Jack Coughlin - Kill Zone

Middleton gave a wry smile. “And you were stupid enough to sign on. Look. I know Gordon Gates personally. He eats guys like you and Dumbo for breakfast. Sharks. Jesus.”

“Jimbo, not Dumbo.”

“Right. So Gordon waved his checkbook and you fools jumped on board.” With a couple of oblique probes, Middleton had gotten Logan to admit that Gates was behind the kidnapping. He decided to push harder.

“He’s paying me a hell of a lot better than the military ever did. Way better. I got more money in the bank than you ever dreamed of.”

“Good for you. I hope your 401(k) brings you peace and comfort for the next few hours, because you’re already a corpse, too, and just don’t know it yet.”

“Bullshit.”

The general stretched to loosen his muscles. “You are not going to live long enough to spend it, Logan. I guarantee that a big reward has been put on the street, and your best friends are already looking at you as a piece of meat that is worth about a half-million American dollars, dead or alive.” Middleton tugged at the handcuff chain, let it drop, and faced Logan again.

“Also, you and Dumbo are the only links to my actual kidnapping, and Gates Global is going to cover its own ass. You are loose ends. Another one of your gear-queer Shark Teams probably will be sent out to gobble you up. You may be King Kong today, but between the tickle of a big reward among the ragheads and the double-cross coming from your boss, you’re going to be just another dead monkey.”

DAMN. Logan wanted to hit the general, beat the crap out of him, cut him, make him bleed. That was not allowed. “Shut your damned mouth, Middleton, or I’ll shut it for you. You don’t know nothing.”

“I know it all, Logan,” Middleton said, staring at the mere. “It’s so quiet around here that I can hear the rats fart, and I’ve been listening every time you guys talk. You’re going to have me killed on TV. Big deal. The Marine Corps is a big organization, and six colonels are probably already fighting for my desk. I’ll be missed at the Pentagon about as much as you have been by those wussy SEALs. Let’s make a bet: I say your freedom fighter buddies will bury all three of us in the desert tomorrow: you and me and Dumbo together through eternity.” The general lay back down as if he did not have a care in the world, but continued the questioning. “No wonder they kicked you out of the shitbird SEALs. You weren’t even good enough to meet their low standards.”

Logan snapped at the bait. “Yeah? You think your Marines are such hot shit?” He was pissed that Middleton was ridiculing the Teams. SEALs were the best! “Your Spec Op boys couldn’t even fly two helicopters without running into each other out here. Wouldn’t have mattered if they landed, neither, because we had them in a kill zone even before they fucked up.”

Middleton made a point of grimacing as if disappointed and said nothing while he made another mental note. Confirmation that this whole thing was a setup for an ambush. Blabbermouth.

“You think I ain’t already got my own escape covered? You may be a general, but I’m as smart as you.”

“Sure. That’s why we’re in here together in this smelly house. Couple of Einsteins, we are. E equals MC squared.”

Logan had never liked really intelligent people. He didn’t get that part about EMC. “You know why you’re really here? Think you figured it all out?”

“Yeah. It’s not all that hard. Real terrorists would have gone after an easier target, not a moving convoy with armed Marine and Saudi guards. That’s why they snatch schoolteachers, not soldiers. So who would consider me important enough to risk an ambush that would certainly result in casualties and guarantee media coverage and a manhunt? Who profits?”

“What’s your answer?”

“Simple. Gates Global. Your job was to put me on the sidelines. The only thing worthwhile on my schedule is testifying next week in Washington before the Senate Armed Services Committee. That is where I intend to stop this nutty privatization of the United States military and keep disgraceful incompetents like you from sneaking back into the tent. Shit, Logan, I wrote the book on privatization while I was at the Naval War College. The PSC concept is long on cost and short on loyalty. The Naval Institute Press published it and we even got some good ink in The New York Times Book Review.” Middleton laughed derisively and glanced at Logan. “It helped me get my star. I’m sure you read it.”

“Big fuckin’ deal.”

“You’re working for a private security company, but any way you cut it, you’re nothing but a mercenary. A gun for hire. You work for Gates Global, which ordered you to kidnap me. Now, for some reason, which I assume is related to the helo crash, the original plan has changed. You never planned to let me live anyway, but Gates was just trying to figure out how he could benefit the most by my death. So it turns out the jihadists will do the honors. Once that is done, you are no longer needed either. Probably just one hole will be big enough for the three of us.”

“Not gonna happen, Middleton.” Logan moved to the door. “I’ve listened to enough of your shit. Anyway, let me tell you how it’s going to come down tomorrow. Once we get you all pretty again and give you to those Iraqis…”

Middleton snorted, a bark of a laugh. “See? You just did it again!”

“Did what?”

“Gave me information I did not need to know. I had no idea those guys were Iraqis. You furnished another piece of the puzzle, you shitbird.”

“Fuck you. I’ll tell you something else, because you’re going to be dead real soon. Not only are they Iraqis, but they work for that badass Rebel Sheikh down in Basra. At eight o’clock tomorrow morning, they are going to prop you up in a chair and cut off your fucking head!” He let the big cocky grin creep back across his face. “And I’m going to be standing there to watch. Gonna really enjoy the show.”

Middleton closed his eyes as if bored. “Okay, Logan. See you in the hole.” The general turned his back to the mercenary and did not move again until the door closed. Even then he did not move, thinking about beheadings and the alliance between Gordon Gates and the Rebel Sheikh.

MASTER SERGEANT 0. 0. DAWKINShad not slept since the choppers had lifted off earlier that morning from the Wasp , and had smoked a whole pack of cigarettes. What a cluster fuck. He leaned on a railing of the USS Blue Ridge , flagship of the Joint Amphibious Task Force commander, and watched the water churning past far below. The entire TRAP team and two helo crews down in the desert, probably dead in the smoking ruins, and then abandoned. Just like that hostage mess back in 1979 with the Rangers and Delta operators in Iran. All of the high-tech toys in the world were bound to screw up sooner or later, and when Marines ride on the razor’s edge, Mother Nature gives no second chances. He flipped his cigarette butt overboard and made his way through the chutes and ladders up to Flag Country.

His boss, Colonel Ralph Sims, looked like he had been punched in the gut, and waved Dawkins to a chair in his small but private stateroom. Sims was commander of the 33rd Marine Expeditionary Unit, the first one to work under the banner of the Joint Special Operations Command. Dawkins, an ex-Force Recon platoon sergeant, normally would have been the MEU operations chief, but under the realignment into special forces, he was called the MARSOC team sergeant. He was an operator, not an administrative type. New generation of titles, same jobs.

Sims and Dawkins had been friends for more years than they cared to think about, and just sat there staring at each other in silence for a time across the desktop that held a small computer, a cup filled with pens, scissors, and a small ruler, and a little nameplate sign carved in the Philippines. They felt helpless, and could do nothing more to either save their men or bring the bodies home for honorable burials. Marines had left Marines behind. Sims opened a locked drawer and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black Label bourbon. He poured shots for each of them into black coffee mugs emblazoned with the scarlet and gold crest of the 33rd MEU, and they drank the whiskey in quick gulps.