Jack Coughlin - Dead Shot

He readjusted his clothing, washed his hands and face again, opened the door, and returned to his seat. A movie was playing on a little screen that he could tilt, so he put on the earphones and tuned it in. A tray of food was presented. Lunch. When the movie was over, he pushed up the covering of the window and watched the blue sky that stretched out forever, but he refused to look at his watch.

Halfway. More than halfway there.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“Middleton is going to be up to his eyebrows in bitching generals. We can’t run this mission as a usual black op because we are going onto other units’ battle space and crossing boundary lines. They don’t know who we are; they could open fire on us.” Sybelle was at her desk in the Pentagon, and Kyle was across from her.

Operating beyond the shadow of secrecy presented problems, but Swanson figured it was worth the exposure because they were going to need the entire might of the U.S. military establishment to make this work. Iraq was a huge country, and they needed to shrink the number of places where Juba could feel secure, which meant using intelligence assets from satellites to local informants. First chase him across continents, and then across nations, then into a city or town or village, onto a certain street, into a specific house. Make the rabbit run for his burrow.

“We’ll work around it. No big deal. How big a package should we field?”

“Do we want mobility or firepower or both?”

Kyle thought about that. “Mostly mobility. A small team can move faster, and we will have support troops all over the country we can call on. Even get air support in a tight spot. But we will be moving in the cracks, chasing one man, and I just need to get close enough to get a shot.”

“So we have enough to cover your ass and call for help if and when we need it? Ride in on tanks?”

“Use the whole available force, Sybelle. You run the show from a mission command post in real time.”

“Bullshit. I’m going in with you.”

“Bullshit right back at you. You’re a damned good operative, you don’t have to prove that to anybody, but your real value is in coordinating the show.”

She stared at him, hard. “I’m no little damsel in distress, Kyle.”

“That’s not the point. Juba is dangerous and he can bite. If I have to call for help, I want you on the other end of the horn, not someone without the warrior smarts who might not deliver when the shit hits the fan. Shooters I can get elsewhere.”

She pushed her legal pad aside. “Getting in some field work is important for me now, Kyle, because I don’t want to be tied to a desk for the rest of my career. I’ve been selected for major…”

Kyle interrupted. “Selected below the zone? That’s great, Sybelle. Proves my point. Even the Pentagon thinks you’re something special.”

“General Middleton recommends that my next step be a tour as a White House military aide.” Sybelle Summers was clearly displeased that she was obviously being groomed for higher rank, moving up ahead of her peers. “Very nice, but it’s not what I signed up for, or why I went to the Naval Academy, and certainly not why I put up with Force Recon training. When I try to look over the horizon, all I see is desks, desks, and more desks! The men get field commands and I get another glass ceiling.”

Swanson grinned at her. “Golly. That’s really awful. I’m very sorry that your career track is pointing you toward being a general someday. That is not today’s problem, however. We are trying to catch this mass-murdering terrorist son of a bitch Juba, remember?”

That made her laugh. She could only talk about that sort of stuff with Kyle. “Right on, Gunny. I think we should do this with some of the same MARSOC guys that we used in Iran, since they are pretty much up to speed on it. Captain Newman to be the ground commander again.”

“Yeah. Rick is good people. I’d like Travis Hughes along as my spotter, then Darren Rawls and Joe Tipp as shooters. Five of us should be plenty to move fast or hold tight while you bring in backup and blow the hell out of whoever is bothering us.”

“I can do that,” she said with a nod. “But I’d rather be a shooter.”

“We all got problems.”

DAMASCUS, SYRIA

Juba was buckled in his seat and eagerly looking out of the window of the passenger jet as if he were a first-time flier. After the announcements were made for landing, the plane descended with a professional smoothness; the wheels came down with a hum and locked in place. The wheels kissed the tarmac and the nose came down and the engines roared and the brakes took hold. Normal, normal, normal. His senses were alive, and the bulge in his anal tract seemed enormous. This was the last point of danger, but he was back on friendly turf. Or, if not friendly, at least not unfriendly.

As was his habit, he unbuckled as soon as the plane came to a halt so he could have freedom of movement, although there was really nowhere to go on the big Boeing. It coasted toward the terminal without delay, meeting the printed arrival time. Juba knew the Damascus airport was a hard place for passengers lining up for departure, but the arrivals seldom had much difficulty, and part of what the purchase price of the first-class ticket bought was being allowed to get off of the plane first and gain an advantage in the customs area. Once he cleared customs, he finally would be able to breathe easier.

The crew unlocked and opened the doors, and the covered exit ramp oozed out from the side of the terminal like some great worm. “Please remain seated until the doors are clear and secure,” came the overhead announcement in three languages. “Passengers in the first-class cabin will be able to depart and…”

Juba never heard the rest of the announcement. Three large men in civilian suits with pistols drawn and two uniformed soldiers with submachine guns came running aboard and into the first-class section as the crew stood aside. They surrounded him. “You will come with us,” said the leader, with a tone of outright menace. Mukhabarat , Juba thought. Secret police.

They placed him in the middle of the guards and picked up four more security operatives on the way out of the airport and into the waiting convoy of husky Land Rovers. Motorcycle police rolled out on their bikes with sirens wailing to lead the way over the eighteen miles into the city, and Juba heard the distant wocka-wocka of a helicopter overhead. They were taking no chances.

He settled back in the seat, a guard on each side, and considered the situation. Were they keeping him from escaping, or preventing the Americans or other covert operators from snatching him? The arrest had been abrupt and disappointing but not rough. Damascus International Airport was a known entry point for young men sent from other countries to be martyrs in Iraq, to strap explosives around their bodies or drive car bombs into targets. The arrival of another terrorist would not cause much concern there. But, Juba reminded himself, he was no longer just a terrorist but the most wanted man in the world. Nothing was certain.

The Land Rovers swooped into the city, and he began to pick up familiar landmarks and got his bearings, for he had been to Damascus many times in transit to other places. The convoy pulled to a stop at an ugly gray office building across from an open area with a few palm trees, a tall monument, and a small domed mosque, the Sahat al-Marje, Martyr’s Square. Uniformed guards popped the doors and fanned out in a protective cordon while the three civilian agents hustled him inside the Ministry of the Interior, took him up two flights of stairs, and placed him in a nondescript office with orders to sit down and wait. He asked for some water and was ignored.