An Act of Treason

by Jack Coughlin

  “Sun’s going down,” said Rawls.

  Stone cocked the wheel to one side and eased out of his parking space. “Let’s go get our boy.”

  * * *

  K YLE S WANSON STUDIED THE faces of the men through his scope. Those were the faces in the photographs. “Shooter Two. Confirming these are the targets. Are you on scope?”

  “Roger.” The voice of Jim Hall came back over the headset. Hall had his big rifle resting on its bipod, tilted down. He also could see the targets plainly. At first, he thought the taller man was wearing a bulletproof vest, but on closer examination, he saw it was just a woolen vest beneath the buttoned suit coat. “I have them,” he said.

  Around the city, the big sun was going down in a blaze, and Muslims were ready for the evening prayer. The two men on the balcony shifted over to a pair of beautiful mats that had been laid out for them and went to their knees, side by side, solemn and lost in their own thoughts of how much God had blessed their lives.

  “Target One in position,” said Kyle. “Shooter One on target.”

  “Target Two is in positon. Shooter Two on target,” answered Hall.

  “Roger.” It was exactly as they had rehearsed. Kyle would take the target on the right, Hall the target on the left. “Stand by for my count,” Swanson said. He was waiting to hear the start of the call, so the targets would bend forward and become immobile. Any shot before that might be affected by their sudden movement forward.

  The loudspeakers that were placed throughout the city began the song for the faithful-Allahu Akbar. Allah is the greatest.

  “Four,” Kyle said. “Three… Two… One… Fire.”

  Their rifles barked at exactly the same time, and the bullets slammed into the unsuspecting Taliban fighters. The cheerful Mohammad Sial and the reserved Makhdoom Ragiq were hurled forward on the balcony by the twin impacts, their heads destroyed, but their hearts still pumping blood.

  Kyle pulled a cell phone from his vest and punched a speed-dial number.

  “Dunkin’ Donuts,” answered Staff Sergeant Darren Rawls.

  “Mission accomplished. Need a pickup,” Kyle said.

  Rawls snapped a button on the side of his big wristwatch and logged in the exact time of the call-19:19:14 hours. “On the way. Black Land Rover Defender coming up on your three o’clock.”

  * * *

  “N OW !” CRIED S ELIM W ALEED and launched his own attack to capture U.S. Marine sniper Kyle Swanson.

  20

  J IM H ALL HAD PLANTED small blocks of C-4 explosive along the edge of the roof where he had been hiding, and as soon as he took the shot, he pressed a button on a small box that he had placed beside him. A digital screen came to life, activating a countdown. He had two minutes.

  Hall raced down the long emergency staircase in his building, with his right hand gripping the descending metal railing to help him sail around the tight corners. He hit the ground floor at full speed and rammed out through a fire door, where the promised SUV with the gold flag on its fender was waiting. A huge man with bowling-ball muscles held open the rear door. There was no expression on his face.

  Hall dove inside, and the big vehicle surged away from the curb with Hall flat on his back in the rear seat, hidden behind the tinted windows. “Get us out of here! Go!” he yelled.

  They had not traveled more than a block when the explosives detonated in a series of sudden booms. Fire flashed, and a rising cloud of dirty smoke spread across the roof and curled upward as the entire upper corner of the building blew out with a crashing roar.

  * * *

  K YLE S WANSON HAD NO intention of following any escape route the Taliban had helped plan. When Hall had left him earlier, Kyle had spent some time pushing and pulling furniture and appliances across the only doorway into the apartment. The refrigerator, the dresser, the sofa, a toppled bookcase, and other heavy items were barricaded against the inward-opening door.

  His hide was far back in the shadows of the living room, and as soon as he saw his target collapse, Swanson bolted down a narrow hallway and into the bedroom, which had a terrace of its own. The gathering darkness worked in his favor. He jumped lightly over the rail and stepped easily to the steel fire-escape ladder that stretched from the ground floor to the roof and was painted the same shade as the cream-colored building. Kyle headed for the roof.

  Behind him, he heard thudding against the barricaded door to the living room, followed by shouts and finally by three short bursts of automatic weapons fire. Bullets might damage the refrigerator, but they would not get the pursuers through that door.

  He reached the roof and spider-dropped to a crouch. Clear. They had expected him to go out through the front door. Instead, he was heading across the rooftops of two adjoining buildings and would take the fire ladder down the rear of the more distant one.

  Swanson had started to run when the C-4 erupted a few blocks away. He froze in his tracks, turning in time to see the wall of the apartment house blow apart. He made an involuntary lurch toward the dying building because he knew his friend Jim Hall was trapped up there. Hall had trusted the Taliban once too often, and now he was dead. The options rolled through his mind in a few seconds. The CIA veteran, if he was somehow still alive, knew procedure; he knew the location of safe houses and where to get help. There was nothing Kyle could do to help Hall. Swanson’s own mission was done, and he had to get out before the security forces flooded the area.

  He ran hard, his shoes grabbing traction, and leaped over a small railing that separated the two buildings.

  * * *

  T HE BIG, BOXY L AND Rover jumped the sidewalk as it rounded the final corner and came to a screaming halt, one side crashing into a parked car. The entire palm-lined boulevard was sealed off, and cars of various security agencies were slashing in from all sides without regard for pedestrians or civilian motorists. Police in black armor and helmets were throwing a ring around the entire block and plunging into every building.

  Travis Stone threw the Land Rover into reverse and flattened a parked motor scooter as he made a sharp three-point turn. Police were watching, and he jammed down the gas pedal and barreled away.

  Darren Rawls called out to Swanson on the radio, ignoring routine procedures. “Get out of there, boss. Abandon the plan. Cops and soldiers all over the place down here. Streets are all blocked, and they are hitting every building. We can’t reach you.”

  Kyle stopped loping across the final roof, edged to the side, and peered down. Vehicles were coming in for blocks all around. Men with guns were closing in. Flashlights were cutting lines of light through the gloom. He heard a yell behind him as a couple of policemen made it to the roof of his hide building and spotted him. “You guys egress,” he said. “I’m gone.”

  “Roger that. We’ll hold the Taxi One Four at the assigned grid for as long as we can. Go, boss. Go.”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  M ASTER G UNNY O. O. D AWKINS did the arithmetic in his head. Two minutes would be required from the time of the triggers being pulled to getting the shooters out of the buildings and into their cars. About another nineteen mikes to weave through the city streets and reach the countryside, then another five to the landing zone. That meant a total of twenty-six minutes just for them to reach the helicopter. The clock now read only zero-plus-five. There was no need to get nervous. Everything that could be done had been done. Now all they could do was wait and see.

  The Task Force Trident office remained quiet except for the hum of the Lizard’s computers. Waiting for a team to come up on the net precluded idle banter. Like a baseball team remaining quiet if a pitcher has a chance for a no-hitter, there was a superstition among special operators that talking too much might jinx the mission.

  The silence was broken when a telephone buzzed on the desk of Major General Brad Middleton and the caller identification showed it was the White House chief of staff. “Patterson,” the general grunted, “this is the second time you’ve called in the last five minutes. Quit bo
thering us. I will let you know when we hear anything. Do not call back.”

  This new guy at the White House, Bobby Patterson, apparently thought that because he worked for the commander in chief, he was also an expert on war and covert operations. Asshole had never even been in the service. Fuck him.

  * * *

  S WANSON WAS TRAPPED LIKE a rat in a maze, as the actual terrain dictated his movement. There was only one way to go. The edges of the building corralled him right and left, and the cops were coming up the ladder. He pulled out his.45 ACP, fired a single shot for some harassing fire to make them take cover, and took off for the next roof.

  This time he had to jump a narrow alley and took it in full stride, leaping into space and landing with a hard hit and shoulder roll. He noticed that despite his own shot, the cops were not firing back, although they were still chasing him. More of them had reached the roof. That meant their radios were working and they were calling up reinforcements to flood the area. He couldn’t stay on top, and there was no time for analysis or strategy or even fright; just a rush of instant decisions, each built flimsily on the previous one. He trusted his instincts and training, determined not to meekly hold up his hands and quit.

  A rooftop entry cubicle loomed on his right, and he grabbed the handle and threw it wide. See a doorway, hit it. Empty. He started down the stairs but heard the shouts and the boot stomps of men entering the bottom of the stairwell. The door to the third floor was at hand, and he ducked through.

  A carpeted hallway stretched the length of the expensive residential building. It was neat and wide, with only two facing doorways on either side of the single elevator in the middle to serve the apartments at each end. Fat potted palms huddled beneath framed artwork, the fanned fronts brushing the ceiling.

  Kyle needed a diversion to confuse the men chasing him. Using the butt of his pistol as a hammer, he crushed the lights at his end of the hallway, and it fell into a gray dimness just as the soft chime of the elevator bell rang. Kyle kicked open a door, hard enough to break the lock, then ducked behind the nearest broad potted palm.

  Two security men wearing black coveralls and body armor dashed out when the elevator doors parted, immediately breaking toward the dark area. When they saw the door sagging open, both of them rushed into the apartment with weapons drawn instead of one providing cover for the other.

  Kyle came in right behind them, pulling the door closed as he passed it, and silently counting off the passing seconds in his head. One… He punched his shoulder hard into the back of the officer directly before him, using the man as a battering ram and their forward momentum to knock down the front man. Three… Swanson reached over the head of the man he had pushed and grabbed him by the rim of the helmet, jerking the head backward to expose the neck. With his left hand maintaining the leverage, Kyle swung his right hand and pistol up and smashed the muzzle and barrel into the man’s larynx, crushing it. Six…

  He did not want to shoot either man, and did not want them to have time to shoot at him. If they died, so be it, but he could not afford a single gunshot that could bring in the reinforcements. If that happened, Kyle wouldn’t stand a chance. He dropped the body of the man he had just killed and slammed into the second one with a rear choke hold. Right forearm around the throat, clasp left hand with the right, and lean back to trap his air. Nine… Swanson squeezed with all of his might. The man was in such pain and shock that he clawed at Kyle’s arm with both hands, trying to get air instead of working to bring a weapon to bear. Finally the man fell limp. Kyle started a new count, holding his victim tight and continuing the unrelenting squeeze until he reached the number seven.

  He eased the body to the floor and plopped down between them and caught his own breath. Nineteen seconds from start to finish. He looked at the door, which had shut tight, and listened for noise in the hallway. Nothing was happening.

  Swanson got back to work and quickly stripped both bodies and pulled on a black jumpsuit, a black vest, a black helmet over a black roll-down mask, an equipment belt, and a set of big goggles. Being of average size himself, the first man’s boots were a good fit. He dragged the bodies into the bedroom and stuffed them between the bed and the wall. With an AK-47 grasped in both hands, Kyle Swanson charged back into the hallway, then into the stairwell to merge with the throng of men who were hunting him.

  * * *

  S ELIM W ALEED WOULD WAIT no longer. Everything was in the timing tonight, and he had allowed two minutes for the capture of the Marine sniper. It should have been a simple task but took a bad turn when the police reported the Marine had not been in the apartment. They were chasing him.

  At the two-minute mark, Selim heard the explosion and looked out from his own apartment in time to watch the upper floor of the building where Jim Hall had been hiding disappear with sharp blasts and coiling smoke. Fire was already rising through that wreckage. That jarred him back to reality. He could wait no longer. Plans change. It did not matter whether Hall or the Marine or Taliban fighters or students studying the Koran or cops or soldiers were alive when overturning the government was the true goal. Anyone could be sacrificed. At four minutes, with still no report of a capture, he grabbed his cell phone and dialed number by number, then punched the SEND button.

  For a moment, time seemed to stand still in the beautiful city of Islamabad. Soldiers on rooftops, people in the streets and in their homes and businesses, or on their knees at prayer, paused as their brains processed sudden new information that something dangerous was happening.

  Waleed’s signal was received by a detonator planted among the boxes and crates of ammunition stacked in the big yard next to the crowded madrasah, and a spark jumped to complete a firing circuit. The jagged high hill of explosives erupted, and as the old sun disappeared for the night of September 30, a volcanic new sun of fire and destruction rose in the heart of the city.

  21

  C OPS, SECURITY PERSONNEL, AND soldiers swarmed, throwing a cordon around the apartment block. Blockades of police cars with flashing light bars sealed the streets, and officers yelled directions to their men going into the buildings. Swanson swam easily against the tide, moving with the self-confidence of someone on a specific mission, just another uniform, and nobody stopped him. Every second counted. Just being out of the building did not mean he was safe, although it improved the odds.

  He needed wheels. Beyond the first line of policemen guarding the inner perimeters were clusters of official cars that had parked haphazardly and been abandoned along the street. Chances were good that if the lights were blinking, some anxious driver would have left the motor running in his excitement to join the hunt. Ironically, Kyle realized that he was moving toward the same building where his targets had been standing on the balcony. Swanson methodically worked his way along the line of cars, placing his palm on the hood of each in turn to detect the vibration of an engine. The third one. An iron gray Nissan sedan with no insignia had been abandoned with its red and blue lights still winking brightly behind the grill. A disciplined officer would have shut down and locked the vehicle, but this one had not done so. Kyle knew his chances had just improved remarkably. Once through the cordon of cops, Kyle could drive like hell to reach the helicopter.

  Swanson ducked into the driver’s seat and tossed his AK-47 into the passenger compartment. He closed the door and snapped the lock shut, and an automatic seat belt harness strapped across his chest. With one hand on the steering wheel, he glanced down to find the gear lever and shifted it into reverse. He looked in the rearview mirror. Clear. He gunned the accelerator.

  In the next heartbeat, the entire car was snatched from the ground by a monstrous blow and twirled into the air like a toy by a scalding cyclone of superheated air. It’s not just the car that’s flying, it’s me! A gigantic explosion had erupted less than a block away and was flattening and destroying everything in its path. Cops and people tumbled, walls were crushed, cars were flung about, and tall palm trees were shorn off at their roots. B
ig chunks of concrete became deadly boulders of shrapnel.

  The Nissan completely overturned while airborne, then corkscrewed back to earth, whipped by the concussion. It crashed once back onto the street, bounced, and rolled over twice more while skidding a hundred feet before coming to rest with a half-dozen other cars that were stacking against a building.

  Kyle Swanson was unconscious, hanging upside down, suspended by the seat belt, and supported by inflated air bags. He never heard the explosions that rolled over him.

  * * *

  T HE SUV THAT WAS carrying Jim Hall of the CIA also overturned when the concussion wave snatched it, and slid in a cascade of sparks on its side as debris smacked it like an unending barrage of mortar shells. A length of steel rod punched through the front window and stabbed the driver through the head.

  The other agent in the car was dazed and groaned in pain. He could function. The man put his arms against the door that was now over his head and pushed with weightlifter strength until it popped free, then levered himself out of the wreckage.

  Instead of disappearing in the chaos, running away to find safety, the agent turned back to the vehicle. He called out in broken English, “You alive?”

  “Yeah,” Hall shouted. “Help me out of here.” He had been hurled against the seats and was torqued into a tight corner, trapped by twisted metal.

  “I am coming.” The large man ignored the blood streaming down his own face and put his big muscles back to work, hurling away chunks of material and digging with his bare hands. The explosions thundered. He found the American at the bottom of the car, twisted and caught in a corner. The agent needed leverage. He squeezed into the backseat, put his feet against the front seat and his back against the rear, and pushed hard and steadily. There was strong resistance, but he continued to push, grunting with effort, and felt some give. Then came a sharp snap as a weakened metal strut broke, and the rear seat catapulted backward.