Jack Coughlin - Dead Shot

“I’ve heard that promise before, and it was worthless.”

There were only the two of them in the room, studying the Koran. Saladin spread his fingers and laid his hand on the Book. “I tell you now, and take an oath on the Book, that we can carry on the battle no matter what happens to Saddam Hussein. I am building a weapon that will make the Crusaders weep for their children,” Saladin said. “I need a strong man I can trust, you, to protect me while I finish the work.”

“So we will not change the world?” the warrior asked.

“No. That is impossible,” the scholar said. “While Saddam will be defeated, we will continue our work in secret. The project will belong to us then, and together we will unleash Allah’s vengeance and fury upon the infidels’ own homelands.”

Then the Iraqi colonel inducted Juba into the secrets of Unit 999 and chose to assume a secret identity of his own, the name of the famous warrior-king of ancient times-Saladin.

CAMP DOHA

KUWAIT

A FTER THE DEBRIEF , K YLESwanson dropped by the hospital to check on Double-Oh, who was still in surgery, then went over to the private quarters maintained for special operations, checked in, and took a shower. The television set in the small room was reporting on the London attack, and he punched up some pillows and lay back on the bunk to watch for a while, then catch some sleep. A pounding on the door ended the brief period of relaxation.

Captain Rick Newman and Sergeant Travis Hughes were there, still dressed in their cammies and covered with dirt from the mission. As they described the odd interrogation of Dalara Tabrizi, Kyle realized that by sharing her idea for another cross-border operation with the intelligence officers, she had unintentionally kicked down the first of a long row of dominoes.

The intel pukes would report up their chain of command, then planners would be brought in to examine the possibilities and would kick it to Washington for debate and approval, and then somebody would have to make a decision to send a U.S. patrol deep into Iran because some woman wanted to find her brother. Since the first raid had turned up so little in the way of hard evidence that a chemical device was being built, there would be great reluctance among the higher pay grades to sign off on a risky new mission on the word of a stranger. If any Americans were caught, the international repercussions would be severe. With every hour that passed, the attack in the UK was going to be viewed more as an investigative matter for police, and the military would be sidelined. Maybe a satellite could take pictures of the suspected site, or perhaps a spy plane could do some flyovers, but without having to put boots on the ground. Was it worth the risk?

“What’s your opinion, Trav?” asked Kyle.

“She’s telling the truth,” he answered. “Every minute she was being questioned, she just kept getting stronger. Rawls is with her right now over at the mess hall, and she is cool and focused.”

Swanson looked at Rick Newman. “I doubt if another mission will be authorized,” the young captain said. “Too much potential fallout.”

Kyle was already putting on his uniform, his mind whirring with possibilities while they watched the latest horrific televised report from London. “We have to do it, even if there is only an outside chance to get to the bottom of this whole thing. So I am thinking that my authorization for the original mission into Iran is still in force and we returned to Doha just to drop off our wounded man. We have to get out of here because this place is just too damned big and has too many competing interests.”

Travis Hughes gnawed a fingernail. “The village she mentioned is in the west of Iran, about halfway up the border with Iraq and out where the agriculture gives way to the mountains. We could stage out of Camp Baharia, which is on about the same level in Iraq.”

“Good,” said Swanson. “Once we are among just Marines, things will get easier. Rick, you get us a plane to take the team up to Fallujah and run the support side of the show from Baharia. I’ll get Captain Summers over here, and we can slide it out of the military chain of command entirely and put it under Trident and General Middleton. By the time Sybelle lands, we want to have this thing already moving. If we keep the momentum going, the paper-shufflers will never catch up.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Sybelle Summers arrived for work at six o’clock in the morning. Like thousands of other commuters, she rode the Washington Metro to the Pentagon station, patiently took the long escalator ride up to the main entrance, and signed in. As she walked the wide, polished hallway, the place seemed like a giant tomb, and there was an overwhelming feeling of barely restrained excitement as the men and women of the United States military services were preparing to face what quite possibly was a new attack against the homeland. She went directly to the Trident offices

Major General Middleton and Lieutenant Commander Freedman were watching television, with the general switching from channel to channel as each network devoted its entire programming to the news from England. No cheery and smiling wake-up morning show hosts today, just macabre news reports.

“How is Double-Oh?” she asked.

“The docs in Kuwait say that old warhorse is going to live to fight another day,” said Middleton and immediately changed the subject. “You up to date on this London attack?”

“Yes, sir. Watched some at home and read the Post and the Times .” Sybelle dropped her purse on a desk. “How do the news reports match up with our intel sources?”

“Got no fuckin’ intel,” snorted Middleton. “Once again, billions of dollars thrown at them, few laws to confine them anymore, and the spooks still come up short. How come TV cameras can always be there when the intel professionals can’t?”

General Middleton turned the sound down and made a quick telephone call to the Pentagon central command post that was monitoring the emergency in England. He asked for the casualty count, grunted, and hung up. “Less than a hundred and fifty dead so far, from the dirty bomb explosion to the stampede of people trying to get away, but a bunch of people are hurt. The royals were safely evacuated up to Balmoral Castle in Scotland. Lizard, show her what you’re working on.”

Freeman pulled a chair up to a small computer terminal and clicked some keys, and a chart replaced the news report on the television screen. He folded his arms and rocked back. An oval-shaped blob of red designated the most saturated area of the attack, then faded into bands of orange and yellow that followed the wind pattern. “The initial public panic kept things in gridlock for a while, and the authorities were prompt in swinging the emergency units into action. Traffic control, quarantines and showers, getting people into clean zones. Thanks to the warning from that fire chief, the first responders were in protective gear when they moved in, and they probably will have saved hundreds of lives when all is said and done.”

“The Brits’ 9/11,” said Sybelle. “Worse than the World War II bombings.”

Middleton was grim. “They picked on the wrong country. Not only are we their big brother and will kick the crap out of whoever did this, but the Brits are a tough bunch. They won’t knuckle under. Ask Hitler.”

The Lizard was out of his chair, moving nervously about the room as he spoke. “I did some statistical analysis to get a grip on what kind of biochem agent was used in the attack and found something I did not expect. Look.” He pointed a finger at the scarlet oval of maximum devastation. “Look at the very defined edges of this red zone. The material is very concentrated here, as would be expected.” Then he fanned his entire hand out over the other colors. “But the other bands of contamination are extremely narrow.”