Kill Zone: A Sniper Novel (17 page)

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.

“Looky here,” Myron Hix muttered. He was seated at a table crowded with empty beer bottles. A younger man, small, thin, and unshaven, was pushed back in another chair, a grimy Atlanta Braves baseball cap on his head. Rassad ignored them.

“Give that boy a beer!” Hix bellowed. A thick man of middle age with close-cut hair over a red, round face, he lifted a bottle of Budweiser in a toast. “You look like a man who needs a drink.”

Rassad raised his hand to the waitress to signify he did not want a beer. “Thank you, but I do not drink alcohol,” he said to the man.

“He ‘do not drink alcohol.’” The man laughed, and so did his friend. Both wore dark blue shirts with open collars and name patches sewn above the pockets, the uniforms of a local garage. Scarlet script spelled that the big man’s name was “Myron.” The other man was “Robert.”

The waitress slid the saucer with the pie and the glass of water before Rassad with the clatter of cheap china on thin Formica. Georgia was famed for its pecan pie. He took a bite. Delicious. The waitress, a bored woman with dyed blond hair, vanished into the kitchen through a swinging door.

The man approached him and perched uninvited on the torn leatherette stool. “Name’s Myron Hix, boy. You a stranger in this neck of the woods and I wanna buy you a drink. So what’ll it be?”

“Just water.” Rassad faced the man. Bright eyes and beer breath. Glancing at the table, Rassad saw a stack of empty bottles.

“Ain’t polite to refuse a man’s offer,” said Hix. “Not down ‘round here.”

“I do not wish to be impolite. My religion forbids alcohol.”

“Where is it you from, then? Me and Robert are Baptists. Our preacher don’t like us to drink neither, but the Bible says wine is okay. If wine is okay, then ain’t beer and whiskey?”

“I am Muslim.” He finished the pie, drank the water. “Thank you for your kindness.” He fished a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and put it on the counter.

Hix slapped his hand down on the green face of President Andrew Jackson. “Moos-lim? I thought so.” He spun on the stool to face Robert. “I tole you he was some kinda sand nigger, din’t I?”

Rassad tensed. “Please. I wish no trouble. I will just get in my car and go.”

“You damn sure will. And you don’t come back. Hear? Go on back to Egypt and fuck your camel.” Both of the men laughed.

He had just unlocked his sleek gray sedan when he heard the screen door of the diner slam shut, and tensed just as beefy hands shoved him against the vehicle. Rassad smelled the dirty breath of Myron Hix. Two miles away, a stream of headlights moved north, kids going back to school after the holiday. The lighter steps of Robert approached. “We ain’t through with you yet, boy,” said Hix. “You need a good lesson in ‘firmative action so you don’t forget who you are.” Hix spun Rassad around and loomed over him like a bad dream.

The Iraqi looked steadily at the bigger man. “I believe that you are what people call a roughneck?” he asked mildly. “No. My English is poor. The term is stupid fucking redneck. Is that correct?”

As he was being turned, Rassad’s right hand was hidden long enough for him to pull a sharply honed knife with a three-inch blade from the leather sheath clipped to the back of his belt. He had worn such a knife since he was a boy, and it almost jumped into his hand, like an old friend. He knew exactly what he was going to do with Myron Hix.

Rassad kept the knife shielded just behind his right ass cheek while he rotated the blade into position, then he struck upward in a quick, smooth motion with all the force he could muster.

The tip of the blade slid into the soft flesh under Hix’s chin and Rassad shoved it in all the way, up behind the nose until the butt of the knife came to a stop. He ripped to the right and down, hard, cutting the jugular vein before jerking the knife out with the sharp edge toward him in order to cause a maximum of damage. One of the most valuable lessons of his brutal childhood was that once you start an attack, never pause until it is done, and be utterly ruthless.

He held Hix steady and watched the eyes go wide in anger, then surprise, then fade to dimness. Rassad let the body fall, stepped over it, and took three long strides to close on Robert, whose last word was, “Myron?” Rassad plunged the knife in at the belly button, careful to avoid the big metal belt buckle, got his left hand into Robert’s hair, and pulled him forward while he stabbed three more times in the mid-section. As Robert fell, the blade stabbed into the neck on the right side and was raked across the throat, opening a deep and bloody track.

Rassad wiped the knife on Robert’s jeans, returned it to the sheath, got into his car, and started the engine. He wasn’t even breathing hard. His clothes were soaked in blood, and he wiped his face clean with a handkerchief.

All the way back to Massachusetts, he drove safely among the hundreds of honking cars of other students, avoiding police attention and notorious speed-trap towns by just being one of the crowd. Friends at his local mosque arranged for the car to be stolen, and for the knife and clothing to disappear. Rassad replaced the Beemer with the insurance settlement.
The Boston Globe
reported a violent double killing at a roadside café in Georgia, identified the victims, and quoted a Georgia state patrolman as saying, “It was the most terrible thing I ever saw, even better than when that truck full of Vidalia onions squashed the Volkswagen crammed with drunk Florida Gator football fans.”

Rassad now considered that Myron Hix had been sent by the Prophet to point out the darker side of American political history. More than twenty years later, Ali Shalal Rassad, the Rebel Sheikh, still savored that delicious moment when Myron—he liked to refer to him by his first name—called him a sand nigger to his face.

In his senior year at MIT, he expanded his exploration of United States history to include racial hatred. Signs in Texas restaurants once decreed, NO DOGS OR MEXICANS ALLOWED INSIDE. Native Americans had been slaughtered for their land. Railroad builders hung Chinese workers over the sides of mountains in baskets to blow away chunks of rock with dynamite and created the saying that an unfortunate person might not have “a Chinaman’s chance.” Japanese citizens were thrown in huge camps during World War II, but German citizens were not. The South was still dealing with the aftermath of slavery. Mexican immigration was a burning issue. The color of a person’s skin seemed very important in America.

Rassad was fascinated by the political demagogues. Each brimmed with vices, but rose to political prominence by painting themselves as ordinary men of the people. It was called populism, but extended only to those of their own kind: white voters who were extremely religious. When Rassad attended their churches, the congregation stared. Americans taught him racial intolerance.

His professional degree was as an engineer, but his life was about politics, a thirst for power that increased when Saddam’s son threw him in prison, where he somehow endured until the Americans came. Prison always seemed to be a good place for visionaries, and torture was excellent fuel for serious thinking.

When he was released during the first weeks of the American occupation, Rassad set out to perform political magic in Basra because he knew that populism would work as well in Iraq as it ever had in the Southern boondocks. Tribal strength, blind hatred, and fervent religious beliefs inherited over generations proved to be a potent combination. All that was needed was a leader to focus it all, someone to unite the factions.

Within a few years of the occupation, the people of Basra thought they had chosen him for that task, when in reality he had created a political vacuum by getting rid of his enemies. He was trusted by other Iraqis and bridged the gap between the religious factions by showing them there was more to be gained by working together. Peace got the oil flowing, and the oil brought in money enough for everybody. His private militia kept the peace by frequently reminding citizens about the horrors of war.

He had recognized the precise moment to shed his old skin as the leader of violent opposition and be reborn as a strong political savior, the man of peace. Rassad had the grace and intelligence to win the confidence of other foreign leaders, and the Americans were desperately begging for someone, anyone, to step forward and become the Iraqi George Washington. Rigorously managed, democracy could be just the springboard he wanted to expand beyond Basra and take over the government in Baghdad, with all of the levers of power and a treasury that King Midas would have envied.

In the coolness of his air-conditioned office, Rassad again read the urgent coded message he had received from America. It was an instruction to kill the American general Middleton immediately, but gave no details.

He let out a soft, tuneless whistle and smoothed the note on his desk as he let his mind roam free. This was tantamount to an order! Something had changed in his arrangement with Gordon Gates, and he had not been informed in advance for approval. It was irritating.

Therefore he had to examine the entire plan again. The game obviously had entered a new stage, and he would not risk losing all of those lucrative U.S. contacts because of a plot in Washington to change the way their military establishment was funded. Old alliances had to be constantly weighed on the scales of current and future value. Gates would be angry, but they would still work together in the future no matter how this single incident turned out. Gates would have no choice. There was a bigger game. Rassad could not allow the kidnapping to convince the American government to pick someone else to be George Washington.

Rassad asked his aide, “Have you acted on this instruction from the Americans to have our friends in Syria execute the Marine general?”

“Yes. I made the contact within this past hour. They will gather the needed video equipment overnight and record his beheading tomorrow morning.” He bowed slightly, expecting praise for a well-done job.

The Rebel Sheikh puffed out his cheeks, then ran a finger across his dry lips. “Send this new order. Do
not
kill him. Dispatch my plane to Syria at first light and fetch the general down here to me. Dispose of the two American mercenaries who deliver him.”

“As you direct.” The assistant bowed and left the office.

Rassad had not decided what to do with Middleton. He might yet kill him, or give him back to the Americans and appear to have negotiated his release. What had hardened in his thinking was that he would be the one to make the decision, not the American power brokers.

THE SMALL U.S. AIR FORCE
C-20 executive jet sped across the Atlantic, bucking through pockets of rough air that were being pushed east by a storm front. Colonel Ralph Sims, the only passenger aboard, was strapped tightly into a wide, comfortable seat. This rough, bucking ride might be a mild flight compared to what awaited him when he landed.

An Air Force staff sergeant came back to check on Sims, and perched on the armrest of the seat across from him. She was an attractive brunette, with her hair cut short to frame her face and flawless makeup. Slender and with long legs that were close enough for him to touch when she crossed them. She was barefoot, and had replaced her uniform jacket with a small dark blue apron. Her perfect breasts swayed with the motion of the aircraft, threatening to break free of the little buttons on her shirt. The staff sergeant obviously had been chosen as a hostess for VIP flights because of the sum total of all of her assets, and she was given custom-tailored uniforms and had her hair done professionally at a pricy salon, courtesy of Uncle Sam.

“How are things back here, Colonel?” she asked. The accent was uniquely regional to her native West Virginia, and added to the package of charm.

“Bumpy.” Sims had larger things on his mind than this girl’s sexuality, but damn, she looked good.

“It does get that way sometimes, but the pilot is going to take us up higher and bend a little to the south to pick our way through this muck.” She waggled her foot up and down.

“No shoes today, Staff Sergeant?”

“I’m from the coal fields, sir. Didn’t even
have
shoes until I joined the Air Force and the government gave me some,” she laughed. “That’s a lie, but unlike most women, I hate shoes, and kick ‘em off after everyone is aboard and we’re off the ground. Easier to work barefoot.” She waved her right arm at the otherwise empty cabin. “Can you imagine trying to carry a tray while walking on high heels during a storm like this? Some gay designer who hates women created high heels, that’s what I think.”

Sims smiled. “Well, I guess none of your passengers tonight will complain.”

“Nobody has yet, sir. We were going to be flying back empty tonight, but got a last-minute call to hold and wait for you.” She enjoyed only having to deal with just one person. “It’s dark outside and we’re flying into time, so maybe you want to get some rest? Nothing you can do to hurry us along.”

He thought about the valuable hours that were falling from the clock, never to be recovered. Double-Oh and the Sergeants’ Network had done a great job on logistics, for his departure had to look normal, which meant the staff had to be given an opportunity to prepare the PowerPoint slide show and a set of briefing papers. He spent the interval finishing the hardest part of his job as the commander of an elite unit, writing letters to the families of the Marines who were killed on the raid, personal notes that said how proud he was to have served with them. The letters would console some of the heartbroken recipients who would cherish the letter and read it out loud on birthdays, holidays, and special occasions. For others, his message would only fuel the deep personal hurt of losing a loved one, and he would be blamed. He had finished the last one just before going on deck for the evening memorial service for the fallen Marines, HIS Marines!

A helo carted him from the
Blue Ridge
to the battle group carrier in time for the last COD run of the day to Aviano. He boarded the awkward plane carrying a large briefcase that contained the mystery letter amid the other papers, and wore the grim look of a dejected officer going to a balls-cutting session. Rumor spread that he was being called back to CENTCOM to explain the fuckup in the desert. At Aviano, the sleek C-20 had been waiting with its engines buzzing quietly and the beautiful staff sergeant at the bottom of the small, carpeted staircase.

“What time is it?” he asked. He had crossed several time zones since leaving the boat.

She turned and looked at three small clocks in gleaming brass holders on the rear bulkhead. One gave Greenwich Mean Time, one read Washington time, and one was set to the aircraft’s current zone. “Right now, in our itty-bitty piece of sky, it is exactly twenty-two hundred hours and, uh, forty-three minutes and, uh, fifty-eight seconds. We are right in the Greenwich zone.”

He had not realized the clocks were right behind him. Almost 2300 GMT, an hour before midnight. Subtracting five hours meant it was 1800 at both CENTCOM in Tampa and the Pentagon in Washington. No matter how fast the little bird flew, it was unlikely that there would be any meeting with General Turner today.

“Tell you what, Sergeant. I’m a bit wound up, but maybe if you bring me a Jack Daniel’s Black, ice, no water, it will help. After I work on these papers a little longer, I’ll try to get some shuteye.”

She smiled again. White, white teeth. “Yes, sir. One Black Jack coming up. How about I make that a double, and then tuck you in beddy-bye? You could get shitfaced, knee-walking drunk tonight and still be sober enough to finish your papers by the time we get to Tampa.”

The telephone beside him buzzed. “Your language needs work, Staff Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir! That’s what they tell me.” The girl laughed and padded away to the forward galley. She had long ago become a member of the Mile High Club, and this colonel was sort of cute, in a dumb brute kind of way, kind of like a big German shepherd that needed to be cuddled. Possibilities loomed.

The colonel answered his encrypted STU-III satellite telephone. “Sims.”

“Double-Oh here, sir. Your pilot is going to be getting the course-change message from Tampa to Andrews in about an hour, but there’s a problem.”

Sims gripped the telephone tightly. “What?”

“General Turner has left the Pentagon. He won’t be there when you get to Washington.”

“Damn, Double-Oh. Where is he?”

“The general is on his way to China, sir, some kind of emergency defense committee meeting about the new round of North Korean missile tests.”

“Oh, fuck me,” said Sims, closing his eyes.

“Not to worry, Colonel. I got the Network on it. His plane lands at Elmendorf in Alaska to refuel before jumping the Pacific by the polar route. A mechanical problem will keep him on the ground until you get there.”

“He will just take another plane.”

“Yessir, that’s probably exactly what he will try to do. Then that one will also have a malfunction. Airplanes are tricky things, particularly up there in all that extremely cold weather. You just keep going, Colonel. We will have another C-20 waiting at Andrews. Keep closing the gap, sir. He’s got to stop. You don’t.”

“But he’s got a half-a-world head start!” Sims replied. “Okay. Do your thing. Keep me posted.” He turned off the phone, tossed it onto the seat beside the briefcase, and shook his head. “China. Oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” he whispered.

“Ooooh, high-altitude sex. I think that can be arranged, Colonel Sims,” the soft voice with a West Virginia twang purred. The staff sergeant was kneeling at his side with a glass of whiskey and two buttons undone on her blouse. “Drink up while I lock the door, turn on some music, and dim the lights. By the way, my name isn’t Staff Sergeant, it’s Mandi.”