Clean Kill

by Jack Coughlin; Donald A. Davis

  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.

  “I send: Zulu Delta, One Niner Seven, Whiskey X-Ray.”

  “I copy: Zulu Delta, One Niner Seven, Whiskey X-Ray.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Bounty Hunter. Stand by one.” This is above my pay grade, thank goodness, the captain thought, touching a switch to alert the colonel who was overseeing the day’s flight at the far northern edge of the carrier battle group. “Colonel, we have received a Black Flag request with a presidential-level approval code from inside the kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Call sign Bounty Hunter. Switching to you.”

  Swanson had expected initial disbelief and then eventual capitulation by everyone who handled the call. From his rooftop hide, he was summoning a strike by U.S. warplanes on a precise target within an allied country. He would provide timing and other directions to the individual pilots once they were in the area. The AWACS colonel read the traffic, acknowledged receipt and sped the request up the chain of command to the battle fleet commander.

  Aboard the carrier, the admiral’s chief of staff was a cautious man and advised his boss that they probably should check the request first through Washington. The admiral snapped, “No, goddammit! I don’t know who or what this Bounty Hunter is, but he has all of the proper codes and has verified authentication. A Black Flag means that he wants us to get in there and help, not to waste time climbing the cover-our-asses telephone tree. Tell him that we’re on the way. If I’m wrong, I’ll retire early.”

  SWANSON LET TEN MINUTES pass, drank some water and talked to the pilots. The tired rebels had spent their initial burst of energy and excitement and had settled into lethargy, as if the outcome of their mutiny was now certain. They had won and had plenty of time to clean up the remnants of the old regime.

  “Crown, this is Bounty Hunter.”

  “Go ahead, Bounty Hunter.”

  “Turn him loose. When he reaches the control tower, I’m going to pop smoke.”

  “Then what?”

  “You guys hold your line and keep your heads down. Do not venture out beyond your positions.”

  KYLE WAS CAREFUL IN sorting out the calls of aircraft arriving on station, finding out what weapons they had and stacking the planes in packages, flying in circles starting at fifteen thousand feet and fifty miles away. He heard the grumble of the APC heading up the runway and put his binos on it. A white flag was tied to the machine gun in the turret, flapping as the vehicle slowly ventured onto the black tarmac. Picking up the sat phone, Swanson gave a command and a single aircraft peeled away from the stack and headed in toward Ash Mutayr.

  The armored personnel carrier came to a cautious, rattling stop and then the track commander lowered the ramp. The imam, a short and bearded man wearing dirty robes, stepped out and walked with calm confidence toward the rebel command post in the tower. He would deliver the surrender message of Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid, but order the rebels to ignore it. Kill all of the heretics and spit on their bodies! The APC buttoned up its hatches and sped back to its position, fleeing sporadic fire from men to whom the flag of truce meant nothing.

  Within three minutes, the imam’s voice was heard warbling over the loudspeaker system throughout the base, announcing his miraculous escape through the hand of Allah, and exhorting the troops to finish their glorious battle.

  FORTY THOUSAND FEET OVERHEAD, a U.S. Air Force B-2A bomber made a slightly descending approach. Illuminated dials and computerized figures were projected on the heads-up display, but the pilot wanted to get his eyes on these targets. The radio in his headset crackled.

  “Nighthawk, Nighthawk, this is Bounty Hunter.”

  “Go ahead, Bounty Hunter.”

  “Roger. My position is as follows: Six niner, seven four, five niner, six four. Your target is an ammo dump and refueling depot that is 1,150 meters from me at 38 azimuth. I will identify my position with red smoke.”

  “I copy, Bounty Hunter. Target is a gas station 1,150 meters from you at azimuth 38. Over.”

  “That’s a solid copy.”

  The data was locked in the stealth bomber’s computer, which passed the settings to the smart bombs. “Roger that, Bounty Hunter. I can see them now. Quite a crowd.”

  “I’m popping smoke.” Kyle snapped the pin on the smoke grenade and threw the oblong device into the street alongside the building, where it cracked open and spewed out a ballooning column that was thick and crimson, starkly visible against the brown landscape.

  The B-2A bomber pilot now knew exactly where to deliver the load, and where not to bomb. “Roger, I see red smoke.” As the computer made its final calculations, he opened the big doors in the belly of his plane and confirmed, “Starting my bombing run.” In moments, eighty GBU-39 small diameter bombs, each weighing about 300 pounds, spun away from the internal rotary bomb racks and the pilot hauled the stealth plane, the Spirit of Georgia, into a gentle turn and whooshed quietly away.

  THE CLAYMORE MINE THAT guarded the door to his rooftop perch exploded with a flash and such sudden violence that it shook the building. Kyle jumped at the surprise blast and heard a man scream. Some rebel nosing around the building had tripped the booby trap and was blown out of his boots. Automatic weapons began stuttering, with the bullets zipping harmlessly through the smoke of the destroyed doorway. Kyle shifted the phone to his left hand and grabbed his M-16 with his right. If a woman can steer a car, apply makeup, text-message, and drink coffee at the same time, I can do this.

  FROM THE CONTROL TOWER, the imam’s shrill words were still goading his former captors, and bringing shouts of delight from the cheering rebels when the first smart bombs from the B-2A crashed into the lines of armored vehicles at the fuel farm and ammunition depot. A jackhammer staccato of violent explosions crushed the columns with a thorough carpet-bombing, and the storage areas of petrol and ammunition erupted. The ground underfoot shook as the typhoon of destruction consumed the entire area in a fire-storm. Blazing battle tanks flipped about like ruined tin cans.

  Before the roar of the first attack ceased, Kyle had a pair of Marine F/A-18 Hornets barreling in low. They had been flying a mission in Kuwait when the Black Flag was unfurled and arrived as the first package in the circle. Swanson read them the location and azimuth of the wide field that was jammed with rebel soldiers, all of whom were watching the disaster at the tank pens.

  THROUGH A CRACK IN his hide, he saw an enemy soldier creeping slowly along the roof. Kyle held his fire because the man was not specifically hunting him. All the soldier really knew was that a claymore had blocked the doorway and caused casualties. Swanson judged the enemy strength was most likely just a few guys, a squad at most, and the claymore already had sheared off a few. The soldier probed around an air-conditioning duct and found nothing, then turned and saw the hide. The rebel’s eyes grew wide in alarm as Swanson took him down with a careful three-round burst.

  THE FAST F/A-18 HORNETS sailed in on a south-north run and laid a trail of bombs and rockets through the massed infantrymen in the open area. Shrapnel chewed through them like broad razors and their shredded bodies fell in bloody heaps.

  Kyle figured one more strike would be needed and he assigned the target of the control tower to two Navy F-35 Joint Strike Fighters just as another pair of rebel infantrymen darted from the wrecked rooftop doorway, charging toward him with their rifles on full automatic. Swanson kept the radio tight to his ear and put his M-16 over his head, pointed it at open space, and pulled the trigger to let it
rock and roll on full auto. The bad guys would either have to take cover or hit the deck. There was another scream and he gave the final instructions to the planes.

  The JSFs came in low and hard to lay a long, fiery string of napalm that wrapped the control tower in broiling flame and smoke.

  The entire attack required less than ninety seconds and had left the rebel force broken and its leaders dead. The aircraft were gone almost before any of the rebels even had a chance to look up.

  “Frequent Flyer. Bounty Hunter. End mission. One hundred percent success. No more help is needed from the planes waiting in the stack. We owe you all a drink.”

  “Roger that, Bounty Hunter.” The captain was on the line again and was sounding upbeat and flirty. “Stay safe.”

  THE FLIMSY WALL OF the hide crashed down in a tangle of debris as the final rebel soldier slammed into it at a hard run, his thought process unhinged from reality by the ferocity of the fight. The man had lost all sense of reality and was gripped by a temporary insanity: He just wanted to kill the unseen tormentor, face-to-face.

  The attack knocked Swanson down and the M-16 was trapped beneath a board. The furious soldier was on top of him, trying to untangle his own rifle from the wreckage. Kyle slapped him hard in the face with the sat phone receiver in his left hand, a move that broke the bridge of the nose and caused the eyes to water. The head snapped to the left, but the momentum was still propelling the man forward. Kyle released the M-16, lunged forward, and buried his own chin against the enemy’s right cheek. Wrapping his arms around the man and clasping his hands together to complete the body lock, he used remaining momentum to complete a judo throw back over his shoulder. The soldier’s feet left the ground and he sailed overhead.

  The rebel was still holding his AK-47 and the middle part of the weapon smacked Kyle hard in the forehead, cutting the skin and making him see stars momentarily. He held on. When the roll was completed, Kyle was kneeling on top of the soldier in a full mount. He folded his right arm and drove the sharp elbow straight down into the left temple of his opponent, dropped the sat phone so he could yank the Ka-Bar knife from his harness with his left hand. He stuck it hard into the neck, twisting it. He did not have to examine the soldier to know he was dead, so he moved away from the corpse and grabbed the M-16 again, then visually scanned the rooftop while he caught his breath. It was quiet. That was the last one.

  SWANSON RETRIEVED THE PHONE and changed frequencies one more time. Blood was dripping from his forehead into his right eye and he wiped it away.

  “Crown, Bounty Hunter.”

  “Bounty Hunter, this is Crown. That was a bit of a surprise.”

  “Yes, sir. The Saudi Royal Air Force is a splendid unit and deserves commendations for its action here today.”

  “Roger, Bounty Hunter. Care to join us in the attack to finish off the stragglers?”

  “No thanks. Best that this remain an all-Saudi fight. I’ll see you in a little while. Good hunting.”

  41

  TRUE REST WAS HARD to come by; sleep, virtually impossible. Three of the nuclear missiles had been scooped up. Kyle Swanson felt an unreasoning pressure to finish the task and get the remaining two. It was as if an unseen clock was ticking and he did not want to lose the impetus he had going. Keep pushing over the dominoes. Keep stirring the pot.

  The end of the fighting at Ash Mutayr came with a whimper, and a sight that was peculiarly tribal. To a Western military observer such as Swanson, it was incomprehensible. He had seen the phenomena before and still didn’t understand it.

  While the smoke from the air strike was still rising, the remaining rebels began to surrender, walking away from their positions, with their hands up. Some still held weapons, but were smiling. Prince Maashal’s main task turned from fighting to orchestrating the surrender of hundreds of rebel soldiers who only minutes earlier had been trying to slaughter those loyal to the crown. Instead of acting like prisoners of a defeated army, they acted like they were attending some weird high school reunion. They immediately started mingling with their captors, who were content for now just to round everybody up and take away the weapons. The hair-raising violence and threats evaporated like a mirage. Friends again. Comrades once more. Muslims together. Return to the barracks and the mess halls and pray and get ready for tomorrow’s big cleanup, as if nothing ever happened. It would take some time to sort out appropriate punishment.

  He had caught an hour’s worth of relaxation in an air-conditioned office while the prince’s troops went to the hangars at the far end of the airstrip and hauled out the nuclear warhead and the missile launch system, both of which were still intact because Swanson had made sure the U.S. bombers and fighters had not torn up any air facilities except for the control tower. Some helicopters were also safe inside and he had Mishaal appropriate one for his use and have it checked out and fueled.

  “I want to get up to Jeddah right away and prepare to pick up the next nuke at al-Taif,” Kyle said.

  The prince was at a desk, alternating his attention between maps and radio and telephone handsets. “I cannot leave yet, Gunny. A new commander for this base will arrive from Riyadh early tomorrow. We are temporarily assigning the job to a major general, who will bring along his own staff and some fresh troops so we don’t have to go through this loyalty issue again. At least not here.”

  “So how about if I start the arrangements and we can finish off the transfer when you come in tomorrow?”

  The prince nodded agreement. “Do you want one of my staff members to go with you?”

  Kyle shook his head negatively. “No. There’s not much to do and I have the authorization to set up my part of the deal. By the time I get up there and contact my people to set up the next flight, I will be ready for some sack time.”

  “You’ve earned it, Gunny.”

  “So have you.”

  Swanson walked alone to the waiting helicopter. In minutes, he was in the air and gone. He closed his eyes and was immediately asleep. He awoke when the blades changed their sound and the helicopter headed into Jeddah. He saw the friendly face of Jamal smiling at him from a waiting automobile and they went straight to the CIA safe house to get to work.

  It was after midnight before Swanson took a shower and went to bed. The red digital readout of a bedside clock again reminded him that time was rolling away.

  42

  SATURDAY MORNING FOUND MOHAMMED Abu Ebara seated in the one large overstuffed chair in the main room of his thick-walled home. It was sequestered in a private compound, one of several places that he maintained throughout the country. His narrow face was immobile in thought as he stared through a curtained window that overlooked a small garden. This would be an important day, perhaps the most important of his life.

  There was no doubt that the rebellion was faltering throughout the country. The ungrateful populace of Saudi Arabia had not reacted with the storm of resentment that Ebara had both expected and promised. The people had been horribly tainted by unholy ideas and were unwilling to give up their modern comforts, automobiles, television sets, money, music, and filthy habits. They were shunning his call to exchange their lives and fortunes for his message of absolute morality and, through that, a serene life of total obedience.

  Like children, they once again would have to be reminded of who they were. A stern lesson was all that was needed. Once it was properly administered, the uprising would begin anew and sweep across the land.

  Therefore, he would have three men executed in the public square today. His instructions to the executioners were very clear. There would be no artistry in the simultaneous decapitations. The first sword slashes would do no more than cut deeply into shoulders and scalps, starting an orgy of butchery and torture that would be prolonged by the dull chipped blades and careful aim of the men doing the chopping. Severing the spinal cords and actually cutting off the heads probably would not happen until five full minutes of relentless butchery.

  Ebara thought silently: This is how you ge
t votes in my world. I will rule through the oldest and surest of ways: fear and intimidation. Anyone who does not support me is my enemy and will be declared an infidel—open targets for the retribution of Allah!

  Chosen to be slain today were a university professor of archeology who believed that science could replace pure faith, a merchant who had become too wealthy to be humble, and a young man who led the Desert Leopards gang but had outlived his usefulness. The Leopards had not been aggressive enough in creating the needed urban riots and had lost many of their members while fighting the government forces. He would be replaced by an even more violent gang. There was no shortage of criminal gangs. All three of the men, even the young Leopard, were members of families with connections to the royal government.

  When it was done, the pictures and the awful message would spread over the land and rekindle the fire of rebellion. It could still work. He would make it work! Ebara fancied himself as the great captain of a wonderful new movement that would combine religion, government, and military strength under his personal leadership. After all, it was he who had pushed the original idea of a coup into motion and come up with the necessary outside help.

  Just as he had been wrestling with ways to begin a rebellion, the sly Russians, with oil and power on their minds, had appeared before him like a gift from Allah. The middleman was Dieter Nesch and it had taken many days of private conferences before the pieces came together.

  Nesch had spelled it out carefully. A properly financed coup would replace the House of Saud and put Ebara and his religious police force in control. Ebara would subsequently request Russian troops and assistance to protect the oil production facilities. When Saudi Arabia was brought to heel, Ebara and his silent partners could move on to other oil-producing Gulf nations, picking them off like ripe fruit from a tree and spreading Ebara’s religious reign while Russia clamped control on the worldwide price of energy.