Dead Shot (13 page)

The Chechnyan not only stopped firing but dropped his weapon and slapped at his skin. His face was twisted in surprise and then in pain. The bubble of poison gas released by the attack had crawled over the bodyguard, and he was trying to rub it away. Then he began to breathe it, and he stood and ran, as if there were some shelter, grabbing at his throat as if strangling. Kyle understood that the man was trying to reach the water hose and maybe scrub away the lethal drops that were congealing into a gel on his body.

Not going to happen, Skippy.
Swanson adjusted the scope, following the movement, and fired. The bullet dropped the bodyguard in his tracks, hitting low on the back, just below the kidneys, and the man crashed and bounced on the dirt. Kyle had not wanted to make a kill shot, just to bring him down. In the view of the sniper, the bastard was not a candidate for an easy death. The man tried to crawl but gave up and rolled on the ground as the gas went into his lungs. He lay there with his chest heaving, turning purple in the face as he choked to death on his own fluids.

“Cease fire. Cease fire,” Swanson called to Tipp and Hughes. “The gas has them now. Let their little miracle finish them off.”

“Shoot them!” demanded Delara.

“No need,” Kyle replied. “What those men did to your brother is now happening to them. I will kill any who might survive.”

“One got away on the helicopter,” noted Joe Tipp. “I tried to nail him, but he was low and moving fast.”

“Yeah. I took a shot at the Huey, but it was too far away for the Dragunov.”
Juba? Now that would be an interesting twist to things.
Kyle stood up. Fire raged in the container area but was not spreading to the building. A dozen bodies lay on the ground, three still twitching in the
embrace of the poison in their bodies. “Anyway, the site is open. We’ll wait for a little while to let that shit burn off or blow away before going in.”

A slow thirty minutes passed and an uneasy stillness came to the area, as if nature were eager to take back the dead zone. Things someday would grow here again. No curious soldiers came looking for the source of the shooting and explosions because the all-clear siren had never sounded.

The light rain began falling heavier, which would help dampen the traces of the gas.

“I want to bury my brother,” said Delara.

Kyle was eating an MRE ration. “I don’t think we can do that. The body is contaminated now, and we don’t know what the stuff is. In fact, you probably should not even look at it, and you definitely cannot touch him.”

She was also standing. “I don’t care. He was my brother. I cannot just leave him out there.”

“As much as I hate it, we have to leave them all out there. We are taking a huge risk just going into the building for a few minutes.” He stuffed the half-eaten ration back into his pack. “Look, Miss Tabrizi. Whatever was being concocted down there obviously is one of the greatest weapons-grade poison gases ever created. A real terrorists’ cocktail, and we don’t know its properties—sarin, ricin, anthrax, whatever. We have seen how it kills without conscience, and the bad guys have it, which means thousands of people are now in jeopardy. Your brother gave his life fighting these maniacs, so don’t you think he would want you to do everything you can to bring them down?”

She was near him. Delara knew what he said was true, but…“He is my brother,” she whispered softly.

She looked so small, and there were tears in her eyes. Kyle stepped close and wrapped his arms around her. “I know. I am so very sorry.”

“Our chopper will be here in ten minutes, Shake. Let’s do it.” Travis Hughes had his MOPP suit on.

“Right. Tipp, you cover us from up here with the RPK, then take Miss Tabrizi over to the field where that other helo was. Make that the designated landing zone.”

“I want to go with you!” Delara’s response was immediate.

“No. You really don’t,” Kyle answered, but with a gentle tone instead of that of a combat commander. “You will want to remember your brother as who he was. You don’t want your last memory of him to be a close view of what they did. Please, Delara, I’m asking that you stay here with Joe. Travis and I are doing a quick search and then we’re out of there. Speed is necessary, and you would slow us down…maybe put us all in danger.”

He and Hughes were already moving, leaving no time for discussion. Delara watched them go and turned to Joe Tipp, who was scanning the area with his binos. “He’s right. Let’s finish this and get out of here,” said Tipp. “Kyle is good at this stuff. Trust him.”

“Kyle? That is his name?”

“Oh, shit,” Tipp said. “Forget I said that.”

Swanson and Hughes moved as cautiously as if skating on frozen glass, determined to touch nothing unless absolutely necessary. They ignored the bodies and the exterior destruction and, wading through a thin film of lingering smoke, moved into the building. The mist was gone, but rain was coming down harder.

The body of the man they recognized as the leader of the scientists was on the floor, killed not by the gas but by two bullets to the back of the head at close range. Hughes had his camera running and took pictures as Kyle probed deeper into the office area, his weapon at the ready. A pile of papers had been thrown onto the floor. File drawers hung open. Desks were empty.

The door at the far end of the room stood open, and the two Marines started downstairs. The lights were still on, and they entered a spacious area of several rooms crammed with laboratory equipment and electronics gear. Every computer had been destroyed, the screens smashed and the hard drives removed and crushed. Shelves were lined
with covered containers, and at one end was a sterile room that could be entered only through an airlock. It was empty except for more counters and scientific gear.

The place seemed to Kyle to mirror the one they had been in earlier in southern Iran, only this one was still intact. He shuddered to think of the experiments that went on in this place. Through another door and down more stairs. A storehouse of material, and smaller areas that indicated mess and health care facilities. The place was like an underground pyramid, with plenty of space at the bottom and narrowing to that single administrative area on the top. Down low was where the really dirty work was done, and Kyle, followed by Travis, went carefully to the bottom floor and finally into the individual spokes and tunnels. He breathed easier when they found that the dungeon cages were empty. All of the prisoners had been taken out and executed this morning. On the side of one of the cells, they found someone had used a rock to scratch numbers into the concrete wall—999. Hughes took pictures.

“Nothing more down here, Trav. Let’s go back up and gather those papers, then get out of here.” Kyle led the way back into sunlight, almost feeling the dark shadows pulling at him from down below, trying to take him into a cell and lock the door. He shook it off.

Travis stepped to the front door and waved up to Joe Tipp. It was time to get moving. “All clear,” Tipp acknowledged on the radio. “Bird inbound.”

Kyle took down a pair of white biohazard suits hanging on the wall and tossed one to Travis, and they both stuffed the papers on the floor into the garments. Scientific records, notebooks, computer disks and office documents, letters and notes, but they did not know if it was treasure or trash. Finally, Kyle searched the body of the director and found a cell phone and a wallet. He threw both into the makeshift sack. “Let’s go,” he said.

They trotted through the rain, letting the water wash off anything that might have clung to their suits. Joe Tipp was in the open, guiding the helicopter down, while Delara Tabrizi stood to the side.

Kyle and Travis stopped just outside the radius of the powerful rotor
blast and peeled out of their biosuits, leaving them on the ground before they climbed into the Pave Low.

“What did you find?” Tipp asked, pointing to the two bulging white biosuits on the floor. The sleeves and arms were folded tight, but loose papers stuck from the neck openings.

“Don’t know. I’m not a scientist,” said Travis, “but whatever it is, I think the intel pukes will be having wet dreams for the next month or so.”

PARIS

J
UBA HAD NEVER BEEN
so scared. Not in his entire life. In the first twenty-four hours after escaping from the contaminated biochemical weapons site, he took five showers and still was almost mad with worry that he would never be truly cleansed.

His helicopter had landed at a small airport, where he showered and found fresh clothes, then abandoned the aircraft. The helicopter pilot was killed and the body hidden in the equipment shed; then Juba hired a small plane and flew back to Tehran. He was out of Iran on the first available international flight.

Only when he checked into the Four Seasons Hotel in Qatar did he begin to breathe easier, and immediately after being shown into the suite, he got into a shower with water as hot as he could stand, imagining that some of the deadly gel particles were sticking to him even then, burrowing beneath his skin, reaching for his guts and his brain.

He repeatedly coated himself with soap and shampoo, working the suds hard beneath the downpour of scalding water until his skin was red and raw. He turned his face into the falling stream and felt it cook. He vigorously scrubbed between his toes, the bottoms of his feet, deeply into his ears, beneath his crotch, fingernails, nostrils, everywhere. Shampoo the eyebrows and under the armpits, and even the pubic hair and the crevice of his butt.

Steam rose from his body when he turned off the water and stepped from the stall onto the cool tiles and wrapped himself in thick white
towels. Wait—what if he had swallowed some of it? He brushed his teeth until the gums bled and gargled with antiseptic mouthwash. He studied the blood on the toothbrush and threw it away.

Moving into the bedroom, he noticed the full-length mirror. He dropped the towels and stood before it for a long time, examining his entire body, turning slowly, looking for rashes and lesions. Then he climbed beneath the covers, only to be seized again by unreasoning panic and break into a sweat. He rushed to the bathroom for another shower, his thoughts anchored on the memory reef of the prisoners dying, trapped in the small cages as the gas ate at them. Every itch he felt was magnified a thousand times, the lingering fear intensified by the knowledge that he had helped make the monster that was trying to devour him. Juba was new to fear, for he had never been frightened by any enemy. This invisible slayer was different, hungry and uncaring about who was right or who was wrong, nor obedient to its creator.

After a few hours and another shower, he calmed enough to have the concierge send someone to purchase new clothes from the nearby mall, and later had a nice dinner at a table overlooking the expanse of the Arabian Gulf. When he returned to his room, he called for a massage, then lay still in bed between clean sheets while the masseur pounded the twisted muscles, loosening the knots with pressure and pain. Afterward, Juba turned out the light, and to avoid thinking about the invisible gas and the wet drops that brought certain death, he concentrated on the long and tangled journey that had brought him to this place on this day.

As a boy, back when he was Jeremy Mark Osmand, he was teased at school in England for having a foreign father and for being a Muslim, although that stopped as he grew taller and stronger and fought anyone who belittled his family. Despite his superior abilities in rugby and soccer, he still heard the ridicule that swam just below the surface of many of his classmates’ polite geniality.

In the summer of 1988, his parents took him to Peshawar, in the North-West Frontier Province of Pakistan, where his father joined the
surgical staff at a Red Crescent hospital while his mother helped at the refugee center. They lived in a house among the eucalyptus trees of University Town, and from there, Jeremy set out each day to explore the boomtown spawned by the Russian invasion of neighboring Afghanistan. Spies and journalists, Russian planes overhead, distant explosions, the hubbub of the Smugglers’ Market and a crush of people, animals, and vehicles of all sorts and every color. Weapons and ammunition were strapped to the backs of trains of mules headed for the border.

The war was an awakening of an Islamic spirit within the boy, and in mosques and youth meetings, Jeremy discovered that London was not the center of the universe after all!

He learned much more about the Prophet and the holy places and was astonished to discover that the mighty Ottoman Empire was not an ancient myth. Although it had begun back in 1300, it lasted until 1924. Its creation was led by the venerable Osman I! His family’s original last name was the same as that great caliph, and Jeremy questioned his father’s decision to bastardize and anglicize it. “Come with me to the hospital today and I will give you the answer,” his father said one morning as they sipped strong black coffee. “One of my fellow physicians wants to meet you.”

Within the hour, Jeremy was at a small table in the rear of a coffee house near the hospital, deep in conversation, in English, with Dr. Ayman al-Zawahiri, the Muslim firebrand who had been jailed and tortured following the assassination of Egyptian president Anwar Sadat. He had come to Peshawar to help the mujahideen freedom fighters, and Jeremy was spellbound by the intense man with the large eyeglasses, who made sense with his stern and unforgiving religious and political views.

Then someone else joined their group, a tall and slender man who wore common robes although he possessed great wealth. Osama bin Laden was from Saudi Arabia and was famed for lectures that painted a dark vision of Islam and reasoned that it was not only permissible to kill infidels: Under the Koran, it was a Muslim duty. Bin Laden extended a hand and uttered a soft greeting, then encouraged the boy to speak, and Jeremy’s new dreams of revenge and hatred spilled forth. Jeremy
promised that he was a true Muslim and ready to die, today if necessary, for Islam.

The tall Saudi touched the boy’s forearm. “No, not today. Not for a long time.” He glanced at Dr. Osmand. “Were you aware that your father has long been one of us?”

Jeremy blinked as his father bowed at the compliment.

“It was at our request that he has endured such shame among the infidels, and the Prophet will reward him.”

“Father? I don’t understand. What is he talking about?”

“Our name, Jeremy,” the father replied. “You believe I changed our name for mere advancement in English society. That is not what happened.”

Al-Zawahiri interrupted. “Many years ago, I formed the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt and brought it forward into the Islamic Jihad, and now into al Qaeda. Part of our early work was to create what intelligence services call ‘moles’ who would infiltrate foreign countries and be ready to strike when needed. Your father volunteered to help in this cause and was asked to eradicate the automatic Muslim link of his name so that you, Jeremy Osmand, would have a true British name, speak like a native of England, and act British. Your father has been a loyal soldier.” The dark eyes burned into Jeremy. “Now it is your turn.”

“So, young man, you will not become a martyr today,” added Osama bin Laden. “Praise be unto Allah, we have plenty of recruits ready to do that vital work. Yours is a special task that will require years to accomplish.”

Jeremy stared at the two leaders of the most violent sector of militant Islam. They wanted him!

Al-Zawahiri’s tone changed. No more polite chitchat or explanations, just a stream of orders. Jeremy was to become as English as he could be, join the British Army and become skilled in its ways, let the army give him as much specialized training as possible.

Osama bin Laden said, “You must shed any trace of Islam. Your present knowledge of the Koran must sustain you, for you must not read it again for many years, nor even have a copy. You will eat the flesh of the
filthy animal, drink alcohol, walk without a beard, be profane, and fornicate with their women. At times, you may even have to fight against Muslims, and you will do so with your utmost ability, for there must be no question as to your loyalty. When the time is right, we will call you.”

“Turn away from Islam? I don’t know if I can do that, sir.”

“That is the answer we expected from you, Jeremy. To satisfy that disturbing thought, a council of holy men has granted a special absolution to excuse the many sins you must commit in the future.” Bin Laden leaned close. “Follow us, young man. We have heavy hearts in requiring someone to abandon the Prophet here on earth in order to sit with him in paradise. Sadly, you will pretend—and live—as if we are your enemies. The forces of the Prophet are already defeating the atheist Russians in Afghanistan, but we must plan ahead. Great wars will come against the Jews and Crusaders before our final victory. Will you help us protect Islam?”

“Yes. Of course I will,” Jeremy replied, and his father squeezed the shoulder of his sixteen-year-old son.

“Then we will give you a new name. To everyone else, you will continue to be Jeremy. But when we summon you, you will become Juba, named for a village created by fierce warriors many years ago along the White Nile in Africa. You will be our own fierce warrior.”

Jeremy graduated from school the very next year and joined the British Royal Marines. When the shooting instructors saw his skill with a rifle, he was sent to sniper school and then moved to advanced training for special operations, including workouts and instruction at the U.S. Marines Scout Sniper School at Camp Pendleton over in America. Every fitness report glowed with praise, and senior sergeants said they had never worked with anyone so dedicated. He rose in rank to color sergeant ahead of his peers and earned the badge of a master sniper, along with other gongs and citations.

Just a natural, said the other bootnecks. Best stalker and shooter in the game, and in a firefight, I want to see the green lid and Lovats of Color Osmand from 42 Commando at my side.

Early in the spring of 2001, Dr. al-Zawahiri sent the message: It was time for Juba. He resigned from the Royal Marines, dropped out of sight, and was in Peshawar on the first day of September.

It was there that he watched the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, which were shown continuously on television. Thousands of Muslims took to the streets in mad celebration.
Enjoy it while you can,
Juba thought. The Taliban was only a mob of thugs, not a real army, and had never even been able to defeat the ragtag Northern Alliance. He knew the oncoming international force of professionals would have no trouble rolling over them.
You’re going to take it right up the bum, mates, and there’s really not a damned thing you can do about it.

He was standing ready, finely tuned and bred for battle, but he was dispatched instead to set up training camps in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Volunteers were pouring in to fight the expected invasion, but there was going to be no time to train them. Anyway, they did not want to be trained: They just wanted to blow themselves up in the faces of their enemy and become martyrs. Juba tried to convince them they probably would never even get close enough to an American soldier to do that. No discipline, organization, tactics, or marksmanship, just the wild firing of bullets. He even killed several of the fools as punishment, but even that made no impression on the others. When he asked for new assignments elsewhere, he was ordered to do the job assigned to him.

The air campaign smashed in like a thunderstorm and slashed the Taliban with everything from superb man-hunting Apache helicopters to F/A-18 Hornet fighter-bombers to Daisy Cutter bombs that weighed seven and one-half tons to AC-130 gunships that spewed bullets in incredible swaths. Not a single plane was lost, but the Taliban front line peeled open like a tin can.

Incredibly, in the face of the disaster, a Taliban leader patiently explained to Juba that things were really going well. The strategy was just to draw in the American army and bleed it slowly over the years, not defeat it. Eventually, Washington would give up, just as they did in Vietnam and the Russians had done in Afghanistan.

Juba argued that it might not happen that way and pleaded to be
allowed to create a special strike unit that could exploit the Americans’ vulnerabilities. He knew this enemy! He was ignored.

The Afghan capital of Kabul fell only two months after the 9/11 attacks, and the developing ground campaign then destroyed Taliban units all through the country, until they found safe refuge in the defensive positions of Tora Bora and the White Mountains along the Pakistan border.

Juba at last was allowed to form a guerrilla group to attack supply lines and targets of opportunity, but his small team was soon swept back into the overall force, and Juba found himself in charge of troops who had no stomach for real warfare and retreated under the slightest pressure. There were many caves in which they could hide.

In frustration, Juba cursed the day he had met Osama bin Laden and Dr. al-Zawahiri. Their whole grand plan was a bust. He believed there should have been an entire series of attacks and responses ready to follow up on September 11, while the United States was almost totally unprotected, unsure, and reeling. Why weren’t bombs going off in cities across America and around the world to keep the enemy off balance? Attack! They should never have allowed the U.S. military to catch its breath. Lies. Al Qaeda had fed him lies. He believed in continuing violence to accomplish military goals, while bin Laden and al-Zawahiri believed in…what?

He had no desire to spend a bitter Afghan winter holed up in some freezing Tora Bora cave, waiting for a cruise missile to fall on his head. The war had evolved into a gigantic game of hide-and-shoot, and that was something that ex–Color Sergeant Jeremy Osmand, a master sniper of the Royal Marines, could do better by himself. He did not want, nor need, to be around this mob. He decided to carve a personal, ruthless, and bloody path into the heart of the enemy.

After the disaster at the biochem site in Iran, Juba spent two days luxuriating at the Four Seasons in Qatar, pampering himself and letting the fear of the deadly gel recede from the forefront of his consciousness. To his surprise, he did not die.