Kill Zone

by Jack Coughlin

  The family groomed Gordon Gates IV to carry on the torch. He was a very bright kid when he was attending an elite prep school, but he had a vision of his own. All he had to do was say the word and he could step out of prep school and into Harvard, Yale, or Stanford, and then be prepared to take over Gates Global when his flashy playboy father was ready to pass the baton. But with the added bonus of aggravating his old man, young Gordon joined the U.S. Army as a private, determined to start at the bottom and get the kind of on-the-ground experience that would help him know what the hell he was talking about when he finally joined the family business. He still planned to run it someday, but Dear Old Dad wasn’t anywhere near ready to voluntarily give up the throne. GG IV detested GG III, who felt the same about his only son and heir.

  The smart kid from the mansion in Mission Hills, Kansas, enlisted in the U.S. Army as a grunt soldier, became a Ranger, and was a sergeant in the 101st Airborne when he was qualified for Delta Force. After two years as a Delta operator, he allowed the Army to pay for his higher education and was scooped from the ranks to attend West Point. Once commissioned, he took a Rhodes Scholarship at Oxford and then got back into the mud with a year’s secondment to the British SAS.

  He returned to Delta deep-selected as a major, and served three more years on special missions to the dark holes of the world. The Pentagon loved having Gordon Gates on the payroll, brought him to Washington, made him a light colonel, and buried him deep undercover to plan and implement black operations. It was said around the E-Ring that Gates was a slam-dunk for his first star. Then Daddy GG III wrapped his Ferrari 512 Berlinetta Boxer and his mistress around an oak tree alongside a curving, wet road.

  And he was always bitching at me about taking risks in the army! Gordon thought as the casket of Dear Old Dad was lowered into the grave in the family plot in Kansas. It was his turn to take over Gates Global, and he came to the job totally ready as a dues-paid-in-full member of the Pentagon Gun Club.

  He established his supreme authority by bringing a squad of lawyers to his first meeting with the board of directors, and fired most of the men and women who had been his father’s staunchest friends and allies. He told the survivors what was coming. The Berlin Wall is a pile of old rocks: there was never going to be a battle between Soviet and American tanks for the Fulda Gap. Continuing to manufacture thousands of new tanks was stupid. Nuclear-powered aircraft carriers were sailing toward a horizon of obsolescence and the giant submarines crammed with world-crunching missiles were outdated. Whole generations of fighter planes had nobody to fight. That really didn’t matter, he said. Gates Global would continue to build the steel and titanium dinosaurs as long as the profit margin remained solid.

  Gates would leave a hand-picked CEO in place to run the public face of Gates Global. That person would be a technocrat and use terms like “littoral battle space” and “netcentric communications” and “transformational combat force projection” to lasso contracts for new ships and planes and weapons systems. “Build whatever the fuckers want,” Gates said. He would have nothing to do with that side of the company, as long as it made a lot of money.

  In return, he demanded an unlimited budget that would not be answerable to them. Let the lawyers and accountants figure out how to hide it from the 1RS, but it had to be a totally black account and available when he wanted. “Gates Global is expanding and you don’t need to know the details,” he told them. “Stop thinking in millions and start thinking in billions. You all will make a lot of money and nobody will ever be indicted for anything if you keep your mouths shut and stay out of my way.” He stared around the room and then abruptly walked out, leaving no doubt about who was the company’s new leader.

  Gates’s vision was that the United States military was going right back to where wars are always won, with boots on the ground. It was the topic he knew best, because he had walked many miles in those boots, humping a pack and carrying an automatic rifle. Teams of highly trained Special Operations soldiers would fight the country’s future conflicts because the national defense could not be entrusted to acne-pimpled National Guard soldiers or fat-ass regular army colonels. In his plan, the private units could be combined in any size, from the lethal two-man Shark Teams that did special jobs all the way up to battalion size or even bigger. Gates was building the preeminent private security company in the world, and that was only the first step.

  Gates, Buchanan, Reed. The three people standing before the fireplace, holding crystal glasses of scotch, would redirect the enormous and ever-growing Pentagon budget to fund private armies, with Gates Global positioned to provide everything from bullets to beans, transportation to firepower, for a nice price. Other major corporations could handle infrastructure needs or be front companies to keep the Gates name out of tricky situations. PSCs were the future. American soldiers did not need to spill their blood abroad when mercenaries could do the same job better, faster, cheaper, under no political restraints, and without press coverage. He would draw upon the Pentagon’s resources as needed for the big stuff like close air support and satellites and aircraft carriers, but all of that eventually would come under his umbrella, too.

  Just a little tinkering was needed to get the plan past the Democrat and Republican politicians and the media howlers. That should be simple enough when America endured the worst siege of terrorist attacks in its history and thousands of U.S. citizens were slaughtered in shopping malls and hospitals and homes. Enraged and frightened citizens would demand that they be kept safe!

  Civilian police were not up to the task. American troops would be needed to protect American shores and borders and cities and towns when martial law was imposed. To fill the vacuum abroad, Gates Global would be given the grateful appreciation of the nation to fight Washington’s foreign battles. After a few years, the door would open wider for stateside operations as well. Martial law would morph into a new, firmer way of running the country under a banner of national security.

  It was time to implement Operation Premier while Senator Reed had the legislative clout and Buchanan could deliver the executive branch.

  “So, Ruth Hazel, now that Senator Miller is out of the way, where does it leave our privatization bill?” Gates brought those harsh eyes to her.

  “I will bring the American Defense Act before the subcommittee next week and fast-track it through the full committee, both in closed sessions. When Operation Premier creates a significant domestic terrorist strike just before the vote, the House of Representatives will respond with a similar bill and a conference committee will rubber-stamp it. It will be political suicide for any of them to oppose defending America while the blood of innocents is in the streets. Gerald should see the bill come down to the White House in no more than thirty days.”

  Buchanan nodded. “I will brief the President and endorse the act. That crap in the Middle East has tortured him enough, the media is always bitching about it, and he’s anxious to get out of there. There are a lot of fronts in the war on terror, and something decisive hitting in the American heartland will give him the political cover to readjust his sights and bring our troops home.”

  “You’re sure that he will sign the privatization bill?”

  “Absolutely.” Buchanan lifted his own eyes and looked at his comrade’s. “If we wrap up the one remaining loose end.”

  Gates laughed out loud. “You mean with General Middleton?”

  “Middleton cannot be allowed to testify before my committee!” Senator Reed said firmly, putting down her glass and crossing her arms. “He’s only a one-star, but he is influential as hell with his books and lectures about the value of a professional military that answers to elected civilian officials. Together, he and Miller would have stopped us cold. They were planning a public relations offensive on this, including getting television networks to cover the hearings. Open hearings!”

  “Which is exactly why they are not in Washington today,” said Gates. “We have gotten rid of Miller with the heart attack, and t
he general has been kidnapped and will not survive the adventure. Neither can be traced to us.”

  Buchanan shuffled a toe of his tasseled loafer into the thick carpet. “I have been riding the Pentagon and the intel services hard. When your people reveal the location, the Marines will launch a rescue operation, just as you predicted, Gordon. I will let them do it, of course, reporting the plans directly to me.”

  Gates nodded. “The Sharks and some of the Rebel Sheikh’s militia boys will be ready when Force Recon guys arrive in Syria. Cameras will record the destruction of most of the assault force, but a few Marines will be allowed to fight their way into the house where Middleton is being held.”

  “And they will all be killed together in the shootout, on video,” Reed said. “Another military debacle.”

  Gordon Gates smiled. “I want to add one last piece to the scenario, Gerald. Just imagine that in the middle of the shootout, a U.S. Marine is actually shown to be the one who kills General Middleton.”

  “How could we possibly arrange that?”

  “Simple. You, my friend, take one of the best snipers on the CIA roster and order it done. Remove him from the chain of command. When the rescue fails, the sniper is to make certain that the general’s vast knowledge of homeland security information does not fall into enemy hands.”

  “How does he survive that initial ambush?” Buchanan scratched his ear.

  Gates knew the capabilities of a good operator and waved away the question. “The firing will not be very heavy, and if he is any good at his job, he won’t have much trouble being among those getting to the right house.”

  “Would he actually do it? Shoot the general?” asked Senator Reed.

  “Only if it was a direct order from his commander-in-chief in the White House,” said Buchanan. “When the last members of the rescue team are being wiped out, the sniper becomes both our insurance policy and a fall guy for any blame. Then he is also taken out. End of a tragic fiasco.”

  “You boys can take care of that, Gordon. All I care about is that Middleton not show up before my committee.” The senator brought the conversation back to center point. “He could wreck everything.”

  “Excellent. Excellent,” said Gates. “So that brings us to decision time on Operation Premier. Senator?”

  “It has to be done,” said Reed.

  “Don’t go vague on us, Ruth Hazel. Say exactly what you mean, not some political bullshit. You agree that we will prepare the Shark Teams for the theater attacks. We must be absolutely plain with each other. After all, the three of us essentially are staging a coup.”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Gerald?”

  “Yes. Do it.”

  “Me, too. Yes. It’s unanimous.” He flashed that enigmatic smile again. “Now let’s have a nice dinner and a good bottle of wine to salute this historic creation of New America.”

  CHAPTER 11

  KYLE SWANSON WATCHED the television report silently, his arms crossed. Bradley Fucking Middleton! The general’s picture came on the screen, a stock photo of him in full dress uniform and an American flag in the background. It was not a face that Kyle ever enjoyed seeing. Every time they met, something bad seemed to happen, until finally Middleton had tried to cashier Swanson out of the Marines. As the news reader droned on, Kyle’s mind rolled back to his first clash with Middleton years ago during Desert Shield, in the abandoned town of Khafji, on the border between Saudi Arabia and Iraq.

  It had been two days into the new year of 1991, and there was something happening in the black desert night. The growl of engines and the clank of tank treads, out where there was supposed to be nothing but sand. “Multiple heat signatures, Sergeant. More than ten vehicles. Hard to say with this piece-of-shit night vision gear,” the spotter said quietly after looking hard and long through his thermal imaging glasses. “Lots of movement, though.”

  Kyle Swanson pulled the ten-power Unertl scope of his M40A1 sniper rifle to his eye. Nothing but darkness across the border between Saudi Arabia and Kuwait. “Call it in. Tell ‘em it sounds like more than just a recon.”

  Iraq had overrun Kuwait, and the Iraqis were not sitting still while an American and international coalition of forces was building up to take it back. Kyle had been a scout-sniper sergeant at the time, heading a two-man observation team hidden between the floorboards of a building at the edge of town. Several other OPs were scattered throughout other buildings, but until now, Saddam Hussein had kept his people out of the area. Boredom had been the biggest enemy.

  A chill crawled up the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the cold temperature. All that noise meant armor. Saddam was about to expand the playing field, and the OPs were right in the path, with the closest friendlies about thirty minutes away, a very long time in a firefight.

  They remained motionless as the mumble of impending battle moved closer, and the first light of dawn brought the startling truth. The sun outlined Iraqi T-62 tanks and a herd of other alphabet armor-MBLTs, tracked personnel carriers on the main chassis of a battle tank; BDRM recon scout vehicles; and the BMPs with anti-armor cannon. A bit of everything. This was no probe, but the advance guard for an entire armored division, and they were already on the outskirts of town, moving closer by the minute. Dismounted Iraqi troops hustled around the vehicles, darting like a swarm of ants going after a picnic basket as they cleared the abandoned houses. The spotter called in radio reports while Swanson ran a final check of his rifle, ammo clips, the clackers for the Claymore mines, and grenades.

  To try to leave would be suicide; a tank and the supporting infantry would make quick work of anyone they saw. Swanson glassed potential targets with his scope, and his mouth watered with anticipation. Behind the troops coming into the town there were guys riding atop the vehicles, talking in groups and moving in the open, lacking discipline as they pressed forward, for they expected no opposition. Careless ants. He put the crosshairs on an officer wearing a red beret and standing in the turret of a tank, gripping a handle so he could get a better view of Khafji. He had a big thick mustache, a pressed uniform, and a pistol on a polished belt of brown leather. Kyle thought: He’s mine.

  “Mike Tango three niner, this is Hunter One. Fire mission. Over.” The spotter had headquarters on the net and was quietly lining up an artillery strike. He pinned his finger on an exact spot on the plastic-covered map folded before him. “Grid. Six two niner four. Niner eight seven six. Direction: five niner one one. Twenty to thirty Iraqi tanks and APCs in the open. Fire for effect.”

  Swanson tracked the officer, waiting for a sound louder than that of his rifle. The first 155 mm artillery rounds came in like loud zippers in the sky, and when they exploded, throwing dirt and debris into big mushrooms of destruction, he finished squeezing the trigger. His bullet took the Iraqi officer in the throat and knocked him from the tank. Soldiers were scrambling for cover and paid no attention to the fallen officer, thinking he had been hit by the artillery. Kyle fed a fresh round into his rifle and looked for a new target, found one, and waited for another big round to explode and mask his shot.

  The Iraqis opened up with everything they had, shooting wild. There was no enemy visible, but the artillery salvo had been so precise, it was obvious that someone was watching them. Their entire line surged forward, firing as they came, and violent explosions blew walls apart. The soldiers rushed to find shelter from the artillery, and Swanson and his spotter shrank back into the shadowy hide. A squad of Iraqi infantrymen ran into the main floor of the small building for cover. One came up to the second floor but could not see them between the floorboards, and stomped back downstairs to the rest of the squad, which moved on to clear another building. “Sloppy,” Kyle whispered.

  The Iraqi tanks and armored personnel carriers prowled the streets, unleashing cannon and machine-gun fire on anything suspicious, and small-arms fire rattled on both sides and to the rear of the observation team. The bad guys had the town, and Kyle, his spotter, and the other Marines were t
rapped inside it.

  The situation was beyond serious, and Swanson made the decision without conscious thought. If they were going to survive, they needed help in a hurry, because those enemy soldiers soon would be prowling about in a more thorough search for the observation teams. He grabbed his spotter by the shoulder. “Call Broken Arrow!”

  The emergency signal meant that U.S. forces were being overrun. Every warplane in the sky that morning diverted immediately from its mission and accelerated toward Khafji, afterburners thundering to pour on more speed. The spotter started guiding them in, while other OP lookouts adjusted the artillery strikes. Nearby buildings vaporized with concussion blasts that shook them like a couple of gerbils in a cage.

  Swanson cleared away debris that fell in the front of their hide and got back to work, taking targets of opportunity whenever an artillery round came in or a plane made a bombing run.

  It was all now in slow motion. The chaotic sounds and sights passed through his mind only as parts of the mathematical equations he needed to figure out the next shot. He was an emotionally empty vessel, without fear, mentally shutting out any personal feelings for the targets-not men, but targets-and became an extension of the rifle. He wasn’t counting, he was killing, and hoping to avoid getting killed in turn.