Jack Coughlin - Kill Zone

IT WAS A LITTLE BEFORE FOURo’clock in the afternoon when an aide awakened Yousif al-Shoum with a tap on his shoulder. “General, you have a call from Damascus,” he said. Al-Shoum blinked himself awake, feeling that the late-afternoon heat had grown intense. “I’m coming,” he responded, pouring some bottled water into a cupped palm and rubbing it across his face. The aide handed him a headset with a microphone.

“This is al-Shoum,” he said, and a distant voice replied, quiet, pleasant, diplomatic. The aide watched al-Shoum’s jaw tighten and the dark eyes burn. “This is official?” he asked with sharpness. “Where does the order come from?” The aide did not dare move closer. “This is insane! At least let me continue the search until nightfall. We’re sure to capture them!” Another pause, and deep breathing, al-Shoum’s hands clasping both muffs of the headset hard, pressing them close to his head. “Yes. Of course. Very well. I acknowledge the order.”

Al-Shoum slipped off the headset and tossed it to the radio operator, then looked at the map on the table. Still more red pins that signified… Nothing! Damascus had decided without his advice to cooperate with the Americans! The general and the sniper were not to be harmed! American military troops were to be allowed into Syria to pick them up! The map showed him nothing with which he could call back and demand that the orders be changed. He stalked from the tent without a word.

Putting on his sunglasses, he marched to the helicopter and noticed that two more mercenaries had arrived, a German and an Asian who had been one of the famous Nepalese Gurkha soldiers. Of the four men who were surrounding Logan, al-Shoum judged the small Asian fighter with the scarred face and the grim mouth and the huge curved khukuri knife hanging from his belt to be the most dangerous. Logan turned to meet him, holding a boxy object in one hand.

“A significant change of plan, I fear, Mr. Logan,” said al-Shoum. “Radical, really. My government has been in direct diplomatic contact with the United States, and once again the diplomats have reached an agreement without consulting the soldiers in the field. My new orders are still to find the missing American Marines, but they are to be treated as guests and provided with protection until they can be evacuated.” He spread his hands, palms up. “Nothing I could do.”

An odd, twisting smile creased Logan’s weathered face. The two men walked away from the others. “That’s the government line. Do you still want these guys?”

“Yes, Mr. Logan, I want to kill them both. That sniper has made me look like a fool, and I cannot forgive that. This failure may cost me my career.” He thrust his chin out toward the endless flat countryside. “We have spent a fruitless day on the hunt, with hundreds of men and dozens of helicopters and vehicles. They are obviously out there somewhere, but time has run out for me. My personal desires must now take second place to direct orders from my government. Even if I find them, I cannot kill them.”

Logan understood the undercurrent of the conversation. “Right. You can’t kill them. But did your orders say anything about us doing it? I want them, too. Real bad.” He pointed a thumb over to where the other mercenaries were loading into the helicopter and getting it ready for liftoff.

“Let me show you something,” said al-Shoum, and brought Logan under the tent. After clearing everyone else out, he had the mercenary look at the map littered with red stick pins. “Each of those is a white Toyota truck. We have no idea where the men are.”

“Okay. From that, I see only that you have a bunch of Toyota trucks in Syria.” Logan handed him a piece of paper. “Now look up these coordinates: north 32 degrees, 45 minutes, and east 36 degrees, 25 minutes.” Al-Shoum traced the map grid with his finger and drew a circle with a black marker at a point midway between Dar’a and As Suwayda.

“Why this particular location?”

“That’s them, General! That’s exactly where they are! These boys who came over from Israel brought a GPS locator, and our home office in the States gave them the frequency for a signal being used by the sniper. So right now, they are sitting quiet in that little circle, waiting for night to fall. Or waiting for someone to show up and blow them away. So can we go get ‘em?”

“I will not disobey my orders,” said al-Shoum, hands on hips, staring at the American, loud enough for most of his staff to overhear. Then, much more quietly, he said, “I will shift my searchers away from those coordinates. If my people actually see the Marines, I will have no choice but to protect them.”

“So you have no problem if I fire up the helo and haul ass down there and do what needs to be done, then go away so your boys can come in and make the big discovery of the dead bodies?”

“The two Americans are indeed in hostile territory, and perhaps might die at the hands of villagers who are outraged by the sudden appearance of Crusader forces in their midst. Just be aware that the Americans will soon be sending in another rescue team, this time with my government’s permission and, of course, my utmost personal cooperation.”

Al-Shoum had another idea flash into his head. “Wait just another moment. Perhaps all is not lost,” he told Logan, and scribbled a note in Arabic. He gave it to the mercenary. “Plant this on the bodies. It will be evidence that the deaths were the work of the Holy Scimitar of Allah, the militia group of the Rebel Sheikh. I need to settle a score with that scoundrel in Basra, so let us kill several birds with a single rock. He will have to answer for the slayings of the two Marines, and I will appear as a hero who did everything possible to save them. Damascus will be pleased.”

Logan tucked the note into a pocket. “How long before the rescue team arrives?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I’m giving you a one-hour head start, Mr. Logan. You must do it within that time, before anyone notices that I am keeping search parties out of the area. Then you and your men must vanish. I never want to see or hear from you again, and if I do, you will pay in full for killing that child in Sha’ra.”

He raised his voice for the benefit of his staff, pointed toward the helicopter, and barked at Logan, “I am through with you worthless dogs. Get out of my country!”

“Color me gone,” Logan said, turning and trotting toward the helicopter. He circled an index finger to the pilot to get the rotor turning.

GENERAL BRADLEY MIDDLETONwas testy. He and Swanson were free! The Gunny had been in intermittent communication via the satellite phone with the MEU, and had learned that the manhunt was over. Syria had agreed to settle things peacefully rather than have the United States bear down on them over something that Damascus had not been too keen about in the first place. The pickup was going to be unopposed, and Swanson had worked out a landing zone about ten kilometers to the south. Then the sniper went back to sleep, leaving the general on watch and ignoring Middleton’s demand to move out.

“We go when I say go, General,” Swanson had told him. “There’s no guarantee that every Syrian soldier in this region has gotten the word not to open fire on us. I want to arrive at the LZ just before our choppers get there so we’re not standing out in the open with our thumbs up our asses, just asking to be shot.”

At least it wasn’t very hot in the small tunnel in which they were parked, since it was shielded by the sun and cooler because of the foot of barely moving water. Middleton shifted the AK-47, sloshed from one end of the culvert to the other, and crouched behind some of the bushes Swanson had stacked on the left side as a makeshift hide. Traffic had been sporadic along the road, and they had grown familiar with the sounds of an occasional car, truck, or tractor passing overhead. Several helicopters had buzzed in the distance, but there had been no other military presence. A farmer driving a mule cart had taken forever to clatter by.