David Bruns: Weapons of Mass Deception

Light seeped out from the edges of the tarp and a screech rent the air as the Iranian opened a crate. Minutes ticked by as Uday heard only faint rustlings from the truck bed. The light snapped off, but the tarp stayed down. He’s waiting for his eyes to adjust, Uday thought. He flinched as the Iranian dropped lightly to the ground next to him.

“Everything is as it should be. That is good, Uday.”

“And we will get these weapons back this time? Not like last time.” Uday puffed out his chest. “I need assurances.”

The Iranian’s lips twitched. “Of course, assurances. All you need to do is call me.”

Uday nodded, setting his chin in satisfaction. At least he had managed to do that much in front of his men.

The Iranian spoke to his men in rapid Farsi. The four commandos approached the Iraqi soldiers and ordered them to drop their weapons. When the Iraqi officer protested, the nearest commando jabbed him in the throat and the man went down, gagging. The Iraqi troops all dropped their weapons.

Uday’s security detail shifted around him in a protective circle. He heard the metallic snick of weapon safeties being released. He wished he had brought more men. The Iranian walked between Uday’s men and took his arm, gently leading him away from his security detail.

The Iraqi soldiers’ wide eyes glimmered in the moonlight. One of them, no more than a boy, really, was crying softly, and Uday smelled the sharp stench of urine. Uday was aware that his men were watching him, waiting for a signal.

The Iranian drew his own pistol and cranked the slide back. He placed it in Uday’s hand. The metal was cold and heavy against his sweaty palm. He knew from the weight and the grip that it was a Chinese semiautomatic, fitted with a suppressor. “Kill them,” the Iranian said, his tenor voice almost seductive in softness. “It is necessary.”

The officer fell to his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. “Please, I beg you. Spare us. Please.”

“Kill them, Uday.” The Iranian’s tone was insistent.

Uday felt himself hyperventilating, his pulse pounding in his ears. Baseer caught his eye, urging him to comply with the Iranian’s orders. Uday shot the Iraqi officer in the head, then glared at the Iranian.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

The boy on the end, the one who had pissed himself, tried to run, and one of the Iranian commandos cut him down with a three-bullet burst of suppressed automatic weapons fire.

The Iranian nodded to his commando team. “Finish it.”

It was over in seconds. The soldiers, his security team — all dead. The Iranian commandos pushed the bodies over the edge of the cliff into the ravine until all that remained of Uday’s men was a ringing in his ears and the acrid scent of the discharged weapons. Uday jumped at the Iranian’s soft touch as the man reclaimed his weapon. Uday could feel his disdain, the way he dismissed Uday now—

The Iranian’s posture stiffened, and his head snapped toward the rocks. He raised his wrist to his lips and spoke in rapid Farsi. An Iranian commando stepped onto the road fifty feet behind the Rover and made his way toward them, towing a struggling figure in white. He shook the boy hard before he threw him to the ground in front of Uday. He was all of twelve years old, dressed in typical shepherd garb and sandals. His eyes traveled up to meet Uday’s and grew wide as he realized who he was looking at.

If he was going to kill me, I’d be dead already. Uday tried to still the shaking in his hand as he reached out to help the boy up.

The Iranian stepped between them, grasping the boy by the front of his shirt and jerking him to his feet. His other hand passed behind the small of his back and there was a flash of silver in the moonlight. A knife, Uday realized. The boy’s body fell from the edge of the cliff like a rag doll.

The Iranian stepped close to Uday, the scent of aftershave and cigarettes now overpowered by the smell of blood. Uday shrank back.

“I am a cautious man, Uday.” He barked out an order to his men.

The commandos disappeared into the night, except for one man who climbed into the Kia truck, started it, and drove it east toward Iran. The Iranian seated himself in the Range Rover, lit another cigarette, and, with a final look toward Uday, pulled the door shut. His driver wheeled the Rover around and headed back the way they had come.

Uday Saddam Hussein al-Tikriti stood alone in the desert.

The April wind whipped across the yawl, filling the mainsail of the Hornet and heeling the boat hard to starboard. Midshipman First Class Brendan McHugh gripped the helm, a large stainless steel wheel, and leaned into the twenty-degree cant of the deck. They were making twelve knots easy. A brilliant sun lit the Chesapeake Bay and sailboats from the United States Naval Academy sailing regatta — the first one of the spring season — dotted the water around him.

He tugged up the zipper on the neck of his fleece. It was the kind of day he loved, the kind of day he would long for during the Dark Ages of the academic year, that stretch of time between Christmas holiday and spring break when the Annapolis weather turned gray and rainy and the full brunt of coursework consumed every midshipman’s attention.

He tried to enjoy the moment, to live in the now. That’s what Mark would have said if he were here. Tears sprang into Brendan’s eyes, and he was glad for the hooded Ray-Bans he wore. It would do no good to have Liz see him crying; she was pretty much a mess herself.

It was odd, the way he could almost feel Mark next to him. The funeral had been a beautiful service, but it wasn’t Mark. The hymns, the flag-draped casket, the stillness in the vast space of the Naval Academy chapel broken only by the sobs of Mark’s mother, Marjorie…

No, the Mark he remembered was sitting behind his right shoulder, feet propped on the bulkhead, cracking wise.

The first time he’d met Mark, Brendan had been a plebe, and not a very good one, either. It wasn’t the physical routine or even the yelling that got him, it was the memorization. So much to remember and spit back in the face of any upperclassman who wanted to harass you. He had just come from a forty-five minute “training” session with Midshipman Second Class Fermit, a real ball-buster with bad breath to boot. Fermit had Brendan braced up and rigged — Naval Academy — speak for a favorite plebe disciplinary technique that required the trainee to pull his chin deep into his neck and hold it there with both hands. Not so bad for a few minutes, but painful after a half hour.

Fermit had caught him on some minor infraction, Brendan couldn’t even remember what it was now, and jacked him up against the wall outside his room. He stalked in and out of his open door, wearing only a white T-shirt and uniform trousers, asking Brendan questions in rapid fire and Brendan getting more and more snarled up as his memory hit its limits. He’d already sweated through his uniform, and he wondered if he had a fresh shirt to change into before evening inspection. When Brendan got into this situation, he’d found the best strategy was to go “rope-a-dope” until the upperclassman tired of playing with his victim. But that wasn’t working today.

“Name all the weapons carried on the F/A-18, McHugh.” Fermit’s breath was rank, but Brendan did his best not to react. The bastard probably stopped brushing his teeth to see if he could make plebes gag when he spoke to them.

“I’ll find out, sir!” Brendan responded at the top of his lungs. Assholes like Fermit liked it when you yelled; it showed intensity. He got the added satisfaction of seeing flecks of his own spittle make Fermit back up a step.