Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

“What happened?” asked Prince Mishaal, taking the radio handset and giving it to a nearby officer. He guided Hashim to a chair. “Stay seated, my friend, and tell me what is going on.”

Hashim grimaced. When he was not busy, he could feel the pain. “I am happy to see you, Mishaal. I just wish you were leading ten thousand soldiers in here to crush this rebellion.

“The local imam had turned his mosque in town into an antigovernment platform. Yesterday, during the evening prayers, he called for an uprising and convinced several hundred soldiers that they had a holy duty to kill their officers and take over the base. When I learned of that, I had the imam arrested.”

Mishaal nodded, his eyes probing those of the general. He saw pain and shame. “That was the correct thing to do. You posted additional security?”

The general said that he did. “About midnight, an armed squad of soldiers decided to rescue the imam and a firefight started. That was all it took, colonel. Just a few shots and everything, all of the simmering tensions of the past few days, blew up. The soldiers started choosing sides and with access to weapons, the mutiny grew larger by the hour.”

Kyle Swanson saw a map hanging on a wall of the two-story home that was serving as a command post. He did not like the defeatist tone in the general’s voice. The American listened with one ear as he studied the map. The base was laid out in a huge rectangle that began on the edge of the town and stretched several miles to the east. A military runway that was ten thousand feet long underlined the base on the south like a black streak, with a parallel and narrower taxiway. A two-story control tower was at the center point and big hangars were at the eastern end. Swanson guessed, based on his experience in Khobz, that the missile and warhead were down there in the hangars. Various buildings were clustered along internal roads, and a fence lined the perimeter. To the west lay the town, the long runway marked the southern edge, but to the north and east was only desert, as far as the map extended.

“Where is the rebel command post?” he asked an officer, who hesitated before responding.

“Tell him everything,” came a sharp voice from behind, and Captain al-Muallami appeared at his side, his tunic stained with the blood of the wounded Bradley track commander.

“They are using the control tower beside the runway.” The officer put his finger on the map.

Swanson moved to a window. The square, whitewashed multistory structure topped with aerials stood out in sharp contrast to its surroundings.

“Do they have any air assets?”

“There are seven helicopters in the hangars, but apparently none of the fliers defected, or the choppers were disabled. The armor has been our biggest problem.”

Kyle heard a groan of pain and looked over to where the commander was falling from his chair. A doctor had ripped off the shirt and found a wound pumping blood from beneath the right arm. When he tried to remove the broken limb from the sling, the colonel passed out.

Prince Mashaal stood aside to let the doctor work. He would have taken charge of the base defenders anyway, but with the general being put out of action, the transfer of command became easier. “Everyone! Give me your attention!” Activity in the room stopped and the officers and soldiers looked to the new, hard men who had arrived. “I am Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid, and by order of His Majesty the King, I hereby assume command of this base. My American friend here is to be given every consideration, also by order of His Majesty. My aide, Captain al-Muallami, speaks with my authority, so listen to him, no matter what your own rank may be. Return to your duties now and someone bring me up to date on the current situation.”

T HE SHOOTING OUTSIDE HADnot increased in volume, nor in proximity, which allowed Mishaal to establish a sense of calm in the tight confines of the headquarters, simply by his confident demeanor. Kyle listened in on the update.

There were about 4,000 men on base at the time the rebellion began, and about 2,500 were estimated to be in revolt. They had used the captured armor and exploited the sudden breakdown of command to push the loyal units entirely off the base itself and into the town, where house-to-house fighting was underway.

Kyle asked, “Prince Mishaal, would you please have him draw a line around our estimated position?” When the briefer did so with a red grease pencil on the map’s plastic overlay, it was clear that the command strong-point was at the southwestern edge of the city, about 500 yards from the end of the runway and 200 yards from the big highway, near where their plane had been destroyed. Beyond that, smaller red circles denoted other random strong points.

“Since we are outnumbered, we have to consolidate our force,” the prince said, folding his arms as he stared at the map. “We protect Highway 15 so a relief column can drive in. Maybe we can get an air drop of supplies or some airborne units.”

Kyle said to him in a soft voice no one else could overhear, “Prince Mishaal, most of your air force is grounded for a good reason. Remember what happened the last time some of those planes went up. Best keep it that way.”

“You have a suggestion, Gunny Swanson?”

“Yes, sir. I’m going outside to look around and make a call on my sat phone back to Kuwait to get a C-130 launched to come pick up the nuke. That’s really our goal. You handle the defense of the base. This will be over soon.”

Mishaal turned to face Kyle and the two men again spoke in whispers. “In case you did not notice, Gunny, we’re outnumbered and outgunned.”

“Just hold the fort, sir. Pull all of the friendlies back into a strong position around this block of buildings.”

“Is that all?” The prince was almost sarcastic. It was not his nature to let the other side keep a combat advantage.

Kyle slung his satellite phone over his shoulder, picked up a couple of grenades and a spare M-16. He slapped in a fresh magazine and stuffed more into his pockets. “No. There is one other thing I need. Where is the prisoner?”

Mishaal repeated the question to the captain, who pointed to a whitewashed house next door. “Still under arrest, sir.”

Kyle winked at his Saudi partner. “We will need to let him go.”

ASH MUTAYR, SAUDI ARABIA

S WANSON DASHED ACROSS ANopen area to a line of storage buildings on the rebel flank without drawing a shot, searched for danger among the street’s rooftops, windows, and doors, and then picked a huge, sturdy structure for an observation post. It was about the length of five normal houses and slightly taller than the neighboring buildings, which would give him some elevation to oversee the area.

The place looked vacant, as if the workers had closed shop when the shooting started and retreated elsewhere for safety. The door was locked. Kyle paused until there was a burst of some gunfire about a block away to cover the sound of him kicking it open. Finding no opposition, he closed it again. With the M-16 at his shoulder, he carefully cleared room after room as he made his way to the roof. At the top of the stairwell, Swanson gently pushed open the topmost door and when there were no shots, squirmed through, closing that door behind him, too.

He was not surprised to find the roof unoccupied and quickly made the place his own. First things first: Cover your six, baby. He was alone, and without a partner for cover, he had to be certain that no enemy would show up unannounced. Swanson placed a claymore mine in position to face the doorway, then stretched the tripwire taut and tied it to the knob. Anyone pushing the door outward would trigger the booby trap and some 700 small steel balls would scour the area with a single horrendous blast.