The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) (34 page)

“Thank you. Are the vehicles still there?” Seibel asked.

“They were moved to the east side of the building at 17:29 and were still there as of one minute ago sir.”

“Any other activity of note?”

“Only sparse vehicular and pedestrian traffic,” the tech replied efficiently.

Seibel chuckled. “You’d think these people were expecting an attack any moment, huh?”

“Yes sir. Not many people out, especially for rush hour.”

“Expanded view. Out one mile. Any troop movements to this location?”

“Thought you might ask for that sir. No movements towards location but lots of activity several blocks over outside and around a warehouse of some sort.”

“Excellent. Thank you. Out.” Seibel was watching that same activity in the streets below.

Seibel rubbed Marta’s shoulder and rose from the bed to return to the window. In the 55 seconds he had been away, the scene below had changed significantly. Two Delta Force trucks were moving toward the four-story building. The Iraqi soldiers had the warehouse surrounded and the sharp shooters on rooftops were all aimed at the same building. Their Mukhabarat handlers beside them spoke into radios. The situation was tense. That made it excellent.

He could see several soldiers shouting into the open warehouse door with their weapons pointed at those being shouted at inside. He needed this situation to hold for another minute so the teams could reach their destination. The first truck was just seconds away with the other 30 seconds behind.

He trained his binoculars on the left-most window on the top floor of the office building. The glare from the fading sun made it difficult to see, but lights from inside illuminated the rooms somewhat. The first window was still empty, as it had been when he scanned the windows a few minutes earlier. The second window showed no movement. The third still had a man looking down with binoculars of his own. Seibel drew in his breath hoping to see someone in the last two windows. In the fourth, he could see two men talking. One of them certainly resembled the illustrious leader. The fifth window was empty.

Returning to the fourth, he squinted to tighten his vision and focus. The man on the right wore a jacket and black shirt underneath. He had a mustache, like most Iraqis. He smoked, also like most Iraqis.

“Come on, take a little step forward.” Seibel whispered. He knew Fuchs was getting antsy down there and wanted to get moving toward the office building, but he needed a little more proof before the next action. On the radio he heard Team 1 report on scene and unloading.

He watched the man on the right speak to the younger man beside him and raise his hand in a very dismissive motion. Unmistakable. Seibel had watched hours of footage on Saddam. He was notorious for having body doubles in public. But in those moments when the unquestioned leader was caught on tape, his overbearing, overly secure state of being oozed from every pore. And dismissing others with the flick of the back of his hand was an unmistakable Saddam action. Seibel had the proof he needed.

“Go for 2.” He spoke into the radio.

And the third truck, Pepperoni, carrying Delta Team 2 raised the heavy fabric flap to expose a Delta member holding a rocket propelled grenade launcher. There was a reason this truck had stayed back from the other two and parked where it did. Where it now sat, the Delta sergeant aiming the weapon had a perfect shot at a second-floor window one block away from the warehouse.

Fuchs spoke into Korovin’s headset, “Brother Kusnetsov?”

“Yes.” A hesitant reply.

“Your plans have changed.”

Kusnetsov, anxiously waiting for word from his partner, now stepped foreword to the window and trained his binoculars on the spot where Korovin should be walking around the side of a building. Instead he saw Fuchs standing looking up directly at the window.

“Fuchs.” It was one word and it was resignation. “How did you?”

“Your radios. For more than a year now. Your time in Afghanistan gave you and your codes away; quite easy actually.”

“Such good code though,” Kusnetsov smiled in the face of death just moments away.

“And then your communication with the Iraqi Mukhabarat. A little bird in Jeddah sung a tune for us and here we are today.” Fuchs’ matter-of-fact vague detailing of the information was curt.

Lance, standing right beside Fuchs recognized right away the meaning behind the singing bird. Al-Bakr’s confession had been the key to everything. Lance had not put two and two together before now. He smiled and shook his head. Seibel had indeed been masterful in pulling together this symphony. And Lance had unwittingly played his part to perfection.

“You and your master have been busy,” Kusnetsov made reference to Seibel. These were his last words.

“Goodbye.” Fuchs spoke into the open radio, “Go.”

K&K were world-class agents; top operatives in the business. They had risen to the pinnacle of their profession, broken away from their handlers in Moscow and formed a multi-million dollar operation on the verge of garnering $200 million in exchange for Soviet-era nuclear warheads. Problem was, they had chosen to use a dead coded language from their exile in Afghanistan 15 years earlier. By using that codeset during the last 18 months, they had been intercepted by listeners in Augsburg, Germany. And by tracking their radio frequencies in the ensuing year and some months, Seibel and his team had followed their every move and even been a few steps ahead. The theft from the
Dombarovsky storage facility
of nuclear warheads already made inert and incapable of detonating
was sheer brilliance on Seibel’s part.
The intel developed after Lance’s capture of al-Bakr had indeed put all the pieces together.
Damn.

Before Kusnetsov could breath in his last breath or think about turning from the window, or begin to mourn the loss of his partner, the RPG was fired by a member of Delta Team 2 on the street below. Kusnetsov and the entire office he occupied exploded in a deadly fireball that set the building ablaze. Fuchs and Lance took the explosion as their cue to take off running toward the office building six blocks away.

Lance went out of body for the moment, rising five thousand feet into the air to look down on the scene below. His view was enhanced by his exposure to satellite imagery. Instead of a map or static photo from months or years ago, he had viewed the very scene he saw below just yesterday evening.

He had of course memorized the image. He saw the streets, parked cars, building tops, walking citizens and other intricate details. Because the satellite image was so vibrant, detailed and fresh, he could see it in his head like a movie, like a three-dimensional image.

He watched himself and Fuchs run through the streets as two cargo trucks carrying the Delta Teams moved toward the building a few blocks away. He saw the battle beginning to take shape on the street fronting the warehouse where the nuclear warhead exchange was supposed to take place. In a flash, he was back in his head racing two steps behind Fuchs.

Seibel kept his binoculars trained on the fourth window and the leader of this nation soon to be under siege. The explosion of Kusnetsov’s office caused the man’s easy demeanor to instantly change from dismissive to agitated. He stepped closer to the window and his face was now unmistakable. Saddam Hussein was pissed.

“All units. Yellow 1 is located in position previously identified. Visual confirmation now. Top floor east side, fourth window to the right. Team 3 fire now.”

With that, the flap on the back of Delta Team’s cargo truck flipped up and another RPG appeared less than 100 yards from the office building. As the Delta soldier took aim, Seibel watched as someone from behind Saddam pulled his shoulder to move him.

“Now dammit!” Seibel shouted. Precious milliseconds passed.

The rocket-propelled grenade was launched and reached its target less than a second later. Seibel closed his eyes and pulled his head back as the window and surrounding building structure exploded. Direct hit.

The sound of the explosion reached him a few seconds later. Delta Team 1 was already in the building, entering through the main lobby. Open radios relayed shouts and gunfire. Delta Team 3 members were near the building as well establishing a perimeter and engaging any security personnel outside the building. Team 2 was 40 seconds from being on scene. Fuchs and Lance raced over on foot and would be there within 30 seconds.

Seibel could hear gunfire from the Iraqi soldiers and remaining members of K&K’s doomed crew inside the warehouse. That part of the equation no longer mattered to him. He looked back at the office building. A huge hole had appeared in the side and roof, as if a bite had been taken out of the structure by a 60-foot monster. It spewed smoke and flames. But he couldn’t see whether there were bodies strewn in the room. He could see movement through the door into a hallway. Someone was moving. He wished that he had put men in the building earlier to be sure the RPG had done its job or to do the killing themselves. But he knew he couldn’t have people everywhere at once.

He spoke into his radio. “Kill not confirmed. All units are to secure and move into structure. Yellow 1 is priority one. No prisoners. Eliminate on site.”

Seibel picked up the sat phone again and dialed. This time a communications officer in Riyadh answered.

“This is Aunt Mae. Connect me to Uncle Jeb immediately.”

“Yes sir.” The communications officer transferred Seibel to the three-star General in charge of Desert Storm.

“Go.” The particular general was always short.

“Action underway in the city. I do declare there is oil in them thar hills.”

“Who is this? Seibel?”

“Screw you Mears, never use an operative’s name on a telephone. Never.”

“What is it, what do you want?” The General was chagrined.

“You are to begin actions now General. Begin airstrikes.” Seibel ordered.

“We are on plan. You know that. Air strikes will commence as planned and not before.”

“General, you know that my orders are direct from the President. Begin strikes now on targets in sector 23. Now General, I want to hear bombs dropping in five minutes. I know the birds are up there, I can here them.”

“You are a prick.” General Mears responded.

“100 percent, Grade A. Now General. Your orders come from the top cause that’s who I’m calling right now when we hang up. Oh, by the way, do you hear this?” Seibel opened the window to let in the noise of gunfire from the warehouse.

“Who is firing? Where are you?”

“The war has begun general. That’s Baghdad right now outside my window. Bring the rain general, now.” He disconnected the line.

And with that, Geoffrey Seibel started Operation Desert Storm and the US involvement in the 1991 Gulf War. He wished he had a better view of the streets around the office building but would have to trust that the Deltas did their jobs. He knew Fuchs, Tarwanah and Jamaani would do theirs and he hoped Preacher would keep his head down.

He dialed another number and a US Marine helicopter pilot playing cards with three other pilots in a warehouse 40 miles away answered.

“Boulder dam.” The pilot answered.

“Wings up. Pick up in 10. The boys need you bad.” Seibel disconnected the line to return to surveying the office building for signs of Saddam or his Delta Teamers. He turned to smile at Marta for a moment. She smiled back and then turned away. The sound of gunfire outside soothed her.