Jack Coughlin: Kill Zone

The others at the table had no idea what the three military men were talking about, so Jeff steered the conversation into areas in which his business guests could glitter and glow. As if wound up mechanically, they soon were rattling on about new companies preparing IPOs, who got how much of a bonus for leading a company into bankruptcy, and who had been indicted. It was too easy to get those guys to talk about themselves. They did not include or need anyone else in their conversation about finances and the venture capital world. The ladies switched to serious relationship chatter about the breakups and marriages of supermarket tabloid celebrities, and when Lady Pat and Shari tuned in to the gossip, Jeff hauled Tim Gladden and Kyle Swanson out on deck.

They toasted with cold green bottles of Heineken beer and lit fresh cigars that Jeff vowed had been rolled on the thighs of Cuban virgins who afterward were personally deflowered by Castro himself.

Kyle said, “You know, I swear that little blonde was giving her husband a hand job beneath the tablecloth. His eyes were crossing.”

“Gawd. How does one control newlyweds? She’s thirty years younger than he. I hope she doesn’t give him a heart attack before we can cash his Excalibur check,” said Tim.

“Our bank already confirmed it,” said Jeff. “If he dies, he dies with a smile, we bury him at sea and console the grieving widow.” He turned to Swanson and put on his serious face. “So, what’s your answer?”

“Same as always. Thanks but no thanks.” The wind pulled the smoke away, toward the distant lights that marked towns along the heel of the Italian boot.

“Kyle, you are not getting any younger. You cannot do your sort of work forever.”

“I like what I do, Jeff. I’m a pretty fair sniper, and somebody has to do it.”

Tim spoke up. “I have news for you, old man. You are not indispensable. When you leave, another Marine will step into your place. I didn’t see how Ten Para could possibly get along without me, either, but somehow they did just fine.”

Jeff agreed. “The biggest hurdle is the first one, hanging up the uniform. You know it’s going to happen sooner or later.”

“The time isn’t right. I’ll know when. Not yet.”

“Don’t wait too long,” said Gladden. “Thanks to this grumpy old man, I found a new and worthwhile career. I used to think a hundred thousand dollars was a lot of money, but with the patents and proprietary interests the company has developed, there is much, much more available. And we desperately need your help on new projects.”

Jeff emptied his beer, tossed the bottle overboard, and uncapped a new one. “You and Tim and I are the only people who know everything about the Excalibur project. We had the engineers work only on specific sections. Once we finish the field trials, those guns are gold, Kyle. After that show you put on yesterday, those investors couldn’t write checks fast enough. You have more than earned a share.”

“I worked on it as part of my job, guys,” Swanson replied. “The Marine Crotch would throw my ass in the brig if I got paid extra for it.” The sideways offer had caught him off guard. They were willing to put up part of the action on the future licensing and sales of Excalibur. A fortune.

“We only bribe politicians,” Gladden said. “We are just pointing out that you would be an extremely valuable asset to our company, and also that we could make it worth your while financially.”

Jeff looked at Swanson like a priest at a sinner and abruptly changed the subject. “Damn it all, man, why don’t you and Shari both just get out of the military business? I know you want to get married, but you’re wedded to your jobs instead of each other. That is not good at all, lad. You must grab time before it passes you by. Anyway, I want a grandson.”

“Been talking to her, have you? And you can’t have a grandson by us because we’re not related.”

“I was speaking in general terms. A granddaughter would be just as welcome. No, we haven’t spoken with her about it, although Pat has been planning the wedding for some time, something terribly romantic and worthy of a pop diva. You may not have reached the point yet where you want to make the change to private enterprise, but you will, my friend. When you do, I promise you a soft landing. We just want you to hurry up.”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

Tim gave him his unsmiling commando look. “Maybe we have a competitor for your highly marketable skill? Has one of those dreadful PSCs come a-knocking on your door, offering some big money to the super sniper?” He was talking about private security companies, the modern mercenaries.

“Oh, hell, no. I would never be a merc. There are a ton of those jobs out there, but you can never trust them because you don’t know where their loyalties really lie. They’re like Doctor Frankenstein’s monster, and could just as easily spin out of control. Anyway, if I kill somebody while I wear the uniform, it’s okay. I don’t know how that would play out if the mercs take part in combat ops.”

Gladden laughed. “Oh, Kyle, you are so naïve. They’re already running combat missions. Have been for years. Some PSCs have armored vehicles, choppers, and even some old jet fighters now. Bleedin’ private armies, they are, for sale to the highest bidder. And with the U.S. military heading toward privatization, it’s only a matter of time before they are authorized and paid to fight an entire war by themselves. It just plays better to the public if some South African merc is lost in action for a noble cause rather than the boy next door.”

“If it’s so great, why aren’t you two in on it?” It wasn’t like Jeff to pass up a good business opportunity. There were hundreds of millions of dollars in the PSC game.

Jeff shrugged. “Like you, chum. We were professional soldiers for much too long. I’m more than satisfied with my company and its products, and I’m old-fashioned enough to enjoy being in the service of my queen and country.”

“So, as you Marines would say, ‘Fuck the Frankensteins,’” said Tim Gladden, holding his beer aloft.

Jeff raised his bottle, too. “Fuck the Frankensteins.”

Kyle Swanson touched theirs with his own. “Fuck the Frankensteins.”

THE IMMACULATE PILATES, a Swiss single-engine private aircraft painted midnight blue with gold trim, lifted smoothly away from a dry riverbed, its powerful turboprop engine leaving a triangle of sand hovering momentarily in the air behind it. By the time the dust settled back onto the desert, the beautiful plane was gone, building to a cruising speed of two hundred knots while skimming no more than two hundred feet above the sand to avoid radar. In the two and a half hours since taking off from a crude airstrip, it had flown northeast from Dhahran, and then dashed out of Saudi Arabia and into Jordanian airspace without being spotted by the air defense commands of either country. It was just another private executive plane in a region that had fleets of them belonging to rich and powerful princes and sheikhs. Even if it had been seen, no one would have questioned it, nor paid it any mind. The color scheme was recognized as that of a powerful Iraqi, Ali Shalal Rassad, the Rebel Sheikh of Basra, and it was best not to be too curious about him.

A dirty truck was waiting when the Pilates landed on a macadam road outside a village, and the unconscious General Bradley Middleton was carried off the plane by his two American captors and stuffed into the rear seat of a waiting car for a ten-minute drive to a specific address. Vic Logan pulled another hypodermic needle from his kit and injected Middleton to start bringing him up from the blackness.