Jack Coughlin - Dead Shot

The diplomat was waiting, scarecrow-thin Foreign Minister Rustom Talas, when he entered the conference room. The intelligence chief did not begin with formalities.

Al-Shoum put Juba’s laptop computer onto the slick, polished table and shoved it toward the foreign minister. “Here it is. Everything about how to make that devil bomb.”

Talas asked, “And the money?”

“The wire transfer has already been made. All ten million is back in the treasury.”

“Your decision on this, General al-Shoum, is most unusual, and I say that with all respect. As a diplomat, I always look for leverage in political negotiations. This information about the weapon could help me pry substantial favors from the United States.”

Al-Shoum switched to English. “Mr. Foreign Minister, you are a fucking moron! If they find out that we have this formula, the United States of America will come after it. They have lost almost five thousand American lives because of this and want to hold somebody responsible. They would not bargain, they would demand, and we could be the next country invaded! Is that what you want?”

“No, of course not.” The foreign minister coughed. “I was speaking in the broadest terms.”

“Just listen, you old fool, and stick to the story. We pulled Juba off the plane as soon it arrived, but he killed two security guards and got away. Are you with me so far?”

Minister Talas was almost grinding his teeth over being spoken to like a schoolboy. “Yes.”

“Then we launched our own search, and a security camera outside the airport showed him getting into a waiting vehicle, a Land Rover. We issued a nationwide alert and discovered that he has crossed the border into Iraq. We deeply regret that this mass murderer slipped through our security net, but he is indeed a formidable opponent, as the Americans know.”

“So what do I tell Washington about the weapon?” Talas said. “That information is worth its weight in diplomatic gold if we hand it over.”

“Tell them nothing! We don’t know about any formula, because Juba got away from us! Understand that? Instead, deal them this information: Our informants tell us that Juba may be headed toward the city of Tikrit in Iraq.” Al-Shoum scribbled a note and handed it to Talas. “This is the license number of the Land Rover he was driving.”

“Why Tikrit?”

“You don’t need to know that, Foreign Minister Talas. Just tell Washington that we hope they find him soon and make him pay the ultimate price for his monstrous deeds.” He leaned forward menacingly. “And you tell no one, not a soul, about our having the formula. If I hear a whisper that you have revealed this information, you and your family will die.”

Al-Shoum was through with diplomats. They bored him. He turned on his heel and walked from the room, back to his office, humming a little tune, two million dollars richer and in sole possession of one of the most powerful chemical-biological agents ever devised. He would hold on to all of it for a while. Saladin had a good idea about the auction, but he had made it too public, and the time was no longer ripe for such a play. Who knew what deals were to be made in future years?

COMBAT OPERATING BASE SPEICHER

IRAQ

The Army briefing officer with the scraped-clean scalp wore spotless and creased camouflage BDUs and had a 9 mm pistol strapped into a leather shoulder holster. Kyle Swanson wondered why everybody wanted to look like a warrior, even the ones whose jobs kept them safely inside the wire at all times. The man flashed aerial photographs on the white wall. “We have ascertained a suggested target that ful-fills the requested parameters to facilitate your mission,” the officer said. Swanson groaned but paid attention rather than interrupt the intel puke. The other members of the Trident team were having the same dual reactions.

“Somewhere along the way, the hajjis came into possession of an M120 heavy mortar. Normally this 120 mm weapon is carried on an M1100 trailer attached to a Humvee, or by truck or tracked vehicle, but the insurgents have developed a suitable alternative method of transport.”

Darren Rawls spoke up, in his Mississippi drawl. “You mean the ragheads stuff it in the trunk of a car.”

The officer cleared his throat. “Yes. Anyway, once it is mobile, the mortar can be moved into position to provide high-angle organic indirect fire support across a wide area with high-explosive, illumination, or smoke rounds. It requires a crew of four men.”

Swanson knew the M120 weapon well and respected its ability to lay down good fire support. It was not only able to be put into a car but also could be broken down and man-humped by the four guys on the crew. One would carry the tube, another the base plate, the third took the bipod, and the fourth would have the lightweight sight and the ammo. Even assembled, the thing only weighed a little over three hundred pounds. Once in place, it could fire up to four rounds a minute, then be torn down and moved to a new location before counterbattery fire could find them.

From Swanson’s viewpoint on this job, it would be almost ideal because that four-man crew would train and fight together, which meant they would be together during the down time, too. He wanted them all. It was important that he have more than one target in order to get the message to Juba.

Middleton and the Trident team had guessed right that Juba had fled to Iraq; then the net was narrowed even tighter, to the Tikrit area, through a diplomatic communication from Syria. Somebody in Damascus had dropped a dime on Juba, and now Kyle had to draw him out.

“And you have this one located? A solid ID?”

The briefer was back on stride. “We have a high confidence in the location.” He clicked on a narrow laser pointer and a red dot ran across the photo on the wall. “There’s the car, and there’s the house that the crew is in. Humint confirms the photo reconnaissance.”

“Humint” was military-speak for human intelligence, which meant somebody actually saw it. The best kind of intelligence there is. He looked over at Sybelle, who glanced his way and nodded.

“How fresh is this?” she asked the briefer.

“The photograph was taken this morning,” he said. “We consider it to be actionable intelligence.”

Sure you do, Kyle thought. You aren’t the one that has to get out there and kill them . “I’m go with it, then,” he said. “We need to move fast.”

The area was the hotbed of Iraqi opposition during the opening battles of the war and the violent aftermath, and enemy eyes were still always watching what was happening in and around Combat Operating Base Speicher, only three kilometers outside of Tikrit. Swanson felt that he was always being watched from the other side of the wire, although Task Force Hammer of the U.S. 1st Armored Division kept security tight.

Swanson knew that security and secrecy were two different things, and loyalty to Saddam Hussein ran deep in the dictator’s hometown on the Tigris River. Saddam built his biggest presidential palace there, drew the members of his inner circle from his home tribe, and was now buried near there. Tikrit, a hundred miles northwest of Baghdad, was an anchor point of the hostile Sunni Triangle.

Even at one o’clock in the morning, as Swanson led the Trident assault team aboard the helicopter, he felt as if some Iraqi diehard were counting noses and radioing an alert. They all wore loose local clothing and face paint. As a precaution, the helicopter took off in a direction ninety degrees different from the true target area. It would circle back to the attack path only when it was well clear of the base.

They were dropped in an empty area four kilometers from the town that contained the suspect house and automobile, and Travis Hughes took point as they trotted forward in silence. No talking, no metal jangling, no hard breathing, just a half-dozen shadows moving steadily in the dark of a moonless night. A steady wind helped mask their approach, keeping their scent away from the animals.