Stephen Hunter - Dead Zero

“Well,” said Bob, foreseeing an hour giving a report that would yield absolutely nothing, “not really. I’m not hurt. Oh, my wallet. Shit, he got-”

But the guy said, “Wait, I saw something drop off him as he ran. Let’s check.”

They walked a few steps ahead and there was the wallet, splayed out on the sidewalk.

The guy picked it up, opened it, peeked in, and said, “Are you Mr. Swagger?”

“That’s me,” said Bob, taking the wallet.

“I doubt he had time to take anything,” said the hero.

Bob did a quick check. His stack of ATM twenties was still intact, and paging through the plastic card display, he saw nothing missing.

“Looks okay,” he said.

“You sure you’re okay?” said the guy. “Physically, I mean.”

“I have a few scrapes, and maybe a bruise or two. But nothing particularly traumatic.”

“I could call an ambulance.”

“Nah,” said Swagger. “Who’s got time for that?”

“Okay,” said the guy. “I guess I’ll go on in and get myself some food. You sure, now? No assistance necessary?”

“No, and thanks again. You must have played football.”

“Years ago,” said the guy with a laugh. “Baby, I thought my tackling days were over.”

They had a good laugh, Bob offered his hand, and they shook. Then Bob went back to his car, thinking, Strangest goddamn thing .

HILTON HOTEL PARKING LOT

JACKSONVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA

2300 HOURS

You’re sure?”

“I guarantee it,” said Crackers. “It said ‘Bob Lee Swagger,’ plain as day, on the Idaho license.”

“And you got the card in,” Mick asked Tony Z.

“I did. Between two cards in the card thing, you know, the plastic thing. Meanwhile, the Clown is punching me in the fucking guts.”

“Hey, you whacked me pretty hard too, goddamnit,” said Crackers.

“Damn right. After you fucking laid me out like Ray Lewis.”

“You didn’t know I was all city?”

“A pussy like you-”

“Easy, little girls. I’m going to call MacGyver. This is good news, we did this part, I don’t want any screwups. Let’s go over it again.”

They sat in the SUV across from the Jacksonville Hilton at the edge of the city, near the freeway, seven miles from the main gate to Lejeune. It was in a zone of fluorescence, chain restaurants, car dealerships, fast food joints, all gleaming plastic and chrome. Each guy went over the event again, slowly, step by step.

Finally Mick accepted the reports. He picked up the satellite phone, pushed the magic button, and in a few seconds the control came on.

“Okay,” Mick said, “good stuff to report. We got the RFID planted, he didn’t suspect a thing. We followed him a mile off, no visual contact, all the hardware is working A-OK, and he’s gone to bed for the night. No matter what, from now on we’ll know where he is.”

“Like actual professionals,” said MacGyver dryly.

“We’ll just stay with him, far back, we won’t push anything. If he can find Cruz, we’ll be there and we’ll take them down.”

“You boys and your toys. You love the toys. It’s your favorite part. What did they get you? I don’t even know.”

“M4s, an MP5, plenty of mags. SIGs and Berettas. A.338 Sako. Best of all, another Barrett. This one’s much better than the last. I wouldn’t mind an RPG. We couldn’t miss with that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t have you blowing shit up in Hometown, USA.”

“Anyhow, I can do him with the.50 from a mile out or the.338 from half.”

“You missed the last time, Tex.”

“No, I hit. I just hit the wrong guy because I didn’t know which one was the right guy. The guy I missed was already on the move when I zeroed him. Tough shot. Nobody could make it.”

“Cruz could. Swagger could. Make sure you’re never in their kill zone, Bogier. They won’t miss, I guarantee you. And don’t you miss again.”

“I won’t, goddamnit. Now we’re going to settle down here for the night, and follow him. I’m guessing he’s going back to the base tomorrow for more meetings. Nothing’s going to happen tonight.”

“Oh shit,” said Crackers the Clown, on the BlackBerry in the front seat. “He’s moving.”

MCDONALD’S

1322 HOURS

A clown stared at the three rather scruffy men. He had big eyes, a huge red nose, puffs of crazed red hair, and lips the size of cucumbers. He was 100 percent polyurethane. Blond children made up like cats and dogs ran around his legs. A crusader father tried to keep order. Two of the kids, a boy and a girl, got in a fight over a milk shake and the girl seemed to be getting the better of it, until the dad adjudicated on behalf of the shorter, weaker boy.

“You are an infidel,” said Dr. Faisal.

“Alas,” said Professor Khalid, “it is true.”

“You must be destroyed.”

“Surely, I will be,” said the professor.

“You will not go to heaven.”

“My belief insists there is no heaven.”

Dr. Faisal turned to Bilal and demanded, “Did you know? He is a traitor, he is a monster, he is a heathen.”

“Yes, I knew,” said Bilal. “I read his important essay in the Islamabad Islamic Courier. But he is not a Christian, if that’s what you think. If I understand it, he is an atheist.”

“I would say a realist,” said Khalid.

“Realist, atheist, what’s the difference? He is not of the true faith.”

“It is not a matter of faith,” said Khalid. “It is a matter of political will.”

“Again,” said Bilal, taking a gulp of his chocolate shake, “if I understand him, his political will is strong, possibly as strong as your faith. So you both go on this enterprise, you both risk all, you are both martyrs. What private nuances transpire between each set of ears, it is of no matter.”

“I am shocked,” said Dr. Faisal.

“By realist,” said Khalid, “I mean tribalist. I am of the tribe that is culturally Islamic. The god at the center is meaningless, a delusion. Moreover, I happen to have been educated in the West-”

“I was educated in the West too, do not forget. It did not affect my faith. It made it stronger.”

“Hear him out,” said Bilal. “I have fought many times with men of indifferent faith. They were just as good as fighters as the devout. Some drank alcohol, ate pork, some were actually of the homosexual perversion, some lacked hygiene and spat at God, but under fire were as willing to die as any.”

“Why then,” asked Dr. Faisal, “would you face death, believing that beyond is nothing but oblivion? Could I have another milk shake?”

“No,” said Bilal, “no more milk shakes. We must go, we are behind schedule, I have many more miles to drive and we do not have immense quantities of money.”

“If you would let me explain,” said Khalid. He let his face compose itself, he sought the dignity of the earnest student encumbered with the truth and the need to spread it, and he leaned forward in piety and humility, even as the red-nosed plastic clown examined him like an interlocutor. “Although these people around us seem very nice, they are actually devils. Not in their daily demeanor, which as you can see is moderate and full of love of family and fun, but in the economic implications of the resources they require to live in such invisible comfort. They have no idea what crimes are committed in the name of this monstrous pillow of comfort, and if you tried to show them logically, they would not be able to process it. It would seem a delusion, a bad dream. If they looked at the cesspool of the camps and the degradation and depravity visited upon those children, they would say, ‘Oh, it’s so sad,’ and perhaps even give a dollar or two to some charity and feel good about themselves for a day. And yet they are as responsible, in their addiction to the great comfort-the cocoon of pleasantness, not sensual pleasure as you can see, but the pleasantness of driving down the street and buying their child a milk shake exactly like the one you so greedily desire, Dr. Faisal-they are responsible for the war against our people, for our suffering, for our pain. They are as responsible as Israeli paratroopers or helicopter assassins or Hindu missile designers-”