Kill Zone

by Jack Coughlin

  Middleton ignored the flash of pain, slowly swung his feet to the floor, and spat on the floor to disrespect Logan. He wasn’t afraid of the giant, because almost by definition a Marine Corps general has a streak of arrogance. His mind had cleared as the drugs wore off and he had thought long and hard about why he had been taken hostage, adding in the snippets of information he overheard through the door as his captors talked. He knew that he would never be released, so damned if he would go down sniveling. Middleton decided to interrogate the big man.

  “If you have something to tell me, Logan, just say it. You and your partner: Dumber and Dumbest,” the general said with a condescending sneer. “I can’t understand why a company as big as Gates Global, with hundreds of pretty good people on the payroll, would stoop so low as to bring a couple of losers like you aboard.”

  Logan reacted sharply and stood to his full height, glaring down at Middleton. “They came recruiting me, not the other way around! The company uses Shark Teams to handle the uncomfortable side of things.”

  Middleton gave a wry smile. “And you were stupid enough to sign on. Look. I know Gordon Gates personally. He eats guys like you and Dumbo for breakfast. Sharks. Jesus.”

  “Jimbo, not Dumbo.”

  “Right. So Gordon waved his checkbook and you fools jumped on board.” With a couple of oblique probes, Middleton had gotten Logan to admit that Gates was behind the kidnapping. He decided to push harder.

  “He’s paying me a hell of a lot better than the military ever did. Way better. I got more money in the bank than you ever dreamed of.”

  “Good for you. I hope your 401(k) brings you peace and comfort for the next few hours, because you’re already a corpse, too, and just don’t know it yet.”

  “Bullshit.”

  The general stretched to loosen his muscles. “You are not going to live long enough to spend it, Logan. I guarantee that a big reward has been put on the street, and your best friends are already looking at you as a piece of meat that is worth about a half-million American dollars, dead or alive.” Middleton tugged at the handcuff chain, let it drop, and faced Logan again.

  “Also, you and Dumbo are the only links to my actual kidnapping, and Gates Global is going to cover its own ass. You are loose ends. Another one of your gear-queer Shark Teams probably will be sent out to gobble you up. You may be King Kong today, but between the tickle of a big reward among the ragheads and the double-cross coming from your boss, you’re going to be just another dead monkey.”

  DAMN. Logan wanted to hit the general, beat the crap out of him, cut him, make him bleed. That was not allowed. “Shut your damned mouth, Middleton, or I’ll shut it for you. You don’t know nothing.”

  “I know it all, Logan,” Middleton said, staring at the mere. “It’s so quiet around here that I can hear the rats fart, and I’ve been listening every time you guys talk. You’re going to have me killed on TV. Big deal. The Marine Corps is a big organization, and six colonels are probably already fighting for my desk. I’ll be missed at the Pentagon about as much as you have been by those wussy SEALs. Let’s make a bet: I say your freedom fighter buddies will bury all three of us in the desert tomorrow: you and me and Dumbo together through eternity.” The general lay back down as if he did not have a care in the world, but continued the questioning. “No wonder they kicked you out of the shitbird SEALs. You weren’t even good enough to meet their low standards.”

  Logan snapped at the bait. “Yeah? You think your Marines are such hot shit?” He was pissed that Middleton was ridiculing the Teams. SEALs were the best! “Your Spec Op boys couldn’t even fly two helicopters without running into each other out here. Wouldn’t have mattered if they landed, neither, because we had them in a kill zone even before they fucked up.”

  Middleton made a point of grimacing as if disappointed and said nothing while he made another mental note. Confirmation that this whole thing was a setup for an ambush. Blabbermouth.

  “You think I ain’t already got my own escape covered? You may be a general, but I’m as smart as you.”

  “Sure. That’s why we’re in here together in this smelly house. Couple of Einsteins, we are. E equals MC squared.”

  Logan had never liked really intelligent people. He didn’t get that part about EMC. “You know why you’re really here? Think you figured it all out?”

  “Yeah. It’s not all that hard. Real terrorists would have gone after an easier target, not a moving convoy with armed Marine and Saudi guards. That’s why they snatch schoolteachers, not soldiers. So who would consider me important enough to risk an ambush that would certainly result in casualties and guarantee media coverage and a manhunt? Who profits?”

  “What’s your answer?”

  “Simple. Gates Global. Your job was to put me on the sidelines. The only thing worthwhile on my schedule is testifying next week in Washington before the Senate Armed Services Committee. That is where I intend to stop this nutty privatization of the United States military and keep disgraceful incompetents like you from sneaking back into the tent. Shit, Logan, I wrote the book on privatization while I was at the Naval War College. The PSC concept is long on cost and short on loyalty. The Naval Institute Press published it and we even got some good ink in The New York Times Book Review.” Middleton laughed derisively and glanced at Logan. “It helped me get my star. I’m sure you read it.”

  “Big fuckin’ deal.”

  “You’re working for a private security company, but any way you cut it, you’re nothing but a mercenary. A gun for hire. You work for Gates Global, which ordered you to kidnap me. Now, for some reason, which I assume is related to the helo crash, the original plan has changed. You never planned to let me live anyway, but Gates was just trying to figure out how he could benefit the most by my death. So it turns out the jihadists will do the honors. Once that is done, you are no longer needed either. Probably just one hole will be big enough for the three of us.”

  “Not gonna happen, Middleton.” Logan moved to the door. “I’ve listened to enough of your shit. Anyway, let me tell you how it’s going to come down tomorrow. Once we get you all pretty again and give you to those Iraqis…”

  Middleton snorted, a bark of a laugh. “See? You just did it again!”

  “Did what?”

  “Gave me information I did not need to know. I had no idea those guys were Iraqis. You furnished another piece of the puzzle, you shitbird.”

  “Fuck you. I’ll tell you something else, because you’re going to be dead real soon. Not only are they Iraqis, but they work for that badass Rebel Sheikh down in Basra. At eight o’clock tomorrow morning, they are going to prop you up in a chair and cut off your fucking head!” He let the big cocky grin creep back across his face. “And I’m going to be standing there to watch. Gonna really enjoy the show.”

  Middleton closed his eyes as if bored. “Okay, Logan. See you in the hole.” The general turned his back to the mercenary and did not move again until the door closed. Even then he did not move, thinking about beheadings and the alliance between Gordon Gates and the Rebel Sheikh.

  CHAPTER 27

  MASTER SERGEANT 0. 0. DAWKINS had not slept since the choppers had lifted off earlier that morning from the Wasp, and had smoked a whole pack of cigarettes. What a cluster fuck. He leaned on a railing of the USS Blue Ridge, flagship of the Joint Amphibious Task Force commander, and watched the water churning past far below. The entire TRAP team and two helo crews down in the desert, probably dead in the smoking ruins, and then abandoned. Just like that hostage mess back in 1979 with the Rangers and Delta operators in Iran. All of the high-tech toys in the world were bound to screw up sooner or later, and when Marines ride on the razor’s edge, Mother Nature gives no second chances. He flipped his cigarette butt overboard and made his way through the chutes and ladders up to Flag Country.

  His boss, Colonel Ralph Sims, looked like he had been punched in the gut, and waved Dawkins to a chair in his small but private stateroom. Sims was commander of the
33rd Marine Expeditionary Unit, the first one to work under the banner of the Joint Special Operations Command. Dawkins, an ex-Force Recon platoon sergeant, normally would have been the MEU operations chief, but under the realignment into special forces, he was called the MARSOC team sergeant. He was an operator, not an administrative type. New generation of titles, same jobs.

  Sims and Dawkins had been friends for more years than they cared to think about, and just sat there staring at each other in silence for a time across the desktop that held a small computer, a cup filled with pens, scissors, and a small ruler, and a little nameplate sign carved in the Philippines. They felt helpless, and could do nothing more to either save their men or bring the bodies home for honorable burials. Marines had left Marines behind. Sims opened a locked drawer and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black Label bourbon. He poured shots for each of them into black coffee mugs emblazoned with the scarlet and gold crest of the 33rd MEU, and they drank the whiskey in quick gulps.

  Outside sounds seeped dully into the quiet room. Ship noises. The creaking and groaning metal, the whines and whops of Harriers and helicopters, water moving through exposed pipes along the ceiling and around the red emergency lighting fixtures. The wall intercom, volume turned low, muttered just at the level of hearing. The stateroom, painted navy gray, was a combination work space and living quarters, so Sims could dash to his station in the Tactical Center only one deck up in an emergency. There was no porthole for outside light, but a small refrigerator worth its weight in gold was wedged into a corner.

  “Anything new?” Dawkins asked.

  Sims shook his head. “The Harrier pilots were thoroughly debriefed, Double-Oh, and their stories match. All they really saw was a big fireball when the choppers went down and no signs of life afterward when they flew over at low altitude, other than people coming out from the village. We lost ‘em all.”

  “No chance, I suppose, of sending in another mission for the boys and the general?”

  The colonel turned around and looked at a map taped to the bulkhead that showed the route. “Washington says it’s out of the question. They won’t even authorize a missile strike to eradicate the wreckage, and a diplomatic shitstorm is on the way. Syria is yelling ‘Invasion!’ and our State Department is trying to explain, ‘Well, not really. It’s this way…’”

  “Then the fuckin’ media and the United Nations will get involved.”

  “Yup. Too big a development to keep secret. The Muslim world is going to go nuts with demonstrations.” The colonel poured more bourbon into the mugs. “We’re going to get hammered.”

  Dawkins nodded his big, crew-cut head. “Not our best day, sir. Looked easy on paper.”

  “Always does, Master Sergeant. Always does.”

  “So you think it is a safe bet that Gunny Swanson is dead?”

  Sims nodded. “Pilots said no signs of life. With daylight, we got better satellite imagery, but it still shows nothing useful. I don’t see how anyone got out of that mess in one piece, even a ghost like Swanson.”

  A small speaker on the bulkhead crackled, and a quiet voice announced: “Attention all hands. A sunset memorial service will be held on the flight deck at eighteen hundred hours for the men who died on today’s mission.”

  They raised the cups in salute. “To those who won’t return. May they rest in peace,” said the colonel.

  “And to Kyle,” responded Double-Oh.

  “To Kyle.”

  “Semper fi.”

  They downed the smooth whiskey.

  “Hard to imagine him gone.” Dawkins settled back into the chair.

  “What are you trying to tell me, Double-Oh? You didn’t ask for a private meeting just to talk about old times.”

  Dawkins took a deep breath. The colonel had the uncanny knack of reading right through people. “No, sir. Well, since there is always room for more bad news, I guess I need to give you some.”

  “This has something to do, I assume, with why you have been wandering around the ship wearing a locked and loaded.45?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you weren’t really expecting pirates to come charging over the starboard bow shooting RPGs?”

  “No, sir. This is for real.” Dawkins undid a Velcro snap on the sleeve of his flight suit and retrieved the envelope. “You remember when that spook from Washington came aboard to meet privately with Gunny Swanson?”

  “Ummm. Figured he was getting tagged for a special mission when this was over.”

  “Sir, this was the special mission. Kyle was put under some top-secret orders, and his death leaves us with a situation.”

  “A situation.” Sims put his forearms on the desk and leaned forward. He was tall and lean, with dark brows and a beaked nose that gave him the look of a pissed-off eagle like the ones he wore on his collar.

  “Yessir. Maybe more a major league fuckup that will make people look back fondly on Richard Nixon after Watergate and Bill Clinton’s blow job.” He slid the letter across the smooth desktop with his fingertips. “It’s all in there, sir.”

  “Swanson told you about this?”

  “He refused to carry out the order until the spook threatened to get the White House to verify it. Then Kyle somehow snuck a copy without that Washington fuck realizing it, and the fool burned the copy, thinking it was the real thing. Gunny gave me the original in case he got whacked. He got whacked. So here it is.”

  “I don’t think I really want to open that.”

  “No. Probably not, and I don’t blame you one bit. But that’s why you’re a full bird colonel with a bunch of college degrees and I’m just a master sergeant. You decide where it goes from here.”

  “What’s it say?” The colonel held the envelope as if it were scalding hot, turning it over and over in his hands.

  “If it looked like the rescue attempt was going to fail, Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson was under orders to execute Brigadier General Middleton.”

  “The hell you say,” said Sims, running a thumbnail under the envelope flap. His eyes gave away nothing as he read the handwritten note.

  “The hell I do say, sir. The reason I went around the chain of command to get straight to you is that we don’t know who may be involved in this thing. I guess it is going to be a very special need-to-know category.”

  Sims dug out some thin plastic map overlay sheets from his desk, folded them around the letter and envelope, and carried them to his private safe to lock them away. “You’re right, Double-Oh. In fact, you’re so damned right that I’m going to have to think about our next step. A wrong move and we both end up at Gitmo with German shepherds chomping at our balls. You got a suggestion?”

  As the colonel resumed his seat, Dawkins stood. His leathery face actually wore a smile. “Yeah, Skipper, I do. The Thirty-Third MEU is an independent Special Ops unit, and as its commanding officer, you report straight to Central Command. I suggest you pack your bags for a routine trip back to Tampa to give the boys at MacDill a ‘special briefing’ about why the helicopters crashed. Have your staff type up a bunch of papers and make a PowerPoint show for cover.”

  Sims rubbed his thumb across his lips, which had gone dry. “And while I’m there, I get some private face time with CENTCOM?”

  “No, sir. Halfway across the Atlantic, your flight will be diverted because the Pentagon will decide it wants to hear your lame-ass excuses in person. I can cash in some favors and get the Sergeants’ Network to cut orders that far and keep you below the official radar. Once in Washington, it will be up to you to snag a meeting with General Hank Turner, our old boss from the First MARDIV. Although he happens to wear four stars and be chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff now, he’s still an old Force Recon operator at heart. Him we can trust.”

  Sims agreed. “You’re right. Turner will kick in the doors to find out what is going on.” The colonel folded his hands behind his head. “Make it happen, Master Sergeant.”

  “Semper fuckin’ fi, Colonel.”

 
CHAPTER 28

  ALI SHALAL RASSAD MADE HIS afternoon prayers in one of Basra’s crowded mosques, in the midst of a crowd of kneeling, praying men. Afterward, he smiled his way to the door, hugging fellow worshippers along the way and dispensing words of encouragement, a whispered promise of help, a handful of coins. He was a leader because the people considered him to be one of their own, a warrior and a dutiful, humble servant of Allah, whose name be praised. The prayers provided quiet moments during which he often thought about how much he owed to the dictator Saddam Hussein. Without pure evil, how would people recognize good?

  Like so many Iraqis, Rassad had grown up in poverty, a product of the Baghdad slums. He caught the attention of his teachers at the religious madrassa schools because he possessed an intellectual curiosity and showed a natural leadership ability. They decided he was worthy of more education, with the idea that he might become an Islamic scholar and religious leader. They misjudged the boy. During the day, he piously studied the Koran, but at night he read other books, and led a small gang of thieves through the alleyways of Baghdad. Death was never far away in the slums, and Rassad had gutted several men before his fifteenth birthday. He was a realist instead of a zealot, interested in obtaining his own goals and not simply obeying the rules of any book, not even the Koran.

  No one was surprised when Rassad passed the exams to qualify for university study abroad as an engineer, nor that the government let him go to school in the United States. His family would remain in Baghdad as hostage until he returned to take a job with one of Hussein’s ministries.

  Rassad studied electrical engineering at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and also studied the complex organism that was America. He traveled to the oil fields in Louisiana and the West, to Silicon Valley in California, and to the vast farmlands of Kansas in search of understanding how and why democracy worked in Washington, D.C.

  The individual experiences started coming together during his junior year, when he drove from Boston to Florida to participate in the annual ritual among students known as spring break. The all-night parties had been quite educational, and several pretty girls had found his dark eyes irresistible. The important lesson came late on a Monday night as he grew tired while driving back from Daytona Beach. A green neon sign of a little diner beckoned near Brunswick, Georgia, and Rassad followed a side road north for two miles. There was only a weathered pickup truck and a little Honda parked in the lot, which was illuminated dully by the ragged circles cast by three lights attached to the eaves of the building. He parked his new BMW 735i SE, went inside, and took a stool at the counter. A disinterested waitress took his order for a glass of water with ice and a piece of the fresh pecan pie that sat in a plastic case.