Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

Swanson sat still while a pressure bandage was applied. Speaking in Arabic, he told the medic to concentrate on the more seriously wounded men. “Jamal, you look like hell,” Kyle said in English.

A syringe of painkillers had taken hold of Jamal, and the CIA agent managed a weak smile, then his eyelids fluttered and he passed out. Medics tore at his clothes to get to the multiple wounds. He was out of the game.

Kyle pushed his right hand firmly against his abdomen to hold the bandage in place, and wormed backward down the slope. “Come on, Major Tsang. Stay low, but let’s get back over to the prince and finish this off.”

Kyle hobbled along with his left arm across Tsang’s shoulder until they reached the safety of the armored personnel carrier where Mishaal had organized a makeshift staff. Two more APCs had moved into flanking positions to provide even more protection. Swanson leaned against one and drank some more water.

“Can you still function with that wound?” Mishaal asked. He was all business as the situation seemed to be deteriorating.

“Jamal is down. The major and I are good to go. This is just a flesh wound. It looks worse than it is.” He kept his hand on the bandage but refused to let any clue of discomfort reach his face. Christ, that stings!

Mishaal was studying him carefully and Kyle quickly changed the subject. “We need some confirmation,” he said. “Can you call the commander of the unit that had operational control of the weapon?”

A young captain at the edge of the command group raised his hand. He was anxious, expecting the worst, feeling disgraced that his missile had been taken from under his nose and had created such a dilemma. He believed he faced certain demotion and perhaps even a court-martial.

The American who was with Prince Colonel Mishaal spoke. “Do you speak English, Captain? We need your expertise.”

The officer replied in English that he had carefully examined the scene before them through his binos. He started to apologize again, but Mishaal cut him off. “You did nothing improper, Captain,” Mishaal said. “Give us your best advice.” The captain did not smile, but a sense of relief flooded him.

Kyle continued, “There are no cables visible between the missile launcher and the command and control track. They might have been buried, but there is no linear sign of disturbed dirt between the APCs. So is there any other way to fire that bird by an electronic signal, just by pushing a button?”

The captain was at rigid attention. He knew his job and his reply was unambiguous. “No, sir. A full mission cannot be carried out unless the launch platform is mated exactly to the package in the C-and-C vehicle. The weapon was never meant to be simple enough for a common soldier to operate. The cables are needed to update the targeting data and feed auxiliary off-site electrical power to the missile before launch. It is a somewhat archaic system, but provides a good redundancy. Electronic signals can easily be jammed.”

Kyle came to the main point. “What about the warhead? Is it still operable?”

The captain’s face brightened. “Sir, in my opinion, the warhead may not even be properly connected and aligned. Assembling the entire system requires precise steps and special tools. Certified technicians, not infantrymen under battle stress, are needed to arm and fire it.”

“So that warhead is just sitting up there?”

“That is very possible, sir. It fits into place easily enough and can be held in place by a few clamps and bolts. But again, special connections between the warhead and the missile must be made before it is fully seated. Only then can it accept the targeting data, which is another intentionally complicated procedure.”

“So they were able to steal it, but ran out of time for the assembly?” Mishaal said, putting his hands on his hips. “It is just an empty threat?”

“No, sir. Not that. It is still a nuclear device.”

Mishaal made a decision and turned to Kyle. “I’m going to call in an air strike and incinerate the thing.”

The captain shook his head, gulping as he faced down the prince colonel. The calm he had felt moments before vanished. “Sir, to do so would risk cracking the warhead shielding. The bomb would not explode, but the core might be exposed. Radiation would spread on the wind.”

T HE NEW COMMUNICATOR MINDINGPrince Mishaal’s radio network called to him. “Sir! Someone has come up on the command net, an English voice identifying himself as Juba. He demands to speak to Gunnery Sergeant Swanson.”

“Ignore him. He is trying to find out if I was killed in the explosions,” Kyle said. Let him stew.

Mishaal spoke: “Major Tsang? Are you satisfied with the inert status of the nuclear warhead?”

The Chinese operator had studied the missile carefully and weighed his delicate situation. “I agree with the circumstantial evidence. Before I can contact my superiors, however, I still need a closer look.”

“We’re going to give you one,” Kyle said. He looked over to where an M60A3 tank was lumbering into position beside their cluster of APCs. With laser sighting and a digital ballistic computer on its upgraded fire control system, the tank’s 105 mm main gun was extremely accurate. Swanson pointed to it and said, “Prince Mishaal, please have that tank lay a high-explosive round exactly at the base of the missile launcher. That should wreck the launch vehicle and collapse the entire structure. Cut it down like a tree and the missile problem is solved.”

“Sir!” the communicator interrupted. “Juba is on the radio again, demanding to talk to Swanson. He is shouting!” The radio operator was nervous. Kyle shook his head. No. Don’t give him what he wants.

Mishaal summoned the tank commander to join them and personally issued the crisp orders so there would be no misunderstanding. “Fire when ready,” he said, and the commander returned to his huge tracked vehicle.

The gunner sighted a ruby laser carefully on the slim target while everyone held their breaths. When the big cannon roared, the recoil jarred the sixty-ton tank backward on its treads and the concussion slammed the dirt directly beneath the barrel, raising a torrent of dust. The high-velocity round covered the approximately two hundred yards in a mere instant and crashed into the thin-skinned launch vehicle with a shattering impact.

The entire APC bucked into the air and crashed back down to a hard landing as pieces flew off of it. The tower of the missile was disjointed from the launcher and fell over on its side. The warhead spun away like a toy top.

Kyle watched it with satisfaction, still holding his side. The bleeding was not slowing but he would not give in to the pull of pain. There’s my answer, Juba. Long-range precision fire, just like you wanted.

“Good job,” he told Mishaal. “The rest of the fight is yours. Juba only has a few men racked up in those shells and huts. It’s open season out there now, so use everything you’ve got to pound the hell out of them. And really hammer that little hut next to the command track. That’s where I think Juba is hiding.”

“Why there?”

“The first shot he fired did not come through a silenced rifle. Remember how loud it sounded? Still, there was a muffled echo, which indicated that it came from an enclosed space. Not much around here fits that description. Then the same thing happened on the second shot that took down your radio guy. Finally, there was the shot that just missed me. All of the angles are good from there. The darkness inside that single window prevents us from seeing inside. He’s in there in a static position, perhaps in a dug-in and protected position with overhead shelter. He can’t move to a new hide with all of your troops around. My advice is to just run right over him.”