Jack Coughlin - Kill Zone

“Are you one Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson?” The question was yelled in a deep voice that pierced the chaos of the flight deck by a Marine top sergeant whose head was scraped clean of hair.

“Who the fuck is asking?”

“I am God Almighty as far as you are concerned, you piece of pond scum. Fear me!”

“Fear. Right. Here, Double-Oh, catch.” He tossed him the Val Pak. The other Marine grabbed it with one big paw, laughed, and clapped Kyle on the shoulder.

“Come on. We ain’t waiting around on this barge. They sent me over from the Wasp to fetch you, and our chariot awaits over yonder.” Master Sergeant Orville Oliver Dawkins of Pratt, Kansas, pointed across the deck to where a boxy UN-1H helicopter was warming up, the big rotor whomping the air around it. They went over to the port edge and down a couple of ladders and entered the subterranean, pipe-laced caverns that were filled with planes and busy crew members in different-colored jerseys. Mechanics and technicians burrowed into the parked aircraft.

The two Marines did not speak openly with so many people about, but Kyle’s curiosity was running away with him. He had learned in Turkey that for some reason he was a high-priority item, and now he had been met personally by a top sergeant with a private helo. Kyle thought for a moment that maybe he was as important as Shari after all.

“So what’s this all about, Double-Oh?” Their boots thudded on the steel deck.

“I didn’t catch the whole conversation, but the colonel said something about either giving you another Navy Cross or finally kicking your skinny little ass out of my beloved Corps. I forgot which.”

“Some god you are. A top who doesn’t know what’s going on? What is our world coming to?” Swanson said.

“I know all. The beasts of the field and fishies in the ocean do not move without my knowing.”

“It’s just ‘fish,’ not ‘fishies.’ ‘Fish’ is both singular and plural.”

“‘Fishies’ sounds better, and since I am God, I can say it however the fuck I want to.” They stepped out of the way of a little yellow tractor that crawled toward them, pulling a wings-folded F-14 Tomcat.

“So you really have no idea what’s going on, do you?”

“Not a clue, Kyle. Just bet your ass something big league is coming down involving your old pal General Middleton. Why else would you get a private whirlybird ride?”

Dawkins looked back over his shoulder long enough to give him a smile that contained no warmth whatsoever. “And a ‘special guest’ is waiting for you.”

They started up the stairs and ladders to the main deck. “Shit. A spook?”

“Spooky as Freddy Krueger on Halloween. As Jason with a chainsaw. As Scary Movie 3. CIA dude straight from Langley. Got here last night.”

By the time they reached the deck, the Huey was ready to go. The bird was primarily used as a command-and-control platform, which meant it had cushioned seats. Neither Double-Oh nor Swanson buckled in, because they made a living jumping out of helicopters and hated being confined inside one. The Huey smoothly lifted away, the open doors letting the fresh morning air swoosh through the cabin. The giant Roosevelt grew small in size, and then disappeared behind them as the green Med rolled gently underneath, five hundred feet below.

On the way over to the Wasp , Kyle considered the unexpected appearance of the “special guest.” Last he had heard from the CIA, he was standing at attention in front of some civilian and a bird colonel and being told that he had fucked up the border mission, that he was more trouble than he was worth, and that he would never get to play with them again.

“What?” he had asked the spooks. “Did that asshole Ali bin Assam come back to life or something? You wanted him dead. He’s dead.”

He was then chewed on for a while for constantly violating accepted doctrine in the field, and told that the agency had no room for renegades. Kyle shrugged it off. He had heard it all before, just the usual complaints made by the office weenies when they had given him their unspoken blessing before the black mission began to do whatever was required. They were just covering their asses for the files, and he knew those loud threats to absolutely, positively, never, ever use him again would last only until the next time he was needed.

Now it seemed that time had arrived. Something had changed their little bureaucratic minds, which probably meant he was going to get shot at and that a snatch raid was planned to get Middleton back. Kyle reached between his boots and gave the gun case an affectionate pat, quite happy that Sir Jeff and Tim insisted that he take Excalibur along and give it a real field test. Somebody shot at him, he was going to shoot back.

SWANSON KNOCKED ON THEhatch and heard a sharp command from within the VIP cabin: “Enter.” His boots made impressions on the soft carpet covering the steel deck of the well-decorated room. Prints of sailing ships, old admirals, and sea battles hung on the walls, flags stood in the corners, and the curtains were pulled away from a large porthole that lit the room with sunshine. A civilian with an astonishing helmet of black hair slicked straight back stood to meet him. He wore a moderately expensive dark suit with a white shirt so starched that he probably stood it up in a corner at night. The guy reeked of ego.

“Gunny Swanson, I’m John Smith,” he said with an easy smile that showed a lot of even teeth. “Please feel free to call me John.”

How original, Swanson thought. “I’m not working for the CIA anymore, Mr. Smith. I’ve been back with the MEU for about a year, after a, uh, dispute about my last mission.”

Smith sat down on the large sofa and crossed his legs carefully. “I flew all the way out here from Washington to personally hand you some new orders. You stay with the Marines on paper, but there will be a temporary and a simultaneous mission for the CIA.”

Swanson went silent, considering the situation. The squeaks and thumps of an aircraft carrier under way filtered into the quiet. “Who knows about this?”

Sam Shafer lied. “Myself and my boss, the National Security Advisor, Gerald Buchanan. The commandant of the Marine Corps and the President of the United States.” Actually, Shafer did not know, but admitting that would lower his sense of importance. Neither did the President or the commandant know, because Buchanan was running this on his own. Shafer was itching to get a look at the letter. Buchanan had only given him crumbs of information and terse instructions about how to handle this interview.

“What about my MEU commander?”

“This is a need to know situation, Gunny. Not a want to know.”

“That sort of complicates the hell out of things right out of the box, Mr. Jones.”

“Smith.”

“Smith. Jones. Who the fuck cares? It’s not your real name anyway. So this is a black job that even my commanding officer will not know about? That sucks big-time. How can it work if he doesn’t know what I’m doing?” Clearly the mission had been dreamed up by people who had never served in a combat role. That made Kyle suspicious about whether the Marine commandant was really in the loop.

“As far as your commanding officer is concerned, you are going along on the mission to rescue General Middleton as a sniper for extra firepower. If everything goes smoothly, this other order is to be disregarded.”

“So what’s the job?”

Sam Shafer walked to a small desk on which lay his aluminum briefcase, and dialed the combination to open it. He handed Kyle a sealed white envelope. Swanson took it over to the porthole and read it in the bright light. The first thing he noticed was small blue printing across the top: THE WHITE HOUSE. The order took his breath away. He read it a second time. Same result. “Shit,” he said. “You’re out of your fuckin’ mind.”