Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

Dawkins looked at the map, dumbfounded. “So those Chinese subs and destroyers are prowling around in the Middle East waters to keep us busy watching them instead of getting ready to fight for Taiwan?”

“Yes. Absolutely,” replied the Lizard. “It’s the only logical answer. And unless we commit to fight for Taiwan, Beijing will put a couple of hundred thousand troops on that island pretty darned quick. Taiwan won’t stand a chance alone.”

Slowly, Dawkins reached into the shirt pocket of his uniform and withdrew a plastic ballpoint pen bearing the eagle, globe, and anchor symbol of the Marines. He gave it to Freedman. “Here. Eat,” he said. “Then pull this World War Three shit into coherent shape while I go find the general.”

The Lizard grabbed Master Gunnery Sergeant Dawkins by the elbow, almost jerking the large man off balance. He stared at him through the big glasses for a moment, released him, got up and began to pace, talking to himself. Counting off items on his fingers and clenching his fists.

“What the fuck now, Liz?” Dawkins was impatient to get this information to the man who needed it most.

“I’m a naval officer. You other people in Trident are not.”

“Correct. You’re a squid and we are spec ops.”

“Yes, of course. Squid. Giant squid, from the family Architeuthidae . Largest eyes of any creature. Sorry.” He flapped his arms. “One thing I have learned from you, Double Oh, and from Sybelle and Kyle and the general, is how highly you value deception, to make the enemy look the other way while you execute your tasks.”

Dawkins said, “That’s exactly what the Chinese are doing. We look left and they go right. I’ve got it, Liz. Our forces in the Pacific have a lot of work to do in a hurry.”

“Yes.” The skinny lieutenant commander hurried over to the closed door and stood before it, blocking Dawkins’s path as if he might actually impede the master gunny’s progress if he tried to pass. “No.”

“What in the hell are you trying to say, man! Say it!”

Freedman held his hands at about chin level, palms parallel and shaking. “I’m wrong, master gunny. Stupid, stupid. The Taiwan thing is the deception! What better way to launch a special operation than to hide it within a massive buildup and a shifting of all of your forces? Our intelligence sources are wonderful, but we can’t track everything, and they are throwing all of this into motion at once. It’s a beautiful ploy to overwhelm our capabilities. Or, that’s what I think they are thinking that they want us to think.”

Dawkins gently placed a large paw on each of Freedman’s shoulders and moved him gently to one side of the door. “Calm down, Commander Freedman. Don’t crack up on me now. Anything else?”

“No. That’s all.” He licked his lips and looked at his wristwatch. He took a deep breath. “Okay. My assessment is that the Chinese are going to drop a bunch of paratroopers on the Saudi oil fields in about seventy-two hours.”

ASH MUTAYR, SAUDI ARABIA

T HE A R R UB’AL K HALIDesert is a quarter-million square miles of sand, with dunes as high as a thousand feet, fearsome hot mountains that move with the winds. From a small plane sailing high above the Empty Quarter, the marching dunes reminded Kyle of a restless ocean. A man could drown in either one. There was nothing worthwhile down there in those waterless, blistering hot sands along the Tropic of Cancer; nothing other than some of the biggest oil fields in the world. Villages and dry tracks were built to help suck the oil from the sands. Just thinking about living under such harsh conditions was enough to make one sweat.

“It might as well be the end of the world,” he said to Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid.

“Not to us,” Mishaal replied, taking a sip of fruit juice. “Our history is down there. Bedouins are in every walk of Saudi life today, but thousands of them still live in the great desert. That lure of the sands is magical and never leaves us. Even in cities, it is not unusual to see the owner of a home have a tent in his garden.”

“Have you ever even ridden a camel?” Swanson asked with a grin.

“Of course. Once. For a holiday photo.” The prince tapped the soft cushion of his seat. “I also do not sleep on a goat’s hide, nor do I use an abacus to count. We embrace modernity and technology but have leapt from camels to pickup trucks in an incredibly short time.”

“Oil,” Kyle commented.

“Yes, oil,” Mishaal agreed, and changed the subject. “Are you ready to get to work?”

“I am ready to help,” Swanson replied. He was more than ready. The prospect of action was surging through his mind and body.

“I have a feeling we will need every gun we can get.” The prince looked at his watch and picked up a telephone handset on the nearby bulkhead to call his aide, who had been up front at the communications console tracking the developing situation. The prince told him to come back to the main cabin and give them a briefing. They would be landing in about twenty minutes.

B LACK SMOKE RISING INcolumns folded into a single dark cloud over the military base that dominated the flat landscape at Ash Mutayr. A small village by that name lay on the west side of the military facility, between the base and National Route 15. Smoke also spouted from inside the town. The mutiny had spilled beyond the fence.

The long, paved airport runway was considered unsafe by the local commander, so their plane swooped in for a fast landing on a hard dirt strip on the far side of the main highway and taxied to a halt. The aide popped the door open and they hurried down the stairs and ran toward an old Bradley M2A1 fighting vehicle that was trundling forward to collect them.

Bright streaks of recent bullet strikes shone against its armor and it paused only long enough to spin on one track and lower the hydraulic rear ramp enough so they could scramble inside. It smelled of spent gunpowder, and all of the cradles that normally held TOW anti-tank missiles were empty. This Brad had been working hard.

The track commander was a lieutenant in a dirty, stained uniform who was also acting as the turret gunner. He yelled an order for the driver to get moving and opened up with his 25 mm chain gun toward a pair of armored M113 APCs that were charging toward them out of the base and down the main runway.

The chain gun slammed away like a jackhammer and incoming rounds whonked against the Bradley’s armor. As the brawny vehicle lunged ahead, the lieutenant screamed in pain and toppled from his seat, a chunk of meat missing from his right shoulder. The prince and Captain al-Muallami jumped to aid the wounded officer while Swanson climbed into the turret and took the handles of the big automatic weapon.

Swinging it around, he opened fire on the nearest APC and saw that the second armored vehicle was attacking the plane that had just landed. The aircraft attempted to escape but it was too slow and as it rolled forward, the rebel APC easily kept pace and tore it to shreds with machine-gun fire. The aircraft exploded on the sand and the APC raked the wreckage to be certain there were no survivors. The second rebel APC broke off its pursuit of the Bradley, and Kyle stopped shooting.

B RIGADIER G ENERAL M OHAMED H ASHIMcould not even salute when the prince ducked into the command post. The base commander’s right arm was broken and rested awkwardly in a sling. Dots of blood were on his shirt from small shrapnel wounds. He was working the radio with his left hand. Hashim had been a soldier all of his life, starting as a common National Guard private. He eventually graduated from the King Khalid Military College and was a veteran, but the fire was gone from within him and his eyes were dull with fatigue.