The copilot screamed in agony.
Juba laughed and stomped the ribs before releasing the arm. “Get out of here. And you. Get my drink!”
I T WAS NOT A straight line trip, for the aircraft had been forced to take a more circuitous route to stay out of harm’s way and avoid discovery. Hour after hour droned past in the sky and there were three refueling stops at strategic points along the way. At each one, the crew crept silently out onto the tarmac to take a breather from the plane which seemed to crackle with a horrible menace from the passenger that had grown obnoxious under the influence of booze and narcotics. They watched in silent disgust through a cabin camera as he drank himself into oblivion, with a detour into roaring anger, until he passed out somewhere over Pakistan.
J UBA WAS IN THE tunnel, his body and face torn by a sniper’s big bullet and the tight hideaway collapsing beneath the thundering explosion of a huge bomb. Blinded and unable to breathe, the weight of the falling dirt crushing the final sparks of life from him, lost in blood and pain and darkness, badly wounded and trapped underground with dirt in his mouth and eyes. Oh, it hurts.
He had lived several lives and despaired that this was the way it would all end, dying slowly in an underground tomb.
The plane hit an air pocket, dropped momentarily, and the sudden jolt caused the passenger to moan loudly and shift in his seat until the aircraft steadied and droned on. His mind spun with a mixture of hallucinations and true memories as the drugs and booze played him-letting the British army train him to be a terrorist, fighting for al Qaeda in Afghanistan and Iraq before going out on his own with deadly biochemical weapons that he used to strike both London and San Francisco. Those acts had made him the most dangerous man in the world, a terrorist with a price on his head, a fortune in the bank, and a secret weapon that commanded respect and support from political and religious fanatics.
Then everything had been taken away in an instant. Juba still tried to convince himself that it had been only a fluke shot, an unfortunate accident, just bad luck, one of life’s more unfair moments, for no other man possessed his rare skill with a rifle. He changed positions in his seat again. Could not get comfortable. Heard noises. Even felt the wrinkles in his trousers, hard as rocks.
He remembered it all-the duel of single sniper bullets, the explosion, being buried alive in the suffocating tunnel, and, after giving up all hope, pinpoints of light breaking through the dirt. Frantic Iraqi villagers digging with their hands freed him from the grave. That bastard Kyle Swanson somehow got off that lucky shot. Tears leaked from his right eye and creased his face.
Two strong men came aboard the plane when it landed in Saudi Arabia and propped the limp, sniffling passenger between them, got him down the short staircase and into the rear of a waiting limousine. The copilot followed with the valise and threw it into the vehicle’s trunk, slammed it closed, and stalked away, glad to be done with him.
A young man in a dark suit and a white shirt open at the neck was also in the rear of the stretch limo as it drove away toward downtown Jeddah. He studied the figure plopped across from him. The man was disheveled, stinking and grunting like a filthy animal. This is the hero to whom we have paid so much? This lump is the mastermind? He extended his index finger and pushed a button to open the window beside him. It was still humid and hot, but he needed to flush out the foul odor.
33
KUWAIT
C RAAACK! T HE BIG SNIPER rifle kicked back hard against Kyle Swanson’s shoulder and 800 meters away the.50 caliber bullet gouged out a hole in the paper target. The three other Marines with him also were running rounds downrange into the great nowhere in a mad fusillade designed to keep their muscle memory sharp.
The four of them had taken a Humvee from the special ops camp, loaded it with ammo and an assortment of weapons, from light machine guns to pistols, and ventured into the heat wearing full body armor. They would spend some time making sure every tool they had, including themselves, was in top working order. Training never stopped, no matter how good you were.
Staff Sergeant Darren Rawls, a tall African-American from Alabama, ripped through a thirty-round magazine with an M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, the faithful 5.56 mm air-cooled, belt-fed, gas-operated SAW. Sergeant Travis Stone, a sweaty bandana covering his stubble of red hair, chunked away with an XM203 40 mm grenade launcher, blowing up fountains of dirt. Staff Sergeant Joe Tipp was testing a small-grip SIG SAUER P250 combat pistol that he had liberated from a Navy SEAL in a poker game. It sounded like a small war.
After an hour, they took a break and retreated to a rectangle of shade provided by the Humvee, where they shucked the heavy helmets and body armor, drank bottles of water, and sat on the dirt. The land all around was flat and hot and brown, nothing to see all the way to the horizon.
Rawls studied it, squinting into the bright sun, then raised his eyes to the crystalline blue sky. “Space ain’t the final frontier. This is.”
Joe Tipp raised his nose and sniffed the air. “Anybody else smell another Rawls scam?”
“Fuck you. Just listen. Space tourism! Rich assholes are paying millions of dollars to go into space and even want to go to the moon. Now what’s up on the moon?” He pointed to the bleak horizon of Kuwait. “Same shit as out there.”
Kyle Swanson finished his second bottle of water, feeling the cool wetness all the way down to his toes. “Brilliant analysis. You got a point?”
“We’ve got all those freako tourists who show up at the edges of a war, thrill-seeking motherfuckers who think combat is some kind of paint-ball game. So how about we form a little company, sell escorted trips out here. Get the muthas all armored up, ride around in civilian Humvees, let ‘em pop off some rounds like we’ve been doing. Like a safari in Africa.”
Travis Stone stopped eating a pouch of peaches and tossed the sticky plastic spoon at his buddy. “Again with the money schemes. Remember the reality TV series for Elvis impersonators? The golden treasure of the Spanish kings in Memphis? Drill an oil well in Harlem? At least the soft porn movie idea had naked women involved.”
“Those movie people lied to me! I wrote a damned good script!” Rawls shrugged away the criticism.
“And lost your investment. Again.”
“You never want to expand your mind, try nothin’ new. When I put in my twenty years with the Corps and get that retirement paycheck, I’m gonna invest, man. We gotta think ahead if we want to be rich in our old age.”
If they only knew, thought Kyle. These guys will never have to worry about a job if I go into Excalibur.
Joe Tipp spoke. “You keep on thinking, Darren. I kind of liked the porn idea. Just watching some of the interviews with the actresses was worth my thousand bucks.”
Darren Rawls started cleaning his SAW, fighting the ever-present talcum of desert dust that could foul a barrel or jam a magazine. “So I’ll do another script. This time, the four of us will do the whole thing. How difficult can it be? Joe does the camera, Trav does the sound, Kyle directs, and I’ll be the star! You white rabbits don’t have the qualifications that I do for a good sex show. Sell it on cable or on the Internet.”
Travis looked over. “What about the combat safaris?”
Rawls gently stroked the automatic weapon with a soft, oily cloth. “No hurry. That can come next, after the movie. The Middle East ain’t goin’ nowhere. And writin’ is hard, so I can’t even think about it now. Anyway, got something else on my mind.”
“What?” Joe Tipp asked.
Rawls smiled broadly. “Killin’ terrorists.”
W HEN THE BANTER AND insults quieted and they were reluctant to leave the square of shade, Kyle spoke: “Okay, guys, listen up. I hauled your asses out here for more than just some shooting. Needed to get away from curious ears back at the base.”
The other three locked their eyes on Swanson. He had been back for less than two days and had been withdrawn and curt with everyone except Major Summers.
“I need to bring you up to speed o
n the situation next door, over in Saudi Arabia,” he said. “Top secret.”
“We see it on TV every night and it’s all over the Internet,” said Joe Tipp. “What else is there, really?”
“A lot. It’s pretty complicated,” Swanson said, stretching out his legs and closing his eyes, reciting what Sybelle had briefed him on last night. “You probably know that the president and the new Saudi king are friends, but they really had it out during a meeting in the Oval Office a few days ago, when Abdullah was still the ambassador in Washington. He told President Tracy that any American movement to protect the oil fields would be considered an unwarranted military intervention by a foreign power and would be resisted.”
Travis Stone doodled in the dirt with an empty brass cartridge case. “You think there’s a chance that our good buddies might actually fight us?”
Swanson’s eyes blinked open and he stared at them, each in turn. “That was the implied threat, but nobody wants it to go that far. Then things happened fast and, bingo, next thing we know, Ambassador Abdullah becomes King Abdullah.”
Darren Rawls stood, brushed off his pants, and stretched his six-foot-two frame. Loose and lanky with a shrewd mind, Rawls had been a star high school basketball player and a better student in Alabama. When his brother was killed in Iraq, Rawls walked away from the college scholarships and joined the Marines. He was tough, an excellent sniper, and a voracious reader who carefully sheltered his intelligence beneath a homeboy speech pattern. “That was kinda weird. The crown normally would go to another old relative. It’s a family thing.”
“Way our intel people piece it together, installing Abdullah in the position represented an internal, bloodless coup. With both the king and the crown prince dead, there was no clear line of succession. The country was, and still is, on the verge of falling apart. So the real movers and shakers in Saudi Arabia apparently got together, flexed their muscles, and chose the toughest, smartest member of the bloodline to take the reins. Abdullah was jumped over a whole generation but the monarchy remains absolute.”
Swanson paused to drink some water, then continued, “Let me get to the point. I met this Abdullah dude in England.”
“You know the new king?” Stone was surprised.
Swanson nodded. “He was wounded during the terrorist attack in Scotland and was a patient at the clinic where Sybelle and I took out those tangos.”
“Sweet,” said Travis Stone.
Swanson’s eyes blinked open and he stared at them, each in turn. “Not so fast, Trav. Just as the rebellion cooked off, we found out that the Saudis had five nuclear missiles. Only bargain basement nukes, but the threat is huge.”
Rawls said, “Ghetto nukes? Civil war. Oil. Terrorism. Can this get any better?”
Swanson peered up at him. “Sure. One of their missiles has gone missing.”
Rawls groaned. “You’re shitting me.”
Swanson smiled. “When King Abdullah learned about that, he did a flip-flop on refusing all American help. He wants to turn the remaining four missiles over to the United States and asked the White House specifically to name me as the U.S. liaison during the handover. Like I say, he knows me.”
“So what’s our mission?” Travis Hughes asked.
“I leave for Riyadh tonight to meet with King Abdullah and finish setting up the transfers. You guys will be in charge of removing the four missiles that are still scattered around the country. You each will command a plane that will fly in to do the pickups, personally take charge of the warheads, and stay with them until they can be safely stored on a ship. A platoon of MEUSOC Marines will provide overall security. Your only concern will be the nukes. Sybelle will oversee things from here. You report only to her. This is a Trident show all the way.”
Tipp asked, “Uh, what about that fifth one?”
Kyle Swanson gave them his special, meaningless smile. “Not to worry about that one. I snatched it while I was visiting over in Khobz and it’s already aboard a navy carrier.”
34
JEDDAH, SAUDI ARABIA
J UBA STRUGGLED BACK TO consciousness on a comfortable bed in a private villa. His stomach remained queasy, but not as bad as the first two times he had been awake, when he had vomited. His mind was emerging from the cobwebs and lethargy caused by the strong alcohol and narcotics. Someone had placed a bottle of spring water on the bedside table and he drank deeply from it.
He did not know exactly where he was, but trusted that the damned airplane had delivered him to the right place, Jeddah, the second largest city in Saudi Arabia. The room was spacious and when he forced himself from the bed and over to the window, he was pleased to see bright sunlight glinting harshly on a vast body of water, the Red Sea. He pushed the windows open wide and inhaled the hot air.
A clean bathroom with intricate tiles and polished fixtures lured him through the open door. He turned the shower water until it was hot before stepping into the enclosure. Strong waves of steam played over his face and body and he put his head directly beneath the big showerhead. He leaned forward with his hands against the wall to let the water slosh away the remains of the horrible trip. After soaping up and using the shampoo, he adjusted the water slowly to a cold setting. He was feeling almost awake as he finished, stepped out, and grabbed two towels from the warming rack.
His own shaving gear had been placed on a white towel beside the sunken basin and he quickly lathered his face and scraped off the rough whiskers. Juba smirked at his own reflection. You are a mess. He brushed his teeth. Someone had hung his clothes and neatly put away the shirts and underwear, leaving the valise in the closet. Juba decided on lightweight grey slacks and a starched maroon shirt with long sleeves, dark socks, and shined black loafers. Hendrik van Es from Indonesia, who padded around his own home in sandals and a sarong, was no longer present. Juba slid easily into his old skin. He opened the door of the bedroom.
The young man who had picked Juba up at the airport was settled in a large chair, with his long legs crossed. He had a long face framed by a well-trimmed beard and his hair was naturally curly. Juba estimated he was not yet thirty years old, probably stood about six foot two, and had a body that was slim and showed some work, although the manicure indicated that the muscles were the result of gym workouts and not from labor or soldiering.
“Get me something to eat,” Juba softly said.
“My name is Amin,” the man said. He had a strong edge in his tone as he stood, wanting to establish immediate authority. “I am not your servant.”
“I don’t care who you are and that was not a request.” Juba adjusted the eye patch to a more comfortable position. “I had to stop my work and fly halfway around the world to return to this shitty country. If some food is not out here in ten minutes, I’m leaving and your revolution is fucked. I want fresh fruit, croissants, and scrambled eggs. Strong tea. Then go get Dieter.”
Amin was stunned by the extraordinary change. This did not seem like the same person! Not only had the passenger washed away that awful smell, but his commanding manner was that of someone used to having his orders obeyed. Juba walked to the large television set standing blank in the corner, turned it on, and started surfing channels in search of news. He had to catch up.
“Very well. I shall inform the kitchen staff and summon my employer.” Amin did so by picking up a telephone and using an internal system. With that done, he hung up and intentionally moved to stand behind Juba, a tactic that he employed routinely so that his size would intimidate visitors. Maybe this stranger was no fool, but the white hair, the single eye, and other deformities left an overall unimpressive image. “Your food is on the way.”
Juba ignored him and was frustrated by the television broadcasts. Almost everything was being blocked and or heavily censored. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.
Amin said, “I cannot believe that you are the magic one who has been orchestrating the overthrow of the royal family.”
Juba snapped off the TV and dropped the remote, moving sil
ently to the dining table in the next room and taking a chair in a place that had been set for him. A dark blue plate with gold trim matched the rest of the setting and a maid placed a pot of tea beside it. He poured and sipped.
Amin followed, growing more irritated at the treatment he was receiving, as if he were an underling. He pulled out a chair for himself, angled it and sat, unbuttoning his coat, leaning back and crossing his legs again. A pistol was visible in a shoulder holster. A tight smile came to his lips. He felt that his pressure was working as he reasserted his authority.
“Juba!” he said with a mocking tone. “I have heard so much about the famous fighter and jihadist, the maestro of death.” Amin shook his head. “And I finally have the opportunity to meet this hero, only to discover that he is just a frail old man.”
Juba put down the tea, unrolled the folded blue cloth napkin and arranged the dull knife, a spoon and fork, still without saying anything. He emptied a spoonful of sugar into the tea and then added a bit of cream. It tasted good. Food would settle his stomach.
“No wonder you hide in a place where no one can see you,” said Amin, accusingly pointing his left index finger. “I will no longer tell children that they must behave or that the scary Juba will come in the dark and snatch them from their beds. You may have some people fooled, old man, even Dieter Nesch, but I see you plainly for what you are.”
Moving with the speed and force of a bullet, Juba stood in a single move, grabbed Amin’s hair in his left hand and pulled him forward. The table knife was in his right hand and he extended his arm parallel to the floor, with his thumb on the bottom of the blade, and swept it across the bigger man’s left shoulder to plunge it into the soft throat.
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