He patted Jodie and glanced down at Kareem as he resumed his jogging.
When he got to the guard station at the end of the road, Ben told the guard there to pick up the body and take it back to the base hospital.
When the guard left, Ben patted Jodie and said, “Come on, girl, I’ll race you the rest of the way back.”
After a few moments, he looked down at the dog. “Just like an Arab, Jodie, to bring a knife to a fistfight,” he said as she ran happily alongside him down the road toward the base and home.
Look for
William W. Johnstone’s
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CODE NAME: GOLDFIRE
Coming in May 2002
from Pinnacle Books
Here’s a sneak preview . . .
Iraq, January 15, 1991:
So barren was the area into which John Barrone, Lieutenant Colonel Arlington Lee Grant, and Sergeant David Clay had parachuted, that they may as well have been on the back side of the moon. Despite their seeming isolation, mission procedure dictated that they operate as if they were under observation; thus they made certain to use shadows and background to eliminate any silhouette. They called their progress across the desert floor a walk, but they were moving at a ground-eating lope of better than eight miles per hour.
“You are certain he is there?” Colonel Grant asked John.
“He is there,” John replied.
John Barrone was the only nonmilitary member of the team. John, Colonel Grant, and Sergeant Clay were engaged in a covert operation, also known as a black ops, though not entirely because the three men were dressed in black and had their faces covered with camouflage paint in order to absorb any ambient light.
John had been operating inside Iraq for several days, looking for General Abdul Sin-Sargon. Once he found him, he’d slipped back across the border to U.S. Army “Task Force Ripper,” to report on the general’s location. When asked if he would return with the special operations team, John had agreed. One hour earlier, he, Colonel Grant, and Sergeant Clay had made a night parachute jump from a C-130, and were now moving swiftly through the Iraqi desert.
U.S. intelligence sources believed General Sin-Sargon to be Saddam Hussein’s most capable battle tactician. He had been the architect behind the Iraq-Iran war, and was now charged with deploying a defense against the coalition forces. Taking out Sin-Sargon would deny the Iraqi Army his leadership and save hundreds of American lives, once the invasion started.
Exactly ninety minutes after the three men touched down, they reached their destination. Utilizing the darkness, they were but shadows within shadows as they eased out onto a rock precipice to look down at Sin-Sargon’s encampment, three hundred yards away.
John and Colonel Grant were carrying M-16 rifles with four double-sized ammo clips. Sergeant Clay was carrying a Heckler & Koch PSG-1 sniper rifle, with a light-gathering telescopic site. As the three men lay there, observing the camp, Sergeant Clay began unloading his magazine, pushing the 7.62 ammunition out, one bullet at a time.
“What are you doing?” John asked quietly.
Clay opened a little cloth bag and dumped out a handful of bullets. “I prefer these over the military issue,” he said. “I bought them myself, .308-caliber, 168-gram, hollow-point, boat-tail, match-quality ammunition.”
He reloaded the magazine, then clicked it into place just forward of the trigger assembly.
With his rifle loaded and ready, Sergeant Clay deployed the small bipod, then took up a prone firing position, with his left hand just touching the fore stock and his right hand wrapped around the pistol grip. He put his cheek against the receiver, pressed the padded butt into his shoulder, then looked through the scope.
“I’m ready,” Clay said quietly.
“Look for a man carrying a carved cane,” John said.
“A cane?”
“Sin-Sargon is never without it.”
Inside the tent of General Sin-Sargon:
Sin-Sargon took a sip of water, then put his cup down beside him. He was sitting cross-legged on a rug, an AK-47 rifle lying across his lap, his jewel-encrusted, gold-headed cane alongside. The tent was dimly lit by a small battery-powered lamp, and there was a double entrance to the tent so that whenever someone entered or exited, they would pass through two flaps. That way, there would be no chance for the light to escape.
“General, if the Americans attack, there will be many of them and they will be strong,” Sin-Sargon’s aide-de-camp said. “If President Hussein cannot come to some peace, I fear that many of our brave young soldiers will die.”
“Those who do not die by the sword will eventually die by some other means,” Sin-Sargon replied calmly. “There are many causes of death, but there is only one death. Therefore, if death is a predetermined must, is it not better to die bravely and for a cause? Our cause is righteous and blessed by Allah.”
“I believe that as well,” Sargon’s aide said. “But we are professional soldiers. Many of our men are shopkeepers and goat herdsmen. They have not chosen the art of war, and it is they who fear what lies ahead.”
Sin-Sargon stood up. “Perhaps you are right. I will visit them, and remind them that they are fighting for a righteous cause,” he said. “Bring my cane.” He pointed toward his walking stick. The aide picked the cane up and held it reverently.
“Is it true what they say about this cane, General?” the aide asked. “Is it the cane of the Prophet?”
“Yes, that is true. This was the cane of the Prophet Mohammed himself,” Sin-Sargon said proudly. “Of course, such a thing is not written, but it has been passed down through many generations of my family, and each of us who have been blessed to own it know in our heart that it is a true relic of the Prophet. It was also carried by Mohammed II when he wrested Istanbul from the hands of the infidels. And now, it has fallen upon me to safeguard.”
Sin-Sargon and his aide stepped into the small canvas alcove. The first flap was closed before the second flap opened, thus preventing any light from escaping. Then the two men moved out into the night air.
“Here is your cane, General,” the aide said once they were outside. He handed the walking stick to Sin-Sargon. “I am honored that you have allowed me to hold it.”
“I have a target,” Sergeant Clay said quietly.
“Take him out,” Colonel Grant ordered.
“Damn,” Clay said.
“What is it?”
“Mr. Barrone said shoot the man with the cane. But one man has just handed the cane to another. I don’t know which one is which.”
“The first man was probably General Sin-Sargon’s aide, Lieutenant Kahli,” said John. “Don’t bother about him.”
“Kill them both,” Grant ordered.
“Colonel, Sin-Sargon is the one we want,” John said. “There’s no need to kill just to be killing.”
“You heard Sergeant Clay. Both men have handled the cane. The success of this mission is my call. We must be certain. Kill them both, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” Clay replied.
The PSG-1 rifle boomed, then recoiled against his shoulder, but the flash-suppressor prevented a big muzzle display.
Lieutenant Kahli heard an angry buzz, then a thump. A puff of dust flew up from General Sin-Sargon’s shirt, followed by a spewing fountain of blood.
“Uhnn!” Sin-Sargon gasped, his eyes opening wide in shock.
“General!” Lieutenant Kahli shouted, still not comprehending what had just happened. Puzzled, he looked off in the distance, where he saw a quick wink of light. It was the last thing he ever saw, for even as that strange sight was registering with him, the bullet entered between his eyes, then blew tissue, blood, and bone through a half-dollar-sized hole in the back of his head.
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Copyright © 2001 by William W. Johnstone
ISBN: 978-0-7860-1332-6
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