Jack Coughlin - Kill Zone

He had been assigned to head a special investigation into the American raid and recommend what his government should do with the captive American general. Damascus had known about the abduction from the start, but never officially sanctioned the kidnapping. By turning a blind eye toward the operation, they gained a favor from the Rebel Sheikh down in Basra and several hundred thousand U.S. dollars in military credits from Gates Global. Now the abduction had become a diplomatic problem and Yousif Al-Shoum was to gather the facts and make a recommendation.

He originally planned to drive over to Sa’ahn on his own, but when word came that the Iraqi hotheads were planning to decapitate the American, Al-Shoum decided to bring the extra guns. He got them without difficulty because he was not really a major, but a general, and head of operations for the Security Directorate. Al-Shoum had chosen to use a lower rank because ordinary people became nervous around generals, and he might want to ask some important questions of the citizens. His security team knew his true identity because it was made up exclusively of soldiers chosen because they were loyal to him. After examining the attack area, he would take custody of the American Marine general. His country was not willing to get sucked into a war over this incident, which had not gone as smoothly as promised.

“You examined this site carefully, correct? And you determined that someone lived through the crash and escaped on a motorcycle.” He spoke softly to the large American trailing him, who seemed elephantine in both body and mind.

“Yeah,” said Victor Logan, drawing a sharp look for his discourteous manner. “Whoever it was headed west, toward the Israeli border. That’s when he blew through those two idiots at the roadblock.”

The little officer stroked his thick mustache and continued his circular stroll. He knelt and let a handful of dirt trickle through his fingers. Easy to leave tracks in this loose sand. The Case of the Missing Marine. “ And you identified him.”

“Not me, but our people did. Absolutely. Pictures and dog tags. Doesn’t get any better than that.”

“Actually, it can, Mr. Logan. Photographs can lie. Identification tags can be misleading.” Al-Shoum turned to face the big man, rocking on his heels, looking up at him and motioning toward the horizon with a slow sweep of his right arm. “This land is filled with the bones of foreign soldiers who were never properly identified.” He looked up at Logan. “I think you made a mistake.”

“What?” Logan almost laughed in the midget’s face. “This was a no-brainer, major.”

“Suppose we postulate a new theory, Mr. Logan-that whoever got away wanted you to believe that he was someone else. Would he have had time to switch the dog tags?”

“Hell, no! These birds collided, fell down, and everybody died but one. End of story.”

“I understand that. But in the very moments immediately after the accident, time stands still. The normal tendency of spectators to a disaster watching is to freeze where they stand, giving time for brain and body to cooperate, and even more time passed before people approached because the ammunition and fuel were exploding and burning hot. That is the reaction of a normal person, not a highly trained military professional. Several minutes passed, time enough for such a soldier to accomplish any number of things, and smoke and fire covered his escape. Therefore, your conclusion was only an educated guess, not much more than an assumption. Am I correct?”

“Then it was a damned good guess, Major. Sometimes things are exactly as simple as they appear. He was a young guy who took off, looking for safety.”

“I disagree. Our helicopters and trucks have thoroughly combed the area between here and the Israeli border. Beyond the assault at the checkpoint, they have not found a trace of the man, nor of his motorcycle. Not even tracks.”

“So he got lost in the desert. Big deal. He’s dead no matter how you cut it.”

They walked back toward the waiting armored personnel carriers. “I should have wanted more proof before reaching such a conclusion myself.”

“Yeah. Right. So, then, what’s your idea?”

Al-Shoum grimaced. “Bluntly put, Mr. Logan, you fucked up. You were the experienced military advisor on the scene and everything depended on your assessment. I think this Marine wanted everyone to believe he was a youthful radioman so they would consider him rather harmless, just as you have done, and not look too hard for him. I agree that we are facing only one man, but in my judgment, he obviously is a rather formidable opponent who has played you for a fool.”

Logan wanted to pound the little Syrian Army officer on the head, grind the little shrimp beneath his boots. But he did nothing because they were surrounded by armed soldiers who were watching him closely. “Then who is he, and where is he?”

Before Logan could answer, a tremendous detonation rocked the village of Sa’ahn behind them as the house of the jihadists exploded. A column of fire shot into the black sky. The concussion rolled across the desert and shook the heavy BTR carriers on their tires. Everyone turned to watch, fascinated, frozen in place.

Al-Shoum recovered and sighed aloud. “I do not yet know the name of the Marine who escaped this crash, sir, for it is not the one you reported. But I do know where he is. He is right over there.” The major pointed toward the fire and moved back toward his command vehicle.

“We will return to the village now, Mr. Logan. Unless I am gravely mistaken, you will find that your prisoner is gone. My country has been placed in a quite uncomfortable diplomatic position due to your stupidity and arrogance. Consider yourself under arrest.” He motioned to his soldiers. “Take his weapons.”

Victor Logan knew he was in shit up to his eyeballs. If he remained in custody, Gates Global would toss him to the wolves because the kidnapping had gone sideways. The little Syrian asshole was right; Vic had been in charge all the way. He and Jimbo would be disappeared, and he would never touch that pot of gold waiting for them.

The Syrians searched him thoroughly and stripped off all of his weapons, including the hidden boot knife. They had been well trained in that little science, which indicated that they were not common enlisted men, and he could expect them to be just as professional in other things, such as shooting a prisoner who tried to run away.

The best time to escape would be within the first few minutes, before the captors could lock him up tight and establish total control. But that damned explosion had heightened their alertness. They roughly pushed him aboard the carrier, leaving him untied so he could crawl inside. Which meant his hands would still be free when he got out. He still had a chance. An opportunity popped into his mind.

But even if he escaped from these dudes, where would he go and how would he get there? One thing at a time, Vic. Get out of this mess first.

He was jerked back against the small seat as the big vehicle lurched forward and turned around to head to the village. Logan kept his hands clasped in his lap, a picture of cooperation, the temporary victim of a misunderstanding between friends.

“Say there, Major?” he shouted over the sound of the engine.

Yousif Al-Shoum looked back at him from a front seat. Said nothing.

“My computer, back at the house. I think you’ll be interested in some of the things I can do for you.”

“Such as what, Mr. Logan? I can access as many computers as I need.”

“But mine can get real-time American satellite imagery. I make a call on my sat phone, we’re uplinked in half an hour. How’s that?”

The major nodded his head and turned around again. “Hmmm,” he said.