Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

Captain Newman had assigned each commando a specific segment of the crowd of worshippers, so as to maximize the damage rather than having all of the rockets bursting in one place. The terrorists were no longer men, as far as any of the Marines were concerned: Just targets. Kyle aimed at the center of the cluster, and counted it off, “Three…Two…One!”

The six RPGs spoke with a loud, rippling bark and the rockets leaped from their shoulder-mounted tubes, whining instantly toward the gathered men below. The few who looked up saw six rocket trails etching smoke in the night sky and then the missiles exploded in a hellish roar. The odd-numbered rockets carried high-explosive warheads that ripped through unprotected skin and internal organs, while the even-numbered ones were thermobarics which erupted just above the crowd to spew a fine mist of underoxidized fuel that detonated in air bursts which sucked the air out of lungs and created massive fireballs that consumed bodies.

As the explosions ricocheted up the mountains, the Tridents were already firing the second rounds, ripping the other RPGs at the few buildings and blowing the fragile structures apart. Flames from the fuel-air explosions swept around corners and into doorways and windows and potential hiding places, vacuuming life out of every human it touched.

Kyle was moving before the roar ceased and relentlessly led the other Tridents in a mad scramble toward the shattered campsite. He estimated about 90 percent of the fifty-two man terrorist force was already dead, and was glad that no return fire was coming back toward the Marines.

“Split up!” he hollered when they reached the perimeter. The team divided into two-man units and worked rapidly through the burning ruins, firing three-round bursts at anyone who looked as if he may have somehow survived the initial attacks. There weren’t many, and even the wounded drew the momentary but deadly attention of the raiders. It was not work for the weak of heart, but mercy had no place in the mountains of Pakistan on a night like this.

At the far edge of the camp, Kyle yelled, “Back!” They all turned and worked their way through the charnel houses to their starting point. Fewer shots were needed this time.

The fire was chewing everything in the camp and an ammunition dump erupted like a small volcano, but the surrounding high mountains shielded the fire and detonations from the outside world. The Tridents pulled out after leaving behind a few booby traps in case of pursuit.

They climbed the trail, picked up the guide, and disappeared like ghosts back into the unfathomable reaches of the rugged border.

SCOTLAND

T HE CASTLE WAS GUARDEDby everything but dragons, knights, and archers with longbows. Professional security personnel from five nations and counterterrorism teams roamed the grounds while police in small boats patrolled the black waters of the forbidding loch. Electronic and thermal detection systems webbed the woodlands and motion detectors and surveillance cameras probed every corner. Sir Geoffrey Cornwell took a sip of whisky and looked for holes in the security net as the sun set in a final blaze of bronze sky sliced by layers of purple clouds. A fine mist was on the light breeze, but he could see across the loch, which meant the weather would be fine for tonight.

It was less than a dozen miles from Edinburgh, perched on the dominating knob of a hill that sloped to the water on the east side. Patrol vehicles on the far perimeter road that led around the loch had turned on their headlights, and from the castle wall, they looked like slow-moving fireflies. Cornwell owned more than a thousand acres, from working farmland to a game-thick forest and the entire place normally would have been leased for the week to some multinational corporation for a conference of managers. Not tonight.

He had bought the fifteenth-century castle a decade ago, when it was little more than a dilapidated ruin, then had it gutted and rebuilt. The single rugged exterior wall on which he now stood was one of the few remaining parts of the original structure and still bore the scars of English cannonballs. Bathed by light blue floodlights, the broad front wall kept the castle looking medieval, ominous, and strong.

The new buildings behind the blue wall contained improvements that had never been dreamed of by the ancient stonemasons, such as electricity, flush toilets, and central heating. Corporate executives on a business retreat required ultimate comfort.

Cornwell had retired from the British Special Air Services as a colonel, then became a successful industrialist and a visionary designer of military hardware. He and his wife, Lady Patricia, lived in one private wing of the Scottish estate and left the rest to be operated as a commercial venture, for he would not allow his money to sit idle.

A WIDE LANE OFflickering torches led from the gatehouse to the area in which the limousines would arrive, and off to the left the helipad was aglow with a blinking strobe light flashing upward from the center. Security had never been tighter. Still, he felt as though he was holding a brittle piece of history in his palms, and he was worried. The slightest unexpected incident could ruin everything. He took another sip of warm Scotch and the whisky teased a burn down his throat. He placed his glass on the thick flat stone of the saw-toothed battlement and straightened his tuxedo.

“Would you please stop worrying? Let the professionals do their jobs, Jeff. Your only role tonight is to be the perfect host.” Lady Patricia slid an arm around his waist and kissed his cheek. She wore a navy blue organza gown designed by Karl Lagerfeld, and diamond earrings matched the necklace, the stones glittering in the bright lights and contrasting with her tanned skin.

Sir Jeff was startled, then he wrapped a big arm around Pat and hugged her close. Gave her a smile. “You are beautiful tonight,” he said.

“Yes, I am,” she replied happily. “We’ve had many parties, Jeff, but this is at the top of the list.”

Lady Pat looked around. Busy, efficient people were working hard to make the evening work perfectly. “So why are you worried?”

“Something Kyle said a few weeks ago,” her husband replied.

“Oh my God, Jeff. Listen to Kyle Swanson when you need to kill somebody, not when you are seeking social advice.”

There was a small laugh behind them and Sir Jeff looked over. Delara Tabrizi, their thirty-year-old personal assistant, a refugee from Iran who was now a British citizen, was standing there with a thick notebook of checklists, a personal radio-telephone in her ear, a small computer in her hands, and a big smile on her face.

He glared at her without effect. The two women in his life were not afraid of him.

“Lady Pat is right, sir. It would be a vision of hell for Kyle to figure out a seating chart, and where to place that beautiful wife of the foreign minister of Israel for maximum effect, or to plan a menu that would be memorable for Christians, Jews, and Muslims alike. That, sir, would indeed be funny.”

Pat asked, “See? So what did he tell you that has gotten you so jumpy?”

Delara Tabrizi cocked her head and poked a finger in her ear to push the radio receiver deeper for better reception. She tapped her keyboard then looked up. “Excuse me, Sir Jeff, but you wanted a status report?”

He nodded. British Foreign Minister Lord Covington and the Israeli foreign minister had been overnight guests, and the others were due momentarily. The private dinner was a prelude to tomorrow’s signing of a peace agreement between Israel and Saudi Arabia, a treaty that could be a huge step in bringing peace to the Middle East.