Jack Coughlin - Kill Zone

Outside sounds seeped dully into the quiet room. Ship noises. The creaking and groaning metal, the whines and whops of Harriers and helicopters, water moving through exposed pipes along the ceiling and around the red emergency lighting fixtures. The wall intercom, volume turned low, muttered just at the level of hearing. The stateroom, painted navy gray, was a combination work space and living quarters, so Sims could dash to his station in the Tactical Center only one deck up in an emergency. There was no porthole for outside light, but a small refrigerator worth its weight in gold was wedged into a corner.

“Anything new?” Dawkins asked.

Sims shook his head. “The Harrier pilots were thoroughly debriefed, Double-Oh, and their stories match. All they really saw was a big fireball when the choppers went down and no signs of life afterward when they flew over at low altitude, other than people coming out from the village. We lost ‘em all.”

“No chance, I suppose, of sending in another mission for the boys and the general?”

The colonel turned around and looked at a map taped to the bulkhead that showed the route. “Washington says it’s out of the question. They won’t even authorize a missile strike to eradicate the wreckage, and a diplomatic shitstorm is on the way. Syria is yelling ‘Invasion!’ and our State Department is trying to explain, ‘Well, not really. It’s this way…’”

“Then the fuckin’ media and the United Nations will get involved.”

“Yup. Too big a development to keep secret. The Muslim world is going to go nuts with demonstrations.” The colonel poured more bourbon into the mugs. “We’re going to get hammered.”

Dawkins nodded his big, crew-cut head. “Not our best day, sir. Looked easy on paper.”

“Always does, Master Sergeant. Always does.”

“So you think it is a safe bet that Gunny Swanson is dead?”

Sims nodded. “Pilots said no signs of life. With daylight, we got better satellite imagery, but it still shows nothing useful. I don’t see how anyone got out of that mess in one piece, even a ghost like Swanson.”

A small speaker on the bulkhead crackled, and a quiet voice announced: “Attention all hands. A sunset memorial service will be held on the flight deck at eighteen hundred hours for the men who died on today’s mission.”

They raised the cups in salute. “To those who won’t return. May they rest in peace,” said the colonel.

“And to Kyle,” responded Double-Oh.

“To Kyle.”

“Semper fi.”

They downed the smooth whiskey.

“Hard to imagine him gone.” Dawkins settled back into the chair.

“What are you trying to tell me, Double-Oh? You didn’t ask for a private meeting just to talk about old times.”

Dawkins took a deep breath. The colonel had the uncanny knack of reading right through people. “No, sir. Well, since there is always room for more bad news, I guess I need to give you some.”

“This has something to do, I assume, with why you have been wandering around the ship wearing a locked and loaded.45?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you weren’t really expecting pirates to come charging over the starboard bow shooting RPGs?”

“No, sir. This is for real.” Dawkins undid a Velcro snap on the sleeve of his flight suit and retrieved the envelope. “You remember when that spook from Washington came aboard to meet privately with Gunny Swanson?”

“Ummm. Figured he was getting tagged for a special mission when this was over.”

“Sir, this was the special mission. Kyle was put under some top-secret orders, and his death leaves us with a situation.”

“A situation.” Sims put his forearms on the desk and leaned forward. He was tall and lean, with dark brows and a beaked nose that gave him the look of a pissed-off eagle like the ones he wore on his collar.

“Yessir. Maybe more a major league fuckup that will make people look back fondly on Richard Nixon after Watergate and Bill Clinton’s blow job.” He slid the letter across the smooth desktop with his fingertips. “It’s all in there, sir.”

“Swanson told you about this?”

“He refused to carry out the order until the spook threatened to get the White House to verify it. Then Kyle somehow snuck a copy without that Washington fuck realizing it, and the fool burned the copy, thinking it was the real thing. Gunny gave me the original in case he got whacked. He got whacked. So here it is.”

“I don’t think I really want to open that.”

“No. Probably not, and I don’t blame you one bit. But that’s why you’re a full bird colonel with a bunch of college degrees and I’m just a master sergeant. You decide where it goes from here.”

“What’s it say?” The colonel held the envelope as if it were scalding hot, turning it over and over in his hands.

“If it looked like the rescue attempt was going to fail, Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson was under orders to execute Brigadier General Middleton.”

“The hell you say,” said Sims, running a thumbnail under the envelope flap. His eyes gave away nothing as he read the handwritten note.

“The hell I do say, sir. The reason I went around the chain of command to get straight to you is that we don’t know who may be involved in this thing. I guess it is going to be a very special need-to-know category.”

Sims dug out some thin plastic map overlay sheets from his desk, folded them around the letter and envelope, and carried them to his private safe to lock them away. “You’re right, Double-Oh. In fact, you’re so damned right that I’m going to have to think about our next step. A wrong move and we both end up at Gitmo with German shepherds chomping at our balls. You got a suggestion?”

As the colonel resumed his seat, Dawkins stood. His leathery face actually wore a smile. “Yeah, Skipper, I do. The Thirty-Third MEU is an independent Special Ops unit, and as its commanding officer, you report straight to Central Command. I suggest you pack your bags for a routine trip back to Tampa to give the boys at MacDill a ‘special briefing’ about why the helicopters crashed. Have your staff type up a bunch of papers and make a PowerPoint show for cover.”

Sims rubbed his thumb across his lips, which had gone dry. “And while I’m there, I get some private face time with CENTCOM?”

“No, sir. Halfway across the Atlantic, your flight will be diverted because the Pentagon will decide it wants to hear your lame-ass excuses in person. I can cash in some favors and get the Sergeants’ Network to cut orders that far and keep you below the official radar. Once in Washington, it will be up to you to snag a meeting with General Hank Turner, our old boss from the First MARDIV. Although he happens to wear four stars and be chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff now, he’s still an old Force Recon operator at heart. Him we can trust.”

Sims agreed. “You’re right. Turner will kick in the doors to find out what is going on.” The colonel folded his hands behind his head. “Make it happen, Master Sergeant.”

“Semper fuckin’ fi, Colonel.”

ALI SHALAL RASSAD MADE HISafternoon prayers in one of Basra’s crowded mosques, in the midst of a crowd of kneeling, praying men. Afterward, he smiled his way to the door, hugging fellow worshippers along the way and dispensing words of encouragement, a whispered promise of help, a handful of coins. He was a leader because the people considered him to be one of their own, a warrior and a dutiful, humble servant of Allah, whose name be praised. The prayers provided quiet moments during which he often thought about how much he owed to the dictator Saddam Hussein. Without pure evil, how would people recognize good?