Jack Coughlin - Kill Zone

“You do?”

“Umm. Been working on it at this end. It’s a strange one.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“I don’t? I’m supposed to know it all.”

“Well, you don’t. Trust me.”

“Kyle? What’s wrong?” Her voice was tinged with genuine concern. “Should I get involved here?”

Swanson caught himself. He had said too much, and telling her more might put her in jeopardy, since the letter containing what he considered an illegal order had come from her boss. “No, no. Absolutely not. Forget it, and please don’t say anything to anyone about my bitching. It’s just some Pentagon backseat driving, and nothing I can’t handle. That’s why I get the big bucks.”

“But you’re okay?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah. All dressed up for the prom, and the limo is waiting.”

He ducked below the level of the flight deck as the launch crews moved an AV-8B Harrier II Plus attack jet into launch position, their purposeful ballet underscored by the plane’s two screaming engines. Tongues of blue-white fire spit back from the exhausts and illuminated the darkness. Kyle told Shari to wait a moment while the plane built to a thunderous roar and lifted straight up from the deck, its exhaust rolling out in an engulfing cloud of heat. The plane hovered and changed the position of its wings and engines, then thundered away. Two Harriers, loaded with everything from iron bombs to cannons and missiles, would orbit near the target zone as part of the TRAP package, ready to zoom in if things started going to hell.

“I love you, girl,” he shouted into the phone as a second Harrier was rolled into place. “I gotta go now.”

“I love you, too. Call me when you get back. The very instant, you hear me? You understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And be care…” She stopped talking. “We better stop.”

“Yep. I’ll call you in a while. Love ya.” He thumbed the OFF button and the connection was broken, leaving Kyle feeling empty and alone as the plane wound up its roar to launch. Shari knew more about this rescue mission than she was able to say on an open line, which meant that one hell of a lot of people were involved, from the guys putting the Harriers in the air all the way up the ladder to the White House. The more people who know, the bigger the chance for a fuckup, the bigger chance of losing the cloak of secrecy.

He came up the ramp and walked onto the deck after the second Harrier had cleared out. The hostage rescue raiders were gathering near a pair of giant CH-53E Super Stallion heavy transport helicopters that were waiting with the rear ramps down and the big rotors starting to turn.

Twenty-four Marines were split into two groups, with a lieutenant already leading his stick of men up the ramp of one chopper. Kyle checked in with the major leading the assault force as it also moved to load. Double-Oh appeared at his elbow.

“Fuck if I shouldn’t be going on this job,” he told Kyle. “You get all the fun.”

“Piece of cake, man. Didn’t you pay attention to the briefing?” Kyle had a small bag of personal items in his hand, including his watch, cell phone, and wallet. He handed it to the big master sergeant. “Instead of all of us, maybe they should send a taxi to pick him up, huh?”

“Or maybe the briefers should go.” He accepted the personal items, to hold until Kyle returned.

“An officer would never lie. You still got the letter I gave you, right?”

Dawkins tapped the chest pocket of his battle dress uniform and said, “I’ll keep it right here until you get back.” Kyle noticed that his friend had also put on a shoulder holster rig with the butt of a pistol in easy reach. Nobody was taking that letter.

The last Marines were stepping onto the ramp, and it was his time to board. “Look, Double-Oh, I just talked to Shari. If you need to show that note to someone later, bring her into the loop. Just remember, she works for the asshole who signed it.”

“You’re going to disobey a direct order from Washington, aren’t you?”

“I’m not going to murder a Marine, even an asshole like Middleton,” Kyle said. “I’m going to bring him back alive, just to piss everyone off.” He tapped fists with Double-Oh and vanished into the dark cavern of the big helo.

“Hey, Swanson!” Master Sergeant O. O. Dawkins bellowed, his best parade ground voice cutting through the racket as the ramp began to close. “If you die, can I have your girl?”

FIVE MINUTES OUT.” THE PILOT’Sscratchy voice came into Kyle Swanson’s ears through the internal radio net as the two CH-53E helicopters lurched through the night sky. The interior of the birds was deafening because each had three powerful GE engines and little insulation. Everyone wore special flight helmets fitted with thick earmuffs that contained radio receivers. The team was all on a single frequency, but the assault leader and Swanson could also communicate with the aircrew.

It was uncomfortable and cold in the narrow compartment where he sat scrunched among a dozen Marines, for although the huge helicopters were almost a hundred feet long, the cabin was thirty feet long, less than eight feet wide, and not even seven feet high. Looking around, the scene of the young warriors with painted faces and weighted with gear reminded Swanson of the old pictures of American paratroopers jammed aboard ancient C-47s going into the D-Day invasion.

The helicopters had flown an impeccable mission, and had gone “feet dry” over Israel right on schedule. From that point, they were wrapped in a protective embrace by Israeli jet fighters that just happened to be conducting a night exercise along the same path. Any hostile radar would have a hard time picking the two helicopters out of the clutter on their computer screens.

The assault force members had gone silent, each man alone with his thoughts, when they flew out of Israel, moved into unguarded airspace over Jordan, and finally reached the edge of Syria. They spent the long passing minutes checking their equipment or leaning back against the vibrating bulkhead, eyes closed and lost in thought. The first CH-53E would land about two kilometers from the village and the mortar platoon Marines would pour from it to form a protective cordon for the landing zone. The second one, which Swanson was aboard, would come in simultaneously and the raiders would hustle off, conduct the rescue, and bring the general back to the safe LZ and they would all be away.

The choppers hurtled along at their cruising speed of 175 miles per hour, the pilots handling the huge machines as surely as if they were driving their own cars, with hardly a wiggle in the flight path. The change in the pitch of the rotors, the sinking feeling in Swanson’s stomach, and the pressure in his ears confirmed the beginning of the approach run, and he unbuckled his seatbelt. “Four minutes,” came the warning call from the cockpit.

There were two open hatches near the front of the cabin, and a crew member was at one, perched behind a.50-caliber machine gun. At the three-minute alert, Swanson unplugged his commo line from the net and made his way forward to the second hatch, trying not to step on anyone as he sidled past the small motorcycle lashed in the aisle. The dirt bike was to be used by a scout if the mission commander wanted extended reconnaissance.

A typhoon of wind rushed through the open hatches, blowing hard when he reached the opening and looked out. The darkness had a deep vastness, and a little slice of moon provided the only glimmer of light. He adjusted his night vision goggles and watched the green world pass below him. Swanson was to be the last man to leave the helicopter, remaining out of the way while the other Marines charged out. Positioned in the open hatch, he could provide extra firepower until it was time for him to join them. He plugged the commo line in at the new position in time to hear the pilot say, “One minute.”