Clean Kill (28 page)

TABUK

THE SMELL OF DEATH
blocked them at the door, an overpowering combination of a body already decaying in a small space. The general was slouched back in his chair behind his desk and the cushion behind his head was saturated with dark blood. A torrent of blood also had swept from the large exit wound onto his uniform. A dark circular bruise the size of a gun barrel surrounded the single entry wound and specks of unburned gunpowder stippled the skin. The pistol was still gripped in his right hand.

“It looks like he considered what he was doing, maybe hesitating at the last minute,” said Kyle. “He finally just jammed the pistol hard against his temple and pulled the trigger.”

“The filthy animal had nothing to live for. He had dishonored himself and his family and got caught on the wrong side of the coup.” Mishaal’s eyes rested on the dead man. “I never liked him. Now let’s get back to work.” The prince spat on the corpse and led the group back outside. Investigators took their place.

A colonel escorted them to a fresh office in a nearby building and then briefed them on how the general had led the unauthorized raid to take the nuclear weapon. The colonel handed Mishaal a piece of paper, an official fax of authorization from the Department of the Interior in Riyadh, in proper form, on letterhead and signed by a deputy minister. “After we spoke with you this morning, I tried to contact the man who signed that authorization. He apparently is nowhere to be found.”

Mishaal passed the paper to his aide and said, “Call Riyadh and give them my orders to find him. Colonel, please speak in English for our guests.”

Kyle cleared his throat and the prince nodded that he could address the colonel. “About how many men did the general have along with him this morning when they took the device?”

“Just the driver in each truck, somebody else was with him in the command car, and four men in the Humvee escort. The general said they were to rendezvous with a special unit that was unaffiliated with the base. I thought about questioning that, since we have thousands of men on the base here, but he was my commanding officer and had the transfer document.”

“So in total, less than ten men were in the raiding party. Nine, now that the general whacked himself.”

“Yes,” said the colonel.

“Who was the other guy in the command car?”

“An American who had CIA credentials.” The colonel checked another list. “The name was Jeremy M. Osmand.”

Kyle turned to Mishaal. “Damn. Juba is a Brit. His real name is Jeremy Mark Osmand. What arrogance! He really wants to be sure that I get his message.”

Mishaal instructed the colonel to throw as many planes and helicopters in the air as possible to expand the search already underway between the base and the border, then dismissed him. Kyle, Mishaal, Henry Tsang, and Jamal were alone in the office. “You have been very quiet, Major Tsang,” the prince said.

“The situation is troubling. When we were back at the hotel, for a moment, I thought you might really have something that my country would find of great interest. Now, with the general dead and the nuclear weapon missing, I have grave doubts.” The Chinese intelligence officer spread open his palms in frustration.

“Jamal? What do you think?” asked Kyle.

“I’m also uncertain, just like the major. This revenge thing Juba has going with you is not the same for a decent terrorist as dropping a nuke on Israel. No offense, Kyle, but you’re a pretty small fish in comparison.”

Swanson rose from his chair and went to a white greaseboard hanging on a wall. “I assure all of you that this lunatic’s obsession is not returned by me. He should have learned the last time we met that there is no honor involved; I just want him dead. We literally blew apart the house in which he was hiding, and he was buried under the debris. Plus, I’m certain that I hit him with a .50 caliber bullet just before the bomb struck. Somehow he lived through it. I’ll do the same thing again, and use every weapon available to us. This is no duel. It’s just his fantasy.”

Mishaal stood and stretched. The tension was locking up his muscles. “Still, he is very dangerous. He has the weapon. We must get it back.”

“Maybe it is not quite as urgent as we first thought. Juba coming out and identifying himself actually is a help. Hell, I didn’t even know he was in the game until now. Under his terms, we have a time cushion before he even tries to set off the nuke because he wants me within range.”

“But Kyle, he can punch the button at any time,” Jamal said. “Let me play psychiatrist for a minute with this nutcase. Maybe he just wants you to be close enough to watch him do the launch, to show you that you failed to stop him. Then, once the missile is away, he can try to settle accounts between the two of you.”

Swanson picked up the black grease pen and uncapped it. “That’s where he has a real problem. I don’t think he can do it.”

“Why?” Mishaal rested against the edge of the desk. “Look at everything he has done, or caused, so far. The man is diabolical.”

Kyle wrote a big number “9” on the board. “That’s how many men he has with him. It’s not enough. Think about it, guys. This is no fire and forget weapon. Nukes are sophisticated. They need special crews for taking them from a warehouse, crane operators, crews for convoys, command and control personnel, vehicle operators, communicators and escorts. Every man involved is highly trained, and those who work with the weapon itself must be trained and certified. Codes are kept in steel boxes with combination locks. This thing is in two separate parts, in two separate APCs. I don’t think he has the manpower or the know-how to even string the cables between the missile carrier and the command track, much less actually be able to mount the warhead. Juba’s brilliant, but he doesn’t know everything and he cannot do it alone. I do not think that bird is going to fly anywhere.”

They all jerked around suddenly when there was a loud pounding on the door and Captain Omar al-Muallami charged inside and shouted, “We have found it!”

THE ENTIRE HIGHWAY SOUTH
from Tabuk was instantly commandeered and police and troops cleared it of all civilian traffic to make way for the trucks and armored vehicles swarming out of King Abdul Aziz Military City toward the reported location of the missile, some fifty miles away. Thick clouds of sand were pulled behind the moving vehicles and fighter aircraft took over the skies. A pair of large command helicopters flew above the storm in a tight side-by-side formation. Prince Mishaal, along with his aide and a few senior officers were in the lead bird. Kyle Swanson, Henry Tsang, and Jamal were aboard the flanking chopper, which had been constructed to ferry generals around, not to wrestle its way into combat zones.

They sailed along through the copper-tinted sky, wrapped in comfort. Soft blue cushioned seats faced forward like easy chairs bolted to the metal deck. Side doors closed out the passing wind, while internal soundproofing reduced the rotor noise to a whine. Strong air-conditioning filtered out the dirt and kept the passengers cool. Kyle thought that it would have been an enjoyable flight if nuclear Armageddon wasn’t brewing at the other end of the trip.

The two command helicopters slowed and settled into a lazy circle at about a thousand feet when they neared the scene, the pilots wary of possible shoulder-launched missiles from the terrorists who were assumed to be somewhere below. Kyle looked out and down. No question. They had arrived; there it was.

Juba’s lethal little convoy had left the main road at a small unmarked crossroad and driven down into a hidden valley of sand and rock, where hundreds of old vehicles had been dumped over the years to rust away beneath the blistering desert sun. The rare rains that would transform the dry wadi into a raging river would also rearrange the hundreds of metal carcasses in haphazard fashion, burying some, stacking others against one another, and resurrecting steel skeletons that had been buried in earlier floods. A few abandoned huts were scattered along the high sides of the valley, and their empty windows and doors yawned open and dark.

Swanson looked at it all with the practiced eyes of a sniper. Juba had chosen the place well. Over the years, this changing landscape had created plenty of places in which to hide.

The missile was clearly visible in the vast junk field, thrusting up out of its armored carrier and locked into its proper firing position of a 60-degree angle, pointed north, toward Israel. A conical shape was on the top, and the ominous missile looked ready to fly.

The second APC, which had carried the nuclear warhead, was abandoned about fifty meters away, and its strong crane hung over the side. The chain hoist had made it possible for the thieves to lift the heavy payload from its carrying crate and mount it atop the blunt end of the missile.

Even before they had taken off from the military city, Prince Mashaal had ordered the wadi blocked off in all directions and surrounded. From the air, Kyle saw a developing scene that was taking the shape of a huge donut as a ring of steel, mobile firepower, and soldiers closed in. Scout helicopters drew no antiaircraft fire when they swooped low across the zone, so the two command helicopters dashed in and landed on the far side of the highway even as military traffic continued to grind past.

Kyle returned his radio headset back on its rest, unbuckled his seatbelt, and pushed the door back. The sudden blast of heat and rotor downwash came as a shock when he stepped from the protective cocoon, and he shielded his eyes and jogged forward to escape the thick dirt cloud. When he was clear, he looked up and realized that, standing at ground level, he could not even see the wadi that descended on the far side of the highway.

The rest of the command group was also dismounting, but were standing around like spectators at a soccer match, in awe of the might of the military machinery that was parading all around. Henry Tsang stepped next to him and Kyle said, “Somebody is probably going to have to get killed before they realize this is no exercise.”

“I see tanks and soldiers, but I don’t hear any shooting,” the Chinese commando agreed. He carried an AK-47 in his right hand. “I do not like it when things go so easily.”

“Juba is drawing us in closer,” Swanson replied. “He wants to see some targets of value.”

“He really just wants you, Gunny,” said Jamal, slapping a fresh clip of ammunition into an M-16.

“Well, that’s fine,” Kyle said with a smooth calmness. “I’m here to kill that missile. I can deal with Juba when the job is done. He used to be a sharp and shrewd fighter, but now he’s just a crazy son of a bitch. Not really much of a threat.”

CAPTAIN AL-MUALLAMI HAD BEEN
the first man out of Prince Mishaal’s helicopter. The efficient aide had quickly ducked through the rotor downwash, found a break in the passing traffic, and trotted off to find a good overview position. The wadi opened before him as the side road breached the canyon wall and headed down to the floor of the valley, but that only provided a limited view. Prince Mishaal would need a better vantage point from which to direct this battle, and Captain al-Muallami spotted a slight incline that led to a higher, irregular ridge. He sprinted to the crest.

Behind him, the rest of the command group was moving across the road, following him. From the top, he was able to see the missile and the arid acres of debris. He removed his sunglasses and brought a pair of binos to his eyes, swept the area, and decided that this position would do. He raised his hand to signal the command group.

The sudden slam of a heavy rifle barked from somewhere in the junk yard, and a heartbeat later, Captain al-Muallami was staggered as a big bullet punctured his throat. His eyes flared wide in surprise as he grabbed at his neck, then he toppled to his knees and fell sideways.

PRINCE COLONEL MISHAAL WATCHED
in disbelief as his aide fell, mortally wounded. Al-Muallami, always so sure of himself and seemingly indestructible, now lay dead only thirty yards away, his life erased in a blink. When Mishaal broke into a run to reach the fallen captain, Kyle Swanson reacted immediately, took two steps forward and drove into a hard tackle that knocked the prince sprawling. Kyle immediately rolled free but kept a strong hand on Mishaal’s arm as a deafening staccato of return gunfire erupted from the gathered troops to answer that deadly single round. The soldiers had not seen the source, so they did not have a target. After the initial volley, all shooting stopped and silence covered the wadi.

“Stay down, Mishaal,” Kyle ordered. “Juba is doing exactly what a good sniper is supposed to do: take out key officers first. Captain al-Muallami had the look of being important and walked into the open, so he became a natural target. If you go over there, he will pick you off, too.”

Another shot lashed out and the sergeant wearing the heavy backpack radio for the command team caught a bullet in his chest and fell backward, pulled down by the weight of his communications gear. The long aerial on his radio had pinpointed him for death. Juba was throwing the entire attack off balance. A thousand eyes scanned the battlefield.
Where is he?

When an armored personnel carrier roared off the road and lurched to a stop to provide a shield of protection for the command team, Swanson released Prince Mishaal and helped him up. “Sorry about the tackle, sir. Juba would love to clip you, and we can’t afford that. Keep control of the situation from here and tighten the net so he can’t escape,” Swanson quietly told the prince. “Please stay under cover. I’ll be back in a minute.”

JAMAL AND HENRY TSANG
had worked their way up the backside of the ridge where Captain al-Muallami had been killed, and found an observation point behind a rusted Volkswagen bug that was resting upside down on its curved roof. They could see through the blown-out windows. Kyle wiggled in beside them. The interior of the skeletal automobile was shaded. A scattering of rocks and a few bushes provided concealment while they surveyed the area. A tremendous amount of noise covered the place as helicopters took off, big vehicles growled about, men shouted, and gunfire chattered. “Spotted anything?” he asked.

“No shooter,” Tsang answered and rolled onto his side. He smoothed some dirt with his palm and poked a finger down to make a hole, then drew a straight line. “This is the missile and this is the road. No more than 200 meters. Can’t-miss range for a decent sniper.”

Kyle agreed with the judgment of the Chinese operator. “That can work both ways. He could see those two targets that he took down, so there has to be a sightline from this ridge to his hide, with nothing in between that would block a clear shot.” He let his eyes roam the area.
Where would I hide?

“We don’t care about him,” Tsang said with a sharp tone. “We are here for that nuclear weapon and to prevent a real war. The deaths of a few soldiers mean nothing.”

Kyle was getting edgy himself. “But Juba’s the one who will launch the damned thing! We spot him and we can end this.”

“It doesn’t matter. I say we have the Saudis go charging in there immediately and take it down. Deal with the sniper and anything else later.”

“Major, he may be using the missile as bait, but he would sure as hell launch it the moment he sees an attack start.”

Tsang and Kyle reached the same conclusion at the same time and the Chinese commando officer said, “If he has control of the weapon, then why isn’t it already in the air?”

Jamal edged in closer. “Simple answer, guys. Like Kyle said before. He hasn’t fired it because he can’t.”

Kyle said, “Because it’s his best leverage. As long as it is there, Juba still has a chance that I will be exposed for that one second he needs to get me. And as soon as the missile flies, the Saudis will roll this place up like a rug…he dies and I’m still alive.”

“No, no, no, no!” Jamal replied, shaking his head. “I mean it literally: I don’t think he can make the shoot.”

The surprise explosion just behind them was like a shout of doom, a warning they heard too late.