Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

Next, he needed to construct a hide that would not draw attention from the street or another building. There were four square, vented air-conditioning system ducts available, and he considered tearing the back off of one of them and squeezing inside next to the machinery to peer out through the vents. But there was a lot of junk spread around, which provided a better option. He decided to arrange some empty crates and boxes and other debris just to the left and slightly behind one of the boxy air-conditioning ducts, with cracks and openings to give a good view of the surrounding area. Anyone who chanced to look up would just see the boxes which masked his silhouette. He moved in, sat down, laid his rifle beside him, and took out his binos.

He was soaked in sweat by the time he looked out to see what the rebels were doing. Damn, there were some easy pickings down there. It was hard for Kyle Swanson to suppress his sniper instincts in such a target-rich environment. For the moment, the satellite phone and his binos were much more important than the rifle.

Having captured the buildings along the edge of the town next to the military base, the rebels were shifting into positions to press their attack. Their probes were finding points in the defense that were intentionally being left uncovered by Prince Khalid, and rebel patrols were moving to occupy them.

The rampaging soldiers were trained on flat desert with heavy tracked vehicles and were interested only in an armored slugfest. In the town, the battle was rolling fast, surging between buildings and down streets, with the emphasis on brute force. After taking a building, the rebels would immediately leave it before doing a thorough search and move on, screaming about victory and Allah and ceremoniously firing their AK-47s into the air. Kyle had seen that false euphoria before. It was a comfortingly normal event to him.

Things were ragged down below, which was also something he had expected. Many officers had been executed in the first hours of the uprising, and other sergeants and soldiers had escaped from the insurgent force. Without leaders, unit cohesion had disappeared and the reins of the fight were in the hands of a bunch of ill-trained morons, Kyle thought. Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid should be more than able to handle this bunch. Keep coming, boys, keep coming.

T HE SAT PHONE, ONLYabout the size of a police walkie-talkie, had a folded aerial that popped into place when Swanson pulled it from a pocket of his gear vest. The electronics hummed to life when he switched it on and a built-in global positioning system provided his exact coordinates.

His first call went to Kuwait. “Trident Base, Trident Base, this is Bounty Hunter. Over.”

There was only a momentary hiss of static, then a familiar voice came back: “Bounty Hunter. This is Trident. Send your traffic. Over.” Joe Tipp was on the horn.

“Roger that, Trident. Another package is ready for pickup,” Swanson said. He wanted the Hercules and the Marines on the way over as soon as possible and it would take the big, slow bird a lot of time to cover that distance. He read out the grid coordinates for Ash Mutayr.

“Uh…Bounty Hunter. Intel advises that area is hot.” Tipp obviously was surrounded by staff members.

“Roger that. Just pick up the package, Trident. I will not attend the meeting. Work with my counterpart.”

The staff people wanted to know what Swanson had in mind, but Tipp cut them short and gave the confirmation. He trusted Swanson’s judgment. “Solid copy. Trident out.”

K YLE MADE ANOTHER SECURITYcheck around his perimeter and noticed that the gunfire had become sporadic. Mishaal was breaking contact and pulling back to gain space between the attacking rebels and his defending units. Settling back into the hide, Swanson raised the binos again and scanned the airfield and then looked deep into the base. The rebels were mistaking the sudden lull in the shooting for a preliminary sign of coming victory, taking it as an opportunity to regroup for a final push.

Armored vehicles were rolling back to a rendezvous point to refuel and rearm, falling into lines at the pumps and ammo sheds. Teams of soldiers were also coming back out of the city and settling beside the perimeter road of the base for a rest and to get some food and water while the armor was replenished. When everything was ready, they could launch the assault.

He checked his watch. Time to call Mishaal. “Crown, Crown, this is Bounty Hunter.”

“Bounty Hunter. This is Crown. Go,” the prince responded.

“In exactly thirty mikes, be prepared to release the imam. Tell him that you wish to negotiate a cease-fire and surrender your remaining forces, but only after he has a guarantee that the rebel leaders will spare the lives of your soldiers. Have a vehicle deliver the imam to within a hundred meters of the control tower at the airfield, then cut him free.”

“I don’t like this,” said the Saudi officer, with some strain in his voice.

“You will,” promised Swanson. He briefed the prince about the current rebel activity, then did a time check and ended the call.

T HE NEXT CALL WASgoing to be more difficult and would cause a ripple that would reach all the way back to the White House. Precision was necessary, so he paused to do some careful math homework before making it. A battered green sniper’s logbook and a ballpoint pen came from the vest so he could make notes.

The GPS in the sat phone had provided his precise position, and using a pocket compass, he determined the exact directions from his location through azimuth readings to the control tower, to the fuel and ammo dump zone, and to the broad area where the tired rebel troops were gathering to rest. The third part of the equation was solved with his laser range finder, and he measured the distance between himself and the targets.

Now for the tricky part. He dialed up a new frequency and called, “Frequent Flyer, Frequent Flyer, this is Bounty Hunter.”

A U.S. Air Force captain at the communications console aboard an AWACS plane flying in high circles over the Arabian Sea answered with a stone calm voice: “Bounty Hunter, this is Frequent Flyer Seven-Oh. Send your traffic.”

“Roger, Frequent Flyer Seven-Oh. I have a Black Flag mission. Stand by to copy.”

“Send your traffic.”

“Roger. I have targets at grids six niner seven four, five niner six four.”

“I copy. Six niner seven four, five niner six four. Is this correct? Over.”

“That is a solid copy.”

There was a slight pause as the captain punched the numbers into her computer and it flashed a bright red warning. “Bounty Hunter, that is a no go. Those coordinates are in a friendly country and we have no authorization for that.”

The moment of truth. “Frequent Flyer Seven-Oh. Bounty Hunter. Stand by to copy authorization codes.”

“Roger that. Send your traffic.” The captain’s fingers were poised over the keyboard on the electronics warfare plane and her total concentration was on the voice coming over her headset. She did not want to miss a syllable.

“I send: Zulu Delta, One Niner Seven, Whiskey X-Ray.”

“I copy: Zulu Delta, One Niner Seven, Whiskey X-Ray.”

“Roger that.”

“Bounty Hunter. Stand by one.” This is above my pay grade, thank goodness, the captain thought, touching a switch to alert the colonel who was overseeing the day’s flight at the far northern edge of the carrier battle group. “Colonel, we have received a Black Flag request with a presidential-level approval code from inside the kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Call sign Bounty Hunter. Switching to you.”