Clean Kill

by Jack Coughlin; Donald A. Davis

  “That leaves one still out there. One is still one too many.” Tsang wondered how they found out about his rank and real position. No time to worry about that right now. “I cannot see how anything has really changed.”

  Kyle responded, “We are on the way out to pick up the final one right now, Major. I invite you to accompany us to confirm the removal with your own eyes and report that back to your superiors. It is at the King Abdul Aziz Military City at Tabuk, near the Jordanian frontier.”

  Tsang knew of the huge base, the center of the Northwest Area Command. It was home to infantry and armor brigades of the Royal Saudi Land Forces, the airborne and armor schools, and an air base. “It’s almost seven hundred miles away,” he said. Tsang rolled his white napkin into a ball and tossed it on the table. “Then why are we still sitting here? Gentlemen, shall we go?”

  “My plane is waiting,” Mishaal responded, and slid out of the booth. There was a commotion at the door, where his aide was listening to a staff officer as they approached. Captain Omar al-Muallami shot out his hand and grabbed a fistful of the briefer’s sleeve and dragged him off to the side, at the same time motioning for Mishaal to follow. Al-Muallami took them into a small cloak room beside the reception desk and closed the door behind them.

  While Swanson and Tsang looked blankly at each other, Jamal drifted over to join them. “He’s with me. CIA,” Kyle explained. Tsang said nothing. All eyes were on the door.

  It opened and Mishaal stormed out. His fists were clenched and his face was flushed with color. “It’s gone,” he growled. “The damned nuke has disappeared!”

  55

  TABUK, SAUDI ARABIA

  EVEN WITH THE PILOTS pushing the throttles through the firewall, it took Mishaal’s executive jet several anxious hours to fly from Riyadh to Tabuk, hours that seemed to stretch into eternity when an urgent message was received en route. Intelligence services were reporting that the Israelis were scrambling their forces and getting into high gear after receiving a cryptic and brief advisory that a nuclear weapon had been captured by terrorists in Saudi Arabia. The unidentified source was considered highly credible, and the target was to be Jerusalem, the ancient and historic city that was revered by Jews, Christians, and Arabs alike.

  Henry Tsang had grabbed his war bag from the trunk of the diplomatic vehicle that had taken him to the Marriott and was now out of his suit and into jeans and a blue T-shirt that emphasized his muscular upper body. He did not have much to say during the flight, but missed nothing that was going on. The passing hours would be pushing China closer to launching the invasion. If Jerusalem went up in a mushroom cloud, the international community would probably applaud the Chinese for moving so decisively to stem the possibility of other nuclear attacks elsewhere in the region. Beijing and Washington might even work together instead of fighting. It was most confusing, Tsang thought.

  Mishaal was glowering silently out of the window while fielding messages on the situation. The King Abdul Aziz Military City was totally locked down, and would stay that way until he got there. The commanding general had committed suicide. Mishaal was embarrassed and infuriated. If he had not attended those long conference meetings, this missile would already have been packed safely away. He had personally spoken with King Abdullah about the dire situation and the monarch was clearly worried. If that missile—a Saudi weapon that had been kept secret until only a few days ago—struck Jerusalem, there would be no stopping the Jews. Others would pile into the fight until the House of Saud was gone and perhaps the whole country with it.

  Kyle Swanson ran the mental tapes over and over in his head, staring straight ahead at the empty seat in front of him. He was thinking about it this way; it makes absolutely no fuckin’ sense.

  A SMALL CONVOY LED by the commanding general had arrived at the main gate just after dawn, a flag of Saudi Arabia fluttering on a small pole attached to one fender of his luxury sedan and his two-star flag of rank on the other. Although his authority was unquestioned, the sedan intentionally stopped to allow the sentries to verify his identification both by sight and credentials. When the guards snapped to attention, the sedan rolled through, followed by an armored Humvee and two giant M920 8 × 6 tractor trucks, each hauling a M870A1 lowboy semitrailer that was more than twenty-five feet in length.

  The vehicles were driven straight to the interior compound in which the nuclear missile system was secured, and the general told the colonel in charge that there had been a change in the orders. He had received a fax from the Interior Ministry that called for the immediate pickup of the weapon, and cancellation of the original schedule set for later in the day. Faced with the major general’s personal presence and the official government document, the colonel and his troops complied.

  The two long lowboys had been parked side by side, with their huge engines rumbling at idle, and the armored personnel carriers—one containing the warhead and the other with the missile—were positioned on specific load spots on each flat deck, where they were locked down with chains and load binders.

  The transfer papers were signed, the convoy left in the glow of the morning light, the colonel disbanded the guard unit, and the commanding general went back to his office, stuck a pistol to his head and blew his brains out.

  A smooth and flawless operation, Kyle decided.

  That was the mechanical side. What had him puzzled was why a sealed envelope with his name on it was among the paperwork given to the colonel.

  THEIR PLANE MADE A smooth landing at the King Faisal Air Base within the military city and taxied to a stop near a group of senior officers standing stiffly before a line of sedans. Prince Mishaal was the first person off the plane and his grim face gave them no solace. He was in a rage, and their nervousness was made complete as his aide went down the line making a list of their names.

  Kyle went down the stairs into the heat lifting from the tarmac, determined to keep Mishaal in check. It would do no good at this point to have him just fire a bunch of officers because he was angry. “Get that envelope,” he said from just behind the prince’s shoulder.

  Mishaal barked an order and a full colonel stepped forward and handed him the sealed manila envelope. A rather elegant looping handwriting had written the name of the addressee.

  “Now take us to the office of the commanding general,” Mishaal ordered. “Is the body still there?”

  “Yes, sir. No one has touched anything. We were awaiting your arrival.”

  Kyle and Mishaal got into the rear seat of the second sedan, with Henry Tsang given the passenger side in the front. As the line of cars blasted away from the flight line, Swanson ran a finger beneath the sealed flap and tore it open. An eight-by-ten piece of common writing paper, folded one time, was inside.

  I am waiting at the end of the world. Juba.

  “Shit!” snarled Kyle. He passed the brief note to Mishaal, who read it and gave it to Tsang.

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means we are facing down a total madman, a terrorist who is responsible for thousands of deaths, someone I thought was already dead.”

  Henry Tsang spoke up. “Juba. The terrorist from the biochem attacks in London and San Francisco a few years back? He’s behind this?”

  “Maybe not the entire plot, but he probably was the one pulling the triggers to order the specific attacks.” Kyle looked out the window as the sedan screamed toward the headquarters building. “I can’t believe he lived through that mess in Iraq. Not only did I shoot him, but we dropped a bomb on his head at the same time. Unbelievable.”

  “So this message is a challenge to you? He wants some kind of duel to exact revenge?”

  “It looks that way. Like I said, he is crazy and has apparently become fixated on killing me. Don’t expect logic from someone who is insane.”

  The car slowed and curved into a broad parking area before a large whitewashed building that was three stories high. Guards were at the doors.

  “And he wants to meet you at the end of
the world,” said Mishaal as he opened the door to the office of the commanding general.

  56

  TABUK

  THE SMELL OF DEATH blocked them at the door, an overpowering combination of a body already decaying in a small space. The general was slouched back in his chair behind his desk and the cushion behind his head was saturated with dark blood. A torrent of blood also had swept from the large exit wound onto his uniform. A dark circular bruise the size of a gun barrel surrounded the single entry wound and specks of unburned gunpowder stippled the skin. The pistol was still gripped in his right hand.

  “It looks like he considered what he was doing, maybe hesitating at the last minute,” said Kyle. “He finally just jammed the pistol hard against his temple and pulled the trigger.”

  “The filthy animal had nothing to live for. He had dishonored himself and his family and got caught on the wrong side of the coup.” Mishaal’s eyes rested on the dead man. “I never liked him. Now let’s get back to work.” The prince spat on the corpse and led the group back outside. Investigators took their place.

  A colonel escorted them to a fresh office in a nearby building and then briefed them on how the general had led the unauthorized raid to take the nuclear weapon. The colonel handed Mishaal a piece of paper, an official fax of authorization from the Department of the Interior in Riyadh, in proper form, on letterhead and signed by a deputy minister. “After we spoke with you this morning, I tried to contact the man who signed that authorization. He apparently is nowhere to be found.”

  Mishaal passed the paper to his aide and said, “Call Riyadh and give them my orders to find him. Colonel, please speak in English for our guests.”

  Kyle cleared his throat and the prince nodded that he could address the colonel. “About how many men did the general have along with him this morning when they took the device?”

  “Just the driver in each truck, somebody else was with him in the command car, and four men in the Humvee escort. The general said they were to rendezvous with a special unit that was unaffiliated with the base. I thought about questioning that, since we have thousands of men on the base here, but he was my commanding officer and had the transfer document.”

  “So in total, less than ten men were in the raiding party. Nine, now that the general whacked himself.”

  “Yes,” said the colonel.

  “Who was the other guy in the command car?”

  “An American who had CIA credentials.” The colonel checked another list. “The name was Jeremy M. Osmand.”

  Kyle turned to Mishaal. “Damn. Juba is a Brit. His real name is Jeremy Mark Osmand. What arrogance! He really wants to be sure that I get his message.”

  Mishaal instructed the colonel to throw as many planes and helicopters in the air as possible to expand the search already underway between the base and the border, then dismissed him. Kyle, Mishaal, Henry Tsang, and Jamal were alone in the office. “You have been very quiet, Major Tsang,” the prince said.

  “The situation is troubling. When we were back at the hotel, for a moment, I thought you might really have something that my country would find of great interest. Now, with the general dead and the nuclear weapon missing, I have grave doubts.” The Chinese intelligence officer spread open his palms in frustration.

  “Jamal? What do you think?” asked Kyle.

  “I’m also uncertain, just like the major. This revenge thing Juba has going with you is not the same for a decent terrorist as dropping a nuke on Israel. No offense, Kyle, but you’re a pretty small fish in comparison.”

  Swanson rose from his chair and went to a white greaseboard hanging on a wall. “I assure all of you that this lunatic’s obsession is not returned by me. He should have learned the last time we met that there is no honor involved; I just want him dead. We literally blew apart the house in which he was hiding, and he was buried under the debris. Plus, I’m certain that I hit him with a .50 caliber bullet just before the bomb struck. Somehow he lived through it. I’ll do the same thing again, and use every weapon available to us. This is no duel. It’s just his fantasy.”

  Mishaal stood and stretched. The tension was locking up his muscles. “Still, he is very dangerous. He has the weapon. We must get it back.”

  “Maybe it is not quite as urgent as we first thought. Juba coming out and identifying himself actually is a help. Hell, I didn’t even know he was in the game until now. Under his terms, we have a time cushion before he even tries to set off the nuke because he wants me within range.”

  “But Kyle, he can punch the button at any time,” Jamal said. “Let me play psychiatrist for a minute with this nutcase. Maybe he just wants you to be close enough to watch him do the launch, to show you that you failed to stop him. Then, once the missile is away, he can try to settle accounts between the two of you.”

  Swanson picked up the black grease pen and uncapped it. “That’s where he has a real problem. I don’t think he can do it.”

  “Why?” Mishaal rested against the edge of the desk. “Look at everything he has done, or caused, so far. The man is diabolical.”

  Kyle wrote a big number “9” on the board. “That’s how many men he has with him. It’s not enough. Think about it, guys. This is no fire and forget weapon. Nukes are sophisticated. They need special crews for taking them from a warehouse, crane operators, crews for convoys, command and control personnel, vehicle operators, communicators and escorts. Every man involved is highly trained, and those who work with the weapon itself must be trained and certified. Codes are kept in steel boxes with combination locks. This thing is in two separate parts, in two separate APCs. I don’t think he has the manpower or the know-how to even string the cables between the missile carrier and the command track, much less actually be able to mount the warhead. Juba’s brilliant, but he doesn’t know everything and he cannot do it alone. I do not think that bird is going to fly anywhere.”

  They all jerked around suddenly when there was a loud pounding on the door and Captain Omar al-Muallami charged inside and shouted, “We have found it!”

  57

  THE ENTIRE HIGHWAY SOUTH from Tabuk was instantly commandeered and police and troops cleared it of all civilian traffic to make way for the trucks and armored vehicles swarming out of King Abdul Aziz Military City toward the reported location of the missile, some fifty miles away. Thick clouds of sand were pulled behind the moving vehicles and fighter aircraft took over the skies. A pair of large command helicopters flew above the storm in a tight side-by-side formation. Prince Mishaal, along with his aide and a few senior officers were in the lead bird. Kyle Swanson, Henry Tsang, and Jamal were aboard the flanking chopper, which had been constructed to ferry generals around, not to wrestle its way into combat zones.

  They sailed along through the copper-tinted sky, wrapped in comfort. Soft blue cushioned seats faced forward like easy chairs bolted to the metal deck. Side doors closed out the passing wind, while internal soundproofing reduced the rotor noise to a whine. Strong air-conditioning filtered out the dirt and kept the passengers cool. Kyle thought that it would have been an enjoyable flight if nuclear Armageddon wasn’t brewing at the other end of the trip.

  The two command helicopters slowed and settled into a lazy circle at about a thousand feet when they neared the scene, the pilots wary of possible shoulder-launched missiles from the terrorists who were assumed to be somewhere below. Kyle looked out and down. No question. They had arrived; there it was.

  Juba’s lethal little convoy had left the main road at a small unmarked crossroad and driven down into a hidden valley of sand and rock, where hundreds of old vehicles had been dumped over the years to rust away beneath the blistering desert sun. The rare rains that would transform the dry wadi into a raging river would also rearrange the hundreds of metal carcasses in haphazard fashion, burying some, stacking others against one another, and resurrecting steel skeletons that had been buried in earlier floods. A few abandoned huts were scattered along the high sides of the valley, and their
empty windows and doors yawned open and dark.

  Swanson looked at it all with the practiced eyes of a sniper. Juba had chosen the place well. Over the years, this changing landscape had created plenty of places in which to hide.

  The missile was clearly visible in the vast junk field, thrusting up out of its armored carrier and locked into its proper firing position of a 60-degree angle, pointed north, toward Israel. A conical shape was on the top, and the ominous missile looked ready to fly.

  The second APC, which had carried the nuclear warhead, was abandoned about fifty meters away, and its strong crane hung over the side. The chain hoist had made it possible for the thieves to lift the heavy payload from its carrying crate and mount it atop the blunt end of the missile.

  Even before they had taken off from the military city, Prince Mashaal had ordered the wadi blocked off in all directions and surrounded. From the air, Kyle saw a developing scene that was taking the shape of a huge donut as a ring of steel, mobile firepower, and soldiers closed in. Scout helicopters drew no antiaircraft fire when they swooped low across the zone, so the two command helicopters dashed in and landed on the far side of the highway even as military traffic continued to grind past.

  Kyle returned his radio headset back on its rest, unbuckled his seatbelt, and pushed the door back. The sudden blast of heat and rotor downwash came as a shock when he stepped from the protective cocoon, and he shielded his eyes and jogged forward to escape the thick dirt cloud. When he was clear, he looked up and realized that, standing at ground level, he could not even see the wadi that descended on the far side of the highway.