the blast, then spun back and triggered the Colt twice at the empty portal. The metal door was gone. Sybelle added two more rounds into the whirling smoke.
“I’m dry,” Kyle called in a panicky voice, dropping the .45 and bringing up the H&K submachine gun.
“I have a few rounds left,” Sybelle responded, making her voice also sound shaky. She also laid aside her pistol, charged the MP5 and rested it on the countertop.
The terrorist on the landing was listening and deciding his next move. He had counted two opponents on the roof, but they were armed only with pistols and almost out of ammunition. If he kept the pressure on with a spray-and-pray assault he could overwhelm them, and then deal with the Saudi prince he had been sent to kill. He pulled a grenade from his belt and removed the pin.
The cylindrical device came bouncing out of the doorway and Kyle yelled, “Flash-bang!” He stepped away from his hiding place and gave the explosive device a perfect kick that sent it spinning down the west end of the hall. Then he dove face-first back into the elevator alcove and Sybelle ducked her head and covered her eyes.
Designed to stun opponents long enough for a soldier or a policeman to breach into a room, the little grenade erupted with a blinding blaze that bathed the corridor with light that seemed brighter than the sun as a simultaneous cracking peal of thunder made the walls vibrate.
The intruder stormed through the door, trigger held back, firing on automatic. His eyes were protected by goggles, but his overall vision was obscured by the curling smoke. He let the MP5 chatter constantly as he ranged it from side to side and managed to take three running strides before Kyle and Sybelle both opened up and caught him in a crossfire at point-blank range. The bullets chewed at him mercilessly, jerking the body upright, and then pounding him backward and finally down.
When the shooting stopped, Kyle stepped over to the fallen terrorist. There was something strange about the face. He was not a man from the Middle East. White skin, no beard, and light brown hair. The terrorist appeared more Slavic, like someone from one of the Eastern European nations, and had performed as if he had been steeped in professional training. No matter. Swanson pressed the muzzle of the H&K to the man’s temple, and squeezed off a final shot. The head cracked like a melon.
“Clear!” Swanson called.
14
RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA
“THE BRITISH!” PRINCE GENERAL Mamoud Ali al-Fahd, the commander of the Saudi Royal Guard Regiment, had been raging since the first reports of the terrorist attack on the castle in Scotland. “They refused to believe that something like this could happen! They pledged their honor!”
The general’s job was to protect the king, which he did with a beefed-up elite force of three light infantry battalions and an armored battalion. Putting a similar shield around Prince Abdullah should have been someone else’s problem, and was impossible to accomplish from Riyadh, because the prince was the Saudi ambassador to the United States and spent most of his time in Washington. But His Majesty had declared that Abdullah was too important to be left with just ordinary diplomatic protection and al-Fahd had been personally instructed that in addition to his regular duties, the general also would coordinate the prince’s security and see that no harm befell him. Geography alone forced al-Fahd to delegate others to carry out that royal edict, and that weakness had been its defeat. The general could not be everywhere at once and if the others failed, it would still be Prince General Mamoud al-Fahd who would be blamed.
Vice Sergeant Mas’ud Mohammed al-Kazaz, the soldier who had been his valet for seven years, quietly placed a polished silver tray with hot tea and small cakes on a table beside his general. “Please have something to eat, sir. You must keep up your strength, for the good of the kingdom,” the valet said.
“I am not hungry.” The general waved at the tray. “Take it away.”
“Not until you eat, sir.” The valet stubbornly left the tray. He was one of the few men who could talk back to the general, although he did so with a polite and reverent tone. “Please sit down so I can pull off your boots.”
Al-Fahd propped one boot on the sergeant’s broad behind and raised the other leg between the knees of his aide. The vice-sergeant grasped the heel and gave it a hearty pull. He flipped it to the side, the general changed feet, and the second boot was pulled off. The general gave into the moment and had a drink of tea and bit into a sweet cake. Delicious. Another bite and another sip before the anger returned.
Al-Fahd got back up and paced the private suite of rooms that comprised the living space at his private headquarters. He had just returned from another tour of his forces in the field, heightening their alert status due to the incident in Scotland and the rash of confidential reports about civil unrest that were coming in from around the country. The general felt that the narrow line of light that held back the darkness of chaos was cracking, and smacked a fist into a palm in frustration.
“They assured me that our ambassador would be supremely well-protected and that nothing could possibly happen to him because so many security people were involved at an isolated location.” Al-Fahd rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. “Did they think this was some Lawrence of Arabia film and a British hero would ride in on a white camel to set things straight? We were allowed to have only three…three…of our own security men with him. Outrageous. The Brits were arrogant and insolent and wrong!”
Vice Sergeant al-Kazaz was used to hearing his general grumble while they were alone, when the man could express the intense thoughts he would never utter to a staff officer or outsider. “Yes, sir, they were. But may I remind my general that the ambassador survived, and that our king is safe and the guard lines are strong. That is your primary duty, and you have performed it well.” The valet unbuckled the brass round hasp of the pistol belt and laid the holstered weapon on a table, then helped the tired man remove his sweat-stained tunic and also laid it aside to be cleaned.
The prince gave him a tired smile. Al-Kazaz was always there, a comfortable shadow and as much of a friend as any common soldier could ever be to a prince of the House of Saud. The hard-working son of a small business owner from an allied tribe had compiled a good military record and after a thorough background check, won appointment to the Royal Guard. Intelligent, quick, quiet and competent, he was an ideal aide, hardly ever noticed but always around, usually carrying whatever was needed before the general had to ask.
“Yes. Prince Abdullah was saved by the hand of the Prophet and his wounds were not serious. He is now in a private clinic, and the British have promised even more that he is safe.” Al-Fahd paused. “How can this be believed? I have scheduled a plane to take him back to Washington as soon as possible.”
“They cannot be believed, sir. The plane is the correct response,” answered his valet, agreeing with anything his general said in order to push him along. “Your trousers, please, sir, and then into the shower. You look like a camel herder. Smell like one, too.”
Prince General al-Fa
hd had to laugh. “You dare order me around like I’m a private. I should have you whipped!” He went to a safe imbedded in the thick concrete wall, turned the dial, and opened it. The general removed a thin chain from around his neck that contained not only his military dog tags but also a small key, and placed it in the safe. From his wallet, he withdrew a small red plastic card embossed with black numbers and also put it inside, atop a small book lanced with the red stripe of Top Secret material, then closed and locked the little door. When those two items were not on his person, they were always in the safe. Allah forbid them falling into the wrong hands.
He stripped off his remaining clothes and went into the bathroom and entered the enclosure where the valet already had a steaming shower running. The flood of cool water washed away worry as well as dirt. When he stepped out, al-Kazaz handed him a warm, huge blue towel.
“I have your family on the telephone, sir,” he said.
The general sat on his bunk and had a brief conversation with his wife and both of their children. All was well at home, Allah be thanked. “A fresh uniform, if you please, vice-sergeant.”
“Sir, this would be a good time for you to get a few hours of sleep. You must rest if the country is to survive this crisis. A fatigued man makes mental mistakes,” insisted the mild, polite voice. He handed over a set of pressed pajamas.
“There is no time to sleep, Mas’ud,” the general replied, although the soft bed seemed to tug at him. He yawned. “There is just so much to do.”
“I will awaken you if there is a real emergency. The appropriate forces are dealing with this rebellion of dogs in the slums, sir, and it will all be over soon. We protect the king and I must not let your attention be diverted from that holy cause. I’ll fetch the chief of staff in four hours to brief you.”
Clean Kill Page 7