Clean Kill (21 page)

THE CLAYMORE MINE THAT
guarded the door to his rooftop perch exploded with a flash and such sudden violence that it shook the building. Kyle jumped at the surprise blast and heard a man scream. Some rebel nosing around the building had tripped the booby trap and was blown out of his boots. Automatic weapons began stuttering, with the bullets zipping harmlessly through the smoke of the destroyed doorway. Kyle shifted the phone to his left hand and grabbed his M-16 with his right.
If a woman can steer a car, apply makeup, text-message, and drink coffee at the same time, I can do this.

FROM THE CONTROL TOWER,
the imam’s shrill words were still goading his former captors, and bringing shouts of delight from the cheering rebels when the first smart bombs from the B-2A crashed into the lines of armored vehicles at the fuel farm and ammunition depot. A jackhammer staccato of violent explosions crushed the columns with a thorough carpet-bombing, and the storage areas of petrol and ammunition erupted. The ground underfoot shook as the typhoon of destruction consumed the entire area in a fire-storm. Blazing battle tanks flipped about like ruined tin cans.

Before the roar of the first attack ceased, Kyle had a pair of Marine F/A-18 Hornets barreling in low. They had been flying a mission in Kuwait when the Black Flag was unfurled and arrived as the first package in the circle. Swanson read them the location and azimuth of the wide field that was jammed with rebel soldiers, all of whom were watching the disaster at the tank pens.

THROUGH A CRACK IN
his hide, he saw an enemy soldier creeping slowly along the roof. Kyle held his fire because the man was not specifically hunting him. All the soldier really knew was that a claymore had blocked the doorway and caused casualties. Swanson judged the enemy strength was most likely just a few guys, a squad at most, and the claymore already had sheared off a few. The soldier probed around an air-conditioning duct and found nothing, then turned and saw the hide. The rebel’s eyes grew wide in alarm as Swanson took him down with a careful three-round burst.

THE FAST F/A-18 HORNETS
sailed in on a south-north run and laid a trail of bombs and rockets through the massed infantrymen in the open area. Shrapnel chewed through them like broad razors and their shredded bodies fell in bloody heaps.

Kyle figured one more strike would be needed and he assigned the target of the control tower to two Navy F-35 Joint Strike Fighters just as another pair of rebel infantrymen darted from the wrecked rooftop doorway, charging toward him with their rifles on full automatic. Swanson kept the radio tight to his ear and put his M-16 over his head, pointed it at open space, and pulled the trigger to let it rock and roll on full auto. The bad guys would either have to take cover or hit the deck. There was another scream and he gave the final instructions to the planes.

The JSFs came in low and hard to lay a long, fiery string of napalm that wrapped the control tower in broiling flame and smoke.

The entire attack required less than ninety seconds and had left the rebel force broken and its leaders dead. The aircraft were gone almost before any of the rebels even had a chance to look up.

“Frequent Flyer. Bounty Hunter. End mission. One hundred percent success. No more help is needed from the planes waiting in the stack. We owe you all a drink.”

“Roger that, Bounty Hunter.” The captain was on the line again and was sounding upbeat and flirty. “Stay safe.”

THE FLIMSY WALL OF
the hide crashed down in a tangle of debris as the final rebel soldier slammed into it at a hard run, his thought process unhinged from reality by the ferocity of the fight. The man had lost all sense of reality and was gripped by a temporary insanity: He just wanted to kill the unseen tormentor, face-to-face.

The attack knocked Swanson down and the M-16 was trapped beneath a board. The furious soldier was on top of him, trying to untangle his own rifle from the wreckage. Kyle slapped him hard in the face with the sat phone receiver in his left hand, a move that broke the bridge of the nose and caused the eyes to water. The head snapped to the left, but the momentum was still propelling the man forward. Kyle released the M-16, lunged forward, and buried his own chin against the enemy’s right cheek. Wrapping his arms around the man and clasping his hands together to complete the body lock, he used remaining momentum to complete a judo throw back over his shoulder. The soldier’s feet left the ground and he sailed overhead.

The rebel was still holding his AK-47 and the middle part of the weapon smacked Kyle hard in the forehead, cutting the skin and making him see stars momentarily. He held on. When the roll was completed, Kyle was kneeling on top of the soldier in a full mount. He folded his right arm and drove the sharp elbow straight down into the left temple of his opponent, dropped the sat phone so he could yank the Ka-Bar knife from his harness with his left hand. He stuck it hard into the neck, twisting it. He did not have to examine the soldier to know he was dead, so he moved away from the corpse and grabbed the M-16 again, then visually scanned the rooftop while he caught his breath. It was quiet. That was the last one.

SWANSON RETRIEVED THE PHONE
and changed frequencies one more time. Blood was dripping from his forehead into his right eye and he wiped it away.

“Crown, Bounty Hunter.”

“Bounty Hunter, this is Crown. That was a bit of a surprise.”

“Yes, sir. The Saudi Royal Air Force is a splendid unit and deserves commendations for its action here today.”

“Roger, Bounty Hunter. Care to join us in the attack to finish off the stragglers?”

“No thanks. Best that this remain an all-Saudi fight. I’ll see you in a little while. Good hunting.”

TRUE REST WAS HARD
to come by; sleep, virtually impossible. Three of the nuclear missiles had been scooped up. Kyle Swanson felt an unreasoning pressure to finish the task and get the remaining two. It was as if an unseen clock was ticking and he did not want to lose the impetus he had going. Keep pushing over the dominoes. Keep stirring the pot.

The end of the fighting at Ash Mutayr came with a whimper, and a sight that was peculiarly tribal. To a Western military observer such as Swanson, it was incomprehensible. He had seen the phenomena before and still didn’t understand it.

While the smoke from the air strike was still rising, the remaining rebels began to surrender, walking away from their positions, with their hands up. Some still held weapons, but were smiling. Prince Maashal’s main task turned from fighting to orchestrating the surrender of hundreds of rebel soldiers who only minutes earlier had been trying to slaughter those loyal to the crown. Instead of acting like prisoners of a defeated army, they acted like they were attending some weird high school reunion. They immediately started mingling with their captors, who were content for now just to round everybody up and take away the weapons. The hair-raising violence and threats evaporated like a mirage. Friends again. Comrades once more. Muslims together. Return to the barracks and the mess halls and pray and get ready for tomorrow’s big cleanup, as if nothing ever happened. It would take some time to sort out appropriate punishment.

He had caught an hour’s worth of relaxation in an air-conditioned office while the prince’s troops went to the hangars at the far end of the airstrip and hauled out the nuclear warhead and the missile launch system, both of which were still intact because Swanson had made sure the U.S. bombers and fighters had not torn up any air facilities except for the control tower. Some helicopters were also safe inside and he had Mishaal appropriate one for his use and have it checked out and fueled.

“I want to get up to Jeddah right away and prepare to pick up the next nuke at al-Taif,” Kyle said.

The prince was at a desk, alternating his attention between maps and radio and telephone handsets. “I cannot leave yet, Gunny. A new commander for this base will arrive from Riyadh early tomorrow. We are temporarily assigning the job to a major general, who will bring along his own staff and some fresh troops so we don’t have to go through this loyalty issue again. At least not here.”

“So how about if I start the arrangements and we can finish off the transfer when you come in tomorrow?”

The prince nodded agreement. “Do you want one of my staff members to go with you?”

Kyle shook his head negatively. “No. There’s not much to do and I have the authorization to set up my part of the deal. By the time I get up there and contact my people to set up the next flight, I will be ready for some sack time.”

“You’ve earned it, Gunny.”

“So have you.”

Swanson walked alone to the waiting helicopter. In minutes, he was in the air and gone. He closed his eyes and was immediately asleep. He awoke when the blades changed their sound and the helicopter headed into Jeddah. He saw the friendly face of Jamal smiling at him from a waiting automobile and they went straight to the CIA safe house to get to work.

It was after midnight before Swanson took a shower and went to bed. The red digital readout of a bedside clock again reminded him that time was rolling away.

SATURDAY MORNING FOUND MOHAMMED
Abu Ebara seated in the one large overstuffed chair in the main room of his thick-walled home. It was sequestered in a private compound, one of several places that he maintained throughout the country. His narrow face was immobile in thought as he stared through a curtained window that overlooked a small garden. This would be an important day, perhaps the most important of his life.

There was no doubt that the rebellion was faltering throughout the country. The ungrateful populace of Saudi Arabia had not reacted with the storm of resentment that Ebara had both expected and promised. The people had been horribly tainted by unholy ideas and were unwilling to give up their modern comforts, automobiles, television sets, money, music, and filthy habits. They were shunning his call to exchange their lives and fortunes for his message of absolute morality and, through that, a serene life of total obedience.

Like children, they once again would have to be reminded of who they were. A stern lesson was all that was needed. Once it was properly administered, the uprising would begin anew and sweep across the land.

Therefore, he would have three men executed in the public square today. His instructions to the executioners were very clear. There would be no artistry in the simultaneous decapitations. The first sword slashes would do no more than cut deeply into shoulders and scalps, starting an orgy of butchery and torture that would be prolonged by the dull chipped blades and careful aim of the men doing the chopping. Severing the spinal cords and actually cutting off the heads probably would not happen until five full minutes of relentless butchery.

Ebara thought silently:
This is how you get votes in my world. I will rule through the oldest and surest of ways: fear and intimidation. Anyone who does not support me is my enemy and will be declared an infidel—open targets for the retribution of Allah!

Chosen to be slain today were a university professor of archeology who believed that science could replace pure faith, a merchant who had become too wealthy to be humble, and a young man who led the Desert Leopards gang but had outlived his usefulness. The Leopards had not been aggressive enough in creating the needed urban riots and had lost many of their members while fighting the government forces. He would be replaced by an even more violent gang. There was no shortage of criminal gangs. All three of the men, even the young Leopard, were members of families with connections to the royal government.

When it was done, the pictures and the awful message would spread over the land and rekindle the fire of rebellion. It could still work. He would make it work! Ebara fancied himself as the great captain of a wonderful new movement that would combine religion, government, and military strength under his personal leadership. After all, it was he who had pushed the original idea of a coup into motion and come up with the necessary outside help.

Just as he had been wrestling with ways to begin a rebellion, the sly Russians, with oil and power on their minds, had appeared before him like a gift from Allah. The middleman was Dieter Nesch and it had taken many days of private conferences before the pieces came together.

Nesch had spelled it out carefully. A properly financed coup would replace the House of Saud and put Ebara and his religious police force in control. Ebara would subsequently request Russian troops and assistance to protect the oil production facilities. When Saudi Arabia was brought to heel, Ebara and his silent partners could move on to other oil-producing Gulf nations, picking them off like ripe fruit from a tree and spreading Ebara’s religious reign while Russia clamped control on the worldwide price of energy.

The temptation had been great for an ambitious minor cleric who was not even an Islamic scholar. The banker not only promised Russian funding, but said they were in contact with a specialist who could give birth to the revolution. Once a series of attacks was launched, Ebara’s men would propel the unrest throughout the country to create chaos. The man who could do this marvelous thing lived in Indonesia. His name was Juba.

The cleric sighed. Perhaps he had made a mistake there. Temptation had ensnared him again when the unexpected gift of nuclear weaponry had fallen in his grasp. With those horrible things, Ebara thought he might accelerate the timetable and reach into countries beyond just the surrounding nations. Juba, however, was proving to be uncontrollable, condescending, and rude. If Ebara could rekindle the rebellion, Juba might no longer be needed at all. There was enough money available to hire a team of devout Muslim scientists from Iran or Syria to replace him.

He turned from his reverie when there was a soft knock. His wife entered the room to tell him the driver had arrived with the car. It was time to go to the mosque to demonstrate his power. He rose with a sigh that only he could hear and ignored his two young sons, who were standing beside the door, their heads bowed in respect and trepidation, wondering if they would receive a pat on the head or a slap to the face when he passed. It was also time to deal with Juba and the banker again. But he felt good.

THE TWO REAR DOORS
of a dented Ford E-150 cargo van stood open as Kyle Swanson and Jamal finished loading it. A wooden crate weighted by sandbags rested firmly just inside the sliding side door, leaving plenty of room for Swanson on the other side. A black cloth curtained off the driver’s cockpit to block any outside view of what was in the rear. The van was meticulously checked, everything from tire pressure to fluid levels. Jamal lubricated the runners for the side door to help it open and close smoothly.

Then he opened the garage and got into the driver’s seat. Kyle jumped in back and closed the rear doors. They did a time check—fifteen minutes until noon—then drove out, heading for the main square of Jeddah. Kyle unlocked a long, narrow gun case and removed Excalibur from its cushioned resting place.

Fifty caliber. A fiberglass stock exactly molded to fit him. A telescopic sight that was almost magic and comparable to any pilot’s heads-up display panel—computerized and extremely accurate, with an internal gyrostabilizer, infrared laser, and a GPS transmitter-receiver. The scope did the math on everything from target range to barometric pressure. It was a long-distance, precision-firing miracle that he had helped develop for Sir Jeff, simply the best sniper rifle in the world. If Kyle could see a target a mile away in daylight, he could put a handcrafted bullet through it.

By necessity, this had to be a one-shot job. With Excalibur, one shot was enough.

“A NUCLEAR MISSILE IS
waiting for you.” Ebara looked with disdain at the over-bearing Juba. He longed to administer to this deformed infidel a punishment similar to that awaiting the three men in the square.

“Where?” Juba and Nesch were standing, while Ebara was seated, confidence building by the minute. He had deliberately chosen a room in the mosque that had only one chair, and he occupied it, so the others had to stand before him.

“It is at the army base of Tabuk, in the north, near the Jordanian frontier and Israel.” Ebara took a small sip of tea and picked up an envelope from a side table. “The commanding general is a faithful brother who is among the true believers to our cause. The details are written here.”

Juba rubbed his chin and passed the envelope to Dieter Nesch. He assumed that Ebara knew that the mutiny at the base in the south had been defeated. “As I expected, the coup seems to have stalled. You guaranteed a spontaneous uprising of the citizens, Ebara. Why did that not happen?”

Ebara rose from the chair and stood to face Juba. No longer would he be cowed and insulted. “I see now that I was wrong to bring you here,” he said, with a snort of derision. “You, Juba, have failed to deliver what you promised for our revolution, so I am now forced to assume the overall command of the military situation as well as the spiritual and political. Your only remaining assignment now is to go and take control of this remaining missile in Tabuk, an assignment that I have made as easy as possible for someone of your obviously limited capability. Then launch it immediately and lay nuclear destruction upon the infidels and our enemies. You get your choice of targets. Tel Aviv would be good. After that, you can flee back to where you came from and hide from the world.”

Nesch cleared his throat. “Be careful. Both of you. We can still make this happen, but we need to work together, not kill each other.”

Ebara maintained his aggressive posture. “Banker Nesch, we have not received the services from Juba for which we have paid so dearly. I suggest that you pass that exact message, from me to your paymaster in Moscow.”

Juba only smiled, the insults rolling harmlessly off of him. There was a playful glint in his eye. “Ebara, you have to be smart, not crazy, to overthrow a government. Nuclear weapons were never part of my plan, which was going fine until you reached too far above your head and meddled in things about which you know nothing. Still, we might as well play out the game. The fact is that I am here, and once I take possession of that missile, perhaps I can still rescue you from yourself. You may win this thing despite all of your bungling.”

“I am done with you,” Ebara declared, his voice rising. “Go now, while you still have your impertinent tongue.” The cleric stalked from the room, satisfied with having placed Juba and Nesch in their proper, subservient roles. He had other, more important business waiting for him in the square.

It was noon. The crowd for the triple execution was huge. Four television cameras were present.

AS MOHAMMED ABU EBARA
emerged into the sunlight and strode halfway down a small flight of stone steps to where three bound men were on their knees, a traffic problem was taking place on an overpass some distance away. A dirty van had chugged to the side of the road, steam rising from the engine, and the driver was out of the vehicle with his head beneath the hood.

Jamal muttered into a small radio transmitter, “Right on time. He’s coming out.”

The side door of the cargo van slid open about six inches. Kyle Swanson was squeezed into a tight sitting position, with Excalibur solid on a sandbag atop the crate beside the door. “Okay. I see him. Target acquired.”

Swanson’s instincts took over as he let the numbers scroll through the scope’s powerful computer. The target was painted at 1,420 meters, almost a mile away. A light breeze was projected to be blowing right to left across the flight path at four-point-one miles per hour, so the bullet would move slightly to the left. The downward trajectory required an adjustment to compensate for the drop, for a bullet would otherwise tend to hit high. He agreed with Excalibur’s computation and fine-tuned the scope four and a half minutes right, down two clicks in elevation. An azure stripe blinked down an edge of the scope to confirm all settings were accurate.

Ebara came to a standstill on the steps. He had memorized the words he would say to the large crowd and the condemned men, intending to send an ultimate warning that would instill fear into every corner of Saudi Arabia. He spread his arms wide to silence the bloodthirsty mob. The time had come for him to cast off any doubt and publicly emerge as leader of the glorious revolution.

KYLE SQUEEZED THE TRIGGER,
slow and steady, and the big weapon barked one time, loudly, but the sound was mostly obscured by passing traffic. At the sound of the shot, Jamal let the small hood of the van slam back into place and climbed into the driver’s seat without any sign of haste that might draw attention. The engine had been running the entire time.

As soon as he was done with the rhythm of the shot, Swanson reached forward and closed the sliding door. There was no time to watch what happened next, for he no longer was in control. Either the bullet did its job or it didn’t. For the sniper, it was time to disengage and disappear. Jamal put the automatic transmission into gear, checked his mirrors, and the vehicle was disappearing into passing traffic as chaos erupted in the park.

THE BIG .
50
CALIBER
round split the air with a ripping hiss and punched a hole the size of a quarter just above the right nipple of Mohammed Abu Ebara. It spread catastrophic internal destruction around it before blowing out a hole as big as a fist from his back and ricocheting off a stone step. The cleric jerked like a puppet, and his knees buckled, toppling him face-first down the few remaining stairs. His body, with blood spurting from the wound, bounced to rest in front of the men he had picked for execution.

Dieter Nesch, standing off to one side, flinched when he heard the distinct gunshot. He watched Ebara collapse, then the crowd broke and was running wild in every direction, with people falling and being trampled. “The Americans are here,” he told his partner.

Juba had not moved a muscle. His combat sense clicked into play and he instantly reversed the path of the bullet, concluding that it had come from a vehicle along the elevated highway about a mile away. It was an amazing shot, something that could be done only by a very experienced sniper. He agreed with Nesch. “Yes,” he replied. As if he had been expecting this all along.

As they hurried to their car, heaving people out of the way, Nesch was puzzled. Juba suddenly seemed happy.