Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

Everyone in Trident knew their real job was to support Kyle Swanson and help him inflict maximum pain and damage on the enemies of the United States. Almost from the moment it was activated, Kyle and Trident had stayed busy with targets who thought they were untouchable, and even taking down the demented terrorist named Juba, who detonated high-casualty biochemical bombs in London and San Francisco.

There was never any lack of work, and as the sound of the rotors faded at Bagram, there was going to be even more.

“I ’VE GOT BAD NEWS,gang,” Summers said. “The Israeli-Saudi peace process has been literally blown all to hell.” She removed her glasses and stared at Kyle. “Terrorists hit the private reception for the main players two nights ago with a couple of TOW missiles. Seventeen dead, including Secretary of State Waring and his wife, and the foreign ministers of Israel and Great Britain. More wounded, including Prince Abdullah.”

“Holy shit!” exclaimed Darren Rawls. “Did they get the bastards who did it?” He turned suddenly, in time to see Kyle drop his backpack and collapse on it, staring up at Sybelle with a look of fright on his face. Rawls had never seen such a change in the man’s iron character.

“Yeah. It was a four-man suicide squad. It gets worse. The attack apparently was the trigger for a coup attempt in Saudi Arabia. Low-grade fighting is going on throughout the country.”

Kyle had his face in his hands. The party! He had warned Jeff about the impossible security situation up on that hill! “Fuck all that. What about Pat and Jeff?”

She took a knee beside him and lowered her voice. “Both injured, but alive. Pat is going to be okay because Jeff managed to throw her under a table and covered her with his own body. He’s hurt bad.”

The other five members of the Trident team looked at each other for a moment, then down at their two leaders, and back into the sky full of planes…it all began to make sense. It wasn’t just another 9/11: It might be the start of World War III. Rawls asked, “So what are we supposed to do, Sybelle? And why aren’t you still at the White House?”

“I hated the job, so the president and Middleton decided to put me back on temporary duty with Trident. We might balloon up to a full-sized platoon of dirty fighters like you people and be ready to do whatever Middleton is assigned.”

“So are we going to rotate back to the States?”

She handed Rawls a thick manila envelope filled with orders and vouchers. “No. You guys will be the nuggets around which we all will build the new strike team. You have a few hours to get cleaned up, grab some chow, and sleep before your plane leaves for Kuwait. Someone will meet you on the other end and take you to a special ops camp where we will be putting this thing together. I’ll follow soon.”

Swanson stood, and so did she. “I’m going to see Pat and Jeff before I go back anywhere else,” he said. It was not a request.

“I know,” she said. “Me, too.”

S YBELLE SPED THE H UMVEEout of the Special Ops area and along the perimeter road to the complex of big hangars alongside Bagram’s 10,000-foot runway. Waiting inside one, out of sight, was a Cessna Citation X, with its two Rolls Royce jet engines already idling at a soft whistle. The swept-wing aircraft with the high tail wore the markings of Excalibur Enterprises, Ltd., entirely white but for two slim dark blue stripes along the sides and the gold corporate symbol. It was another of Sir Jeff’s toys, a luxury mid-sized business executive jet being flown today by a pair of pilots from the commando arm of Britain’s Royal Air Force.

They dumped the Humvee and jogged up the stairs into the lap of luxury, each grabbing a cold beer from the galley before plopping into cream-colored seats across the standup aisle. A crewmember looked back to check that they were buckled in, and the plane rolled. The protective shade of the hangar gave way to the bright sun and the aircraft took its place at the end of the taxiway, third in line for takeoff behind an AC-130 Spectre gunship and a giant C-141B Starlifter transport. Moments later, the engines whined louder, the brakes were released, and the Citation X slipped away from the ground.

Kyle and Sybelle drank their beers but said little while the plane climbed to 37,000 feet, banked to the west, accelerated to a comfortable pace of Mach.92, about 600 miles per hour, and began chewing up the time zones. Kyle went into the curtained dressing area in the rear of the cabin, got out of his Afghan outfit, did a towel wash in the basin and changed into fresh clothes that had been placed there for him. Sybelle took her turn changing while Kyle opened fresh beers. Both now wore tan slacks, white running shoes and socks, and white polo shirts that were embroidered with the Excalibur gold emblem on the right chest. A casual observer would see just two more workers from somewhere within Sir Jeff’s multinational corporation. They were a couple of spooks hiding in plain sight.

An entertainment center at the front of the cabin doubled as a secure communications console, and Sybelle closed the door to the flight cabin and called the Trident headquarters office at the Pentagon. The face of Benton Freedman, his black hair rumpled, appeared on the big flat screen. On his own screen, he could see Summers and Swanson. “Hello, Kyle. Welcome back,” Freedman said.

“Hey, Lizard,” Kyle responded.

“Is General Middleton around?” Sybelle asked.

“No. He’s been dashing all over Washington from the White House to Foggy Bottom to the Hill. I’ll tell him that you checked in. I assume you are on your way to London, and not coming directly back here?”

“You assume right,” Kyle said.

The Lizard picked up some papers, glanced at them, put them aside, found a tablet, and read the notes. “I’ve been in touch with Delara Tabrizi over there and she is arranging transport so you can drive straight to the clinic. A package will be waiting with everything you need, including FBI creds. Kyle, there has been no change in the conditions of the Cornwells. Sir Jeff is scheduled for surgery tomorrow morning for a head wound and to pick out chunks of shrapnel that peppered his lower spinal area. Both legs are broken.”

“How’s Delara?” Kyle asked. It was not a well-kept secret that he and the strikingly beautiful Iranian woman were lovers.

“She got through the attack with some minor scrapes and I don’t think she has slept since then. She’s worn out, but refuses to leave them.”

Kyle nodded. “I’ll make her get some rest. She’s the one person we cannot have keeling over from exhaustion. Can you give us a SitRep on Saudi Arabia?”

“Not over this clear channel. Just tune in Sky News and the BBC, and as usual, al Jazeera is getting cameras into places that others cannot. The Saudi government insists that everything is under control. It is obviously getting messy.” The Lizard stared at the pinhole camera on the edge of his computer screen. “Sybelle, your former boss is very unhappy with what is happening over there.”

He let the oblique reference dangle in empty air.

“Yeah. I’m sure he is,” she said. “Tell the general the rest of the team is heading back to the base as planned. We’ll contact you again right after we see the Cornwells.”

“Right. Give them my best.” Freedman clicked off the transoceanic call.

Kyle bit his lip in thought. “I think the Lizard was saying that the president may be planning some sort of military response. He can’t stand by and let the Saudi government fall.”

Sybelle typed on a small computer built into the narrow polished wood shelf that ran along the fuselage beside her seat, and Googled up SAUDI ARABIA OIL. Too many items to read, so she turned it off. “Losing that country would be ten times worse than losing Iraq. It would unhinge the entire global economy.”