Chris Kuzneski - Sword of God

Thanks to him, it was temporarily safe from peril.

"Six is clear," he said as he hustled over to the construction elevator that was supposed to be broken-at least according to his men. In actuality, Schmidt's crew had turned off the controls so it remained at the penthouse while they went about their work. A smart move on their part, but one that would benefit Payne. With a flick of a switch, it was operational again, and he was able to ride it all the way to the plaza.

Trevor Schmidt sensed trouble when the rendezvous point was empty. His men were always punctual-trained to be on time, every time-especially in situations like this. The clock was ticking, and their escape depended on a precise schedule.

He glanced at his watch. The bombs would be going off in less than ten minutes.

They needed to get to the tunnel soon.

Scanning the plaza, Schmidt saw the two dead guards that Luke had gunned down. They were dressed in Arab clothes and laid in puddles of blood that matched the color of the towel on the one guy's head. Schmidt smiled at the image. According to his source, patrols weren't expected inside the complex, but he always planned for contingencies. That's why he put his best sniper in the Hotel Tower. He protected the unit while they went about their business.

"Luke, what's your status?"

Thinking back, Schmidt realized he hadn't heard from Luke since he reported the shootings. Not uncommon for a sniper, who was more concerned with finding his next target than giving updates. Still, it was slightly unsettling when combined with his tardiness.

The same thing applied to the others. He hadn't heard from them in several minutes.

"Matthew? Mark? What's your status?"

No answer. Not a single word.

Last Schmidt had heard, Mark was having trouble with his detonator. He called for Matthew, the engineer, who was in the control room, making sure that the jet fuel was pumped to the proper tanks in the proper amount, to come to the roof and help him with some rewiring. Once the levels were adjusted, Matthew had plenty of time to help. He reported his movement-so Luke wouldn't shoot him- then scurried to building six.

But that was a while ago.

Since that time, there had been silence. No updates. No complaints. Nothing.

All along, Schmidt had assumed that meant no problems. Now he wasn't so sure. Maybe there were more guards floating around that he wasn't aware of. Maybe someone was trapped in one of the towers. Or maybe, just maybe, his transmitter was broken. That had happened once before, on a mission several years ago, but he never knew about it until a soldier was sent to find him. It was so embarrassing, to be pulled out of the field like that, but what could he do?

"Hello?" he muttered, hoping to avoid a similar incident. "Can anyone hear me?"

A voice startled him from behind. "I can hear you."

49

Trevor Schmidt turned around slowly, unsure if he was imagining things. He was in the middle of Mecca, a forbidden city in Saudi Arabia, on a secretive mission, yet the voice he heard was out of his past. Like taking a remote control and rewinding five years. Back before he had his own squad. Back when he was in the MANIACs, still learning from the best.

For the past several months, he'd been having trouble with his long-term memory. Nothing that affected his day-to-day efficiency, but disturbing nonetheless. Pieces of things-incidents from his childhood, lectures from his parents, even advice from his former commander-were no longer there. He tried to pull them up, tried to use them to shape his decisions, but they simply weren't available. Like computer files that could no longer be accessed.

Like someone had messed with his circuitry.

Of course, he had never been an emotional guy; emotions simply weren't his thing. In his mind, he always considered himself pragmatic, someone who focused on results rather than policies or repercussions. Leave that shit to Congress, he liked to say.

Just give me a gun and a target, and I'll take care of the rest.

Yet, for some reason, that viewpoint had grown stronger in recent weeks. Suddenly everything was black or white. Right or wrong. Good or evil. Us versus them.

Gray no longer existed in his world.

Somehow it had been erased.

Schmidt blinked a few times, just to make sure he wasn't seeing things. Years had passed since he'd seen his former mentor. Now Captain Payne was standing in front of him, wearing a white robe that was streaked with blood. He held a gun in his hand. Two bags sat by his feet.

"It's been a long time," Payne said.

Schmidt nodded, still trying to decide if this was real or imagined. Worried that his conscience was fucking with him right before the bombs went off.

"You don't write. You don't call."

Was this guilt? A manifestation of guilt?

"Schmidt!" Payne barked, just like he used to. "I'm not worthy of a response?"

"Sir?"

"What's with that weak-ass, sir? Say it like you mean it."

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Better. Much better."

Schmidt stared at him, confused. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to find you. I came to bring you home."

"But-"

"But nothing. I heard you were in trouble and I came to get you. Case closed."

Schmidt fiddled with the gun he held in his hand. It was pointed at the ground, completely nonthreatening. Every once in a while he tapped it on his hip, absentmindedly, like he forgot it was even there. "I thought you were retired."

"I am. But all that changed when I heard about you. I came to get you out."

"We came to get you out," said Jones, who emerged on the other side of the plaza. Far enough from Payne that they had Schmidt hemmed in, just in case their words didn't work. They figured, with the bombs under control, it was worth a shot. "We flew all night to get here."

"D.J.?" he said, even more confused. "I don't understand. How did you know where I was?"

"The Pentagon figured it out," Payne fibbed. 'They said something about evidence you left in South Korea. One thing led to another and they asked us to extract you. Just like old times."

"They know I'm here?"

"Hell, yeah," Jones said. "And they applauded your initiative. Killing all these Arabs is a stroke of genius in their minds. Unfortunately, some politician found out about it, and the shit hit the fan. You know how it goes. If they sent a team of soldiers to help you out and they got caught? Think of the ramifications. That's why they asked us to help. Total deniability."

Schmidt shook his head. "But I don't need help. Everything's under control."

Payne disagreed. "No, it's not. There's a problem. A big problem."

"Sir?"

"After you went dark," Payne lied, "the CIA received some terrible news. An Islamic group got their hands on some nukes, and we think they have them in Mecca. Probably somewhere near the mosque. Our guess is they're participating in the hajj, cleansing all their sins, in hopes of striking soon."

"Then what's the problem? Let's wipe those fuckers out."

"We wish," Jones said. "But that's not the problem. The problem is the wind."

"The wind?"

Payne nodded. "This time of year the wind blows to the east, right across the friggin' desert. If we launch an assault and the nukes go off, guess what happens?"

Schmidt paused, trying to figure it out. "Shit."

"Shit is right," Jones said. "The radioactivity will blow right across the peninsula. Within hours, it will blanket Taif Air Base, Al-Gaim, and Al-Hada Hospital. We're talking hundreds of dead Americans, all of them loyal soldiers. Hell, we probably know half of them."

"Fuck!" Schmidt screamed, still tapping his gun on his hip. Much harder than before. Like the constant pounding was helping him think. "Then we gotta hurry, because I already planted the charges. They're set to blow any minute."