Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

“What?” Joe Tipp asked.

Rawls smiled broadly. “Killin’ terrorists.”

W HEN THE BANTER ANDinsults quieted and they were reluctant to leave the square of shade, Kyle spoke: “Okay, guys, listen up. I hauled your asses out here for more than just some shooting. Needed to get away from curious ears back at the base.”

The other three locked their eyes on Swanson. He had been back for less than two days and had been withdrawn and curt with everyone except Major Summers.

“I need to bring you up to speed on the situation next door, over in Saudi Arabia,” he said. “Top secret.”

“We see it on TV every night and it’s all over the Internet,” said Joe Tipp. “What else is there, really?”

“A lot. It’s pretty complicated,” Swanson said, stretching out his legs and closing his eyes, reciting what Sybelle had briefed him on last night. “You probably know that the president and the new Saudi king are friends, but they really had it out during a meeting in the Oval Office a few days ago, when Abdullah was still the ambassador in Washington. He told President Tracy that any American movement to protect the oil fields would be considered an unwarranted military intervention by a foreign power and would be resisted.”

Travis Stone doodled in the dirt with an empty brass cartridge case. “You think there’s a chance that our good buddies might actually fight us?”

Swanson’s eyes blinked open and he stared at them, each in turn. “That was the implied threat, but nobody wants it to go that far. Then things happened fast and, bingo, next thing we know, Ambassador Abdullah becomes King Abdullah.”

Darren Rawls stood, brushed off his pants, and stretched his six-foot-two frame. Loose and lanky with a shrewd mind, Rawls had been a star high school basketball player and a better student in Alabama. When his brother was killed in Iraq, Rawls walked away from the college scholarships and joined the Marines. He was tough, an excellent sniper, and a voracious reader who carefully sheltered his intelligence beneath a homeboy speech pattern. “That was kinda weird. The crown normally would go to another old relative. It’s a family thing.”

“Way our intel people piece it together, installing Abdullah in the position represented an internal, bloodless coup. With both the king and the crown prince dead, there was no clear line of succession. The country was, and still is, on the verge of falling apart. So the real movers and shakers in Saudi Arabia apparently got together, flexed their muscles, and chose the toughest, smartest member of the bloodline to take the reins. Abdullah was jumped over a whole generation but the monarchy remains absolute.”

Swanson paused to drink some water, then continued, “Let me get to the point. I met this Abdullah dude in England.”

“You know the new king?” Stone was surprised.

Swanson nodded. “He was wounded during the terrorist attack in Scotland and was a patient at the clinic where Sybelle and I took out those tangos.”

“Sweet,” said Travis Stone.

Swanson’s eyes blinked open and he stared at them, each in turn. “Not so fast, Trav. Just as the rebellion cooked off, we found out that the Saudis had five nuclear missiles. Only bargain basement nukes, but the threat is huge.”

Rawls said, “Ghetto nukes? Civil war. Oil. Terrorism. Can this get any better?”

Swanson peered up at him. “Sure. One of their missiles has gone missing.”

Rawls groaned. “You’re shitting me.”

Swanson smiled. “When King Abdullah learned about that, he did a flip-flop on refusing all American help. He wants to turn the remaining four missiles over to the United States and asked the White House specifically to name me as the U.S. liaison during the handover. Like I say, he knows me.”

“So what’s our mission?” Travis Hughes asked.

“I leave for Riyadh tonight to meet with King Abdullah and finish setting up the transfers. You guys will be in charge of removing the four missiles that are still scattered around the country. You each will command a plane that will fly in to do the pickups, personally take charge of the warheads, and stay with them until they can be safely stored on a ship. A platoon of MEUSOC Marines will provide overall security. Your only concern will be the nukes. Sybelle will oversee things from here. You report only to her. This is a Trident show all the way.”

Tipp asked, “Uh, what about that fifth one?”

Kyle Swanson gave them his special, meaningless smile. “Not to worry about that one. I snatched it while I was visiting over in Khobz and it’s already aboard a navy carrier.”

JEDDAH, SAUDI ARABIA

J UBA STRUGGLED BACK TOconsciousness on a comfortable bed in a private villa. His stomach remained queasy, but not as bad as the first two times he had been awake, when he had vomited. His mind was emerging from the cobwebs and lethargy caused by the strong alcohol and narcotics. Someone had placed a bottle of spring water on the bedside table and he drank deeply from it.

He did not know exactly where he was, but trusted that the damned airplane had delivered him to the right place, Jeddah, the second largest city in Saudi Arabia. The room was spacious and when he forced himself from the bed and over to the window, he was pleased to see bright sunlight glinting harshly on a vast body of water, the Red Sea. He pushed the windows open wide and inhaled the hot air.

A clean bathroom with intricate tiles and polished fixtures lured him through the open door. He turned the shower water until it was hot before stepping into the enclosure. Strong waves of steam played over his face and body and he put his head directly beneath the big showerhead. He leaned forward with his hands against the wall to let the water slosh away the remains of the horrible trip. After soaping up and using the shampoo, he adjusted the water slowly to a cold setting. He was feeling almost awake as he finished, stepped out, and grabbed two towels from the warming rack.

His own shaving gear had been placed on a white towel beside the sunken basin and he quickly lathered his face and scraped off the rough whiskers. Juba smirked at his own reflection. You are a mess . He brushed his teeth. Someone had hung his clothes and neatly put away the shirts and underwear, leaving the valise in the closet. Juba decided on lightweight grey slacks and a starched maroon shirt with long sleeves, dark socks, and shined black loafers. Hendrik van Es from Indonesia, who padded around his own home in sandals and a sarong, was no longer present. Juba slid easily into his old skin. He opened the door of the bedroom.

The young man who had picked Juba up at the airport was settled in a large chair, with his long legs crossed. He had a long face framed by a well-trimmed beard and his hair was naturally curly. Juba estimated he was not yet thirty years old, probably stood about six foot two, and had a body that was slim and showed some work, although the manicure indicated that the muscles were the result of gym workouts and not from labor or soldiering.

“Get me something to eat,” Juba softly said.

“My name is Amin,” the man said. He had a strong edge in his tone as he stood, wanting to establish immediate authority. “I am not your servant.”

“I don’t care who you are and that was not a request.” Juba adjusted the eye patch to a more comfortable position. “I had to stop my work and fly halfway around the world to return to this shitty country. If some food is not out here in ten minutes, I’m leaving and your revolution is fucked. I want fresh fruit, croissants, and scrambled eggs. Strong tea. Then go get Dieter.”