Clean Kill

ended the call.

THE NEXT CALL WAS going to be more difficult and would cause a ripple that would reach all the way back to the White House. Precision was necessary, so he paused to do some careful math homework before making it. A battered green sniper’s logbook and a ballpoint pen came from the vest so he could make notes.

The GPS in the sat phone had provided his precise position, and using a pocket compass, he determined the exact directions from his location through azimuth readings to the control tower, to the fuel and ammo dump zone, and to the broad area where the tired rebel troops were gathering to rest. The third part of the equation was solved with his laser range finder, and he measured the distance between himself and the targets.

Now for the tricky part. He dialed up a new frequency and called, “Frequent Flyer, Frequent Flyer, this is Bounty Hunter.”

A U.S. Air Force captain at the communications console aboard an AWACS plane flying in high circles over the Arabian Sea answered with a stone calm voice: “Bounty Hunter, this is Frequent Flyer Seven-Oh. Send your traffic.”

“Roger, Frequent Flyer Seven-Oh. I have a Black Flag mission. Stand by to copy.”

“Send your traffic.”

“Roger. I have targets at grids six niner seven four, five niner six four.”

“I copy. Six niner seven four, five niner six four. Is this correct? Over.”

“That is a solid copy.”

There was a slight pause as the captain punched the numbers into her computer and it flashed a bright red warning. “Bounty Hunter, that is a no go. Those coordinates are in a friendly country and we have no authorization for that.”

The moment of truth. “Frequent Flyer Seven-Oh. Bounty Hunter. Stand by to copy authorization codes.”

“Roger that. Send your traffic.” The captain’s fingers were poised over the keyboard on the electronics warfare plane and her total concentration was on the voice coming over her headset. She did not want to miss a syllable.

“I send: Zulu Delta, One Niner Seven, Whiskey X-Ray.”

“I copy: Zulu Delta, One Niner Seven, Whiskey X-Ray.”

“Roger that.”

“Bounty Hunter. Stand by one.” This is above my pay grade, thank goodness, the captain thought, touching a switch to alert the colonel who was overseeing the day’s flight at the far northern edge of the carrier battle group. “Colonel, we have received a Black Flag request with a presidential-level approval code from inside the kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Call sign Bounty Hunter. Switching to you.”

Swanson had expected initial disbelief and then eventual capitulation by everyone who handled the call. From his rooftop hide, he was summoning a strike by U.S. warplanes on a precise target within an allied country. He would provide timing and other directions to the individual pilots once they were in the area. The AWACS colonel read the traffic, acknowledged receipt and sped the request up the chain of command to the battle fleet commander.

Aboard the carrier, the admiral’s chief of staff was a cautious man and advised his boss that they probably should check the request first through Washington. The admiral snapped, “No, goddammit! I don’t know who or what this Bounty Hunter is, but he has all of the proper codes and has verified authentication. A Black Flag means that he wants us to get in there and help, not to waste time climbing the cover-our-asses telephone tree. Tell him that we’re on the way. If I’m wrong, I’ll retire early.”

SWANSON LET TEN MINUTES pass, drank some water and talked to the pilots. The tired rebels had spent their initial burst of energy and excitement and had settled into lethargy, as if the outcome of their mutiny was now certain. They had won and had plenty of time to clean up the remnants of the old regime.

“Crown, this is Bounty Hunter.”

“Go ahead, Bounty Hunter.”

“Turn him loose. When he reaches the control tower, I’m going to pop smoke.”

“Then what?”

“You guys hold your line and keep your heads down. Do not venture out beyond your positions.”

KYLE WAS CAREFUL IN sorting out the calls of aircraft arriving on station, finding out what weapons they had and stacking the planes in packages, flying in circles starting at fifteen thousand feet and fifty miles away. He heard the grumble of the APC heading up the runway and put his binos on it. A white flag was tied to the machine gun in the turret, flapping as the vehicle slowly ventured onto the black tarmac. Picking up the sat phone, Swanson gave a command and a single aircraft peeled away from the stack and headed in toward Ash Mutayr.

The armored personnel carrier came to a cautious, rattling stop and then the track commander lowered the ramp. The imam, a short and bearded man wearing dirty robes, stepped out and walked with calm confidence toward the rebel command post in the tower. He would deliver the surrender message of Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid, but order the rebels to ignore it. Kill all of the heretics and spit on their bodies! The APC buttoned up its hatches and sped back to its position, fleeing sporadic fire from men to whom the flag of truce meant nothing.

Within three minutes, the imam’s voice was heard warbling over the loudspeaker system throughout the base, announcing his miraculous escape through the hand of Allah, and exhorting the troops to finish their glorious battle.

FORTY THOUSAND FEET OVERHEAD, a U.S. Air Force B-2A bomber made a slightly descending approach. Illuminated dials and computerized figures were projected on the heads-up display, but the pilot wanted to get his eyes on these targets. The radio in his headset crackled.

“Nighthawk, Nighthawk, this is Bounty Hunter.”

“Go ahead, Bounty Hunter.”

“Roger. My position is as follows: Six niner, seven four, five niner, six four. Your target is an ammo dump and refueling depot that is 1,150 meters from me at 38 azimuth. I will identify my position with red smoke.”

“I copy, Bounty Hunter. Target is a gas station 1,150 meters from you at azimuth 38. Over.”

“That’s a solid copy.”

The data was locked in the stealth bomber’s computer, which passed the settings to the smart bombs. “Roger that, Bounty Hunter. I can see them now. Quite a crowd.”

“I’m popping smoke.” Kyle snapped the pin on the smoke grenade and threw the oblong device into the street alongside the building, where it cracked open and spewed out a ballooning column that was thick and crimson, starkly visible against the brown landscape.

The B-2A bomber pilot now knew exactly where to deliver the load, and where not to bomb. “Roger, I see red smoke.” As the computer made its final calculations, he opened the big doors in the belly of his plane and confirmed, “Starting my bombing run.” In moments, eighty GBU-39 small diameter bombs, each weighing about 300 pounds, spun away from the internal rotary bomb racks and the pilot hauled the stealth plane, the Spirit of Georgia, into a gentle turn and whooshed quietly away.

THE CLAYMORE MINE THAT guarded the door to his rooftop perch exploded with a flash and such sudden violence that it shook the building. Kyle jumped at the surprise blast and heard a man scream. Some rebel nosing around the building had tripped the booby trap and was blown out of his boots. Automatic weapons began stuttering, with the bullets zipping harmlessly through the smoke of the destroyed doorway. Kyle shifted the phone to his left hand and grabbed his M-16 with his right. If a woman can steer a car, apply makeup, text-message, and drink coffee at the same time, I can do this.

FROM THE CONTROL TOWER, the imam’s shrill words were still goading his former captors, and bringing shouts of delight from the cheering rebels when the first smart bombs from