somewhere below. Kyle looked out and down. No question. They had arrived; there it was.
Juba’s lethal little convoy had left the main road at a small unmarked crossroad and driven down into a hidden valley of sand and rock, where hundreds of old vehicles had been dumped over the years to rust away beneath the blistering desert sun. The rare rains that would transform the dry wadi into a raging river would also rearrange the hundreds of metal carcasses in haphazard fashion, burying some, stacking others against one another, and resurrecting steel skeletons that had been buried in earlier floods. A few abandoned huts were scattered along the high sides of the valley, and their empty windows and doors yawned open and dark.
Swanson looked at it all with the practiced eyes of a sniper. Juba had chosen the place well. Over the years, this changing landscape had created plenty of places in which to hide.
The missile was clearly visible in the vast junk field, thrusting up out of its armored carrier and locked into its proper firing position of a 60-degree angle, pointed north, toward Israel. A conical shape was on the top, and the ominous missile looked ready to fly.
The second APC, which had carried the nuclear warhead, was abandoned about fifty meters away, and its strong crane hung over the side. The chain hoist had made it possible for the thieves to lift the heavy payload from its carrying crate and mount it atop the blunt end of the missile.
Even before they had taken off from the military city, Prince Mashaal had ordered the wadi blocked off in all directions and surrounded. From the air, Kyle saw a developing scene that was taking the shape of a huge donut as a ring of steel, mobile firepower, and soldiers closed in. Scout helicopters drew no antiaircraft fire when they swooped low across the zone, so the two command helicopters dashed in and landed on the far side of the highway even as military traffic continued to grind past.
Kyle returned his radio headset back on its rest, unbuckled his seatbelt, and pushed the door back. The sudden blast of heat and rotor downwash came as a shock when he stepped from the protective cocoon, and he shielded his eyes and jogged forward to escape the thick dirt cloud. When he was clear, he looked up and realized that, standing at ground level, he could not even see the wadi that descended on the far side of the highway.
The rest of the command group was also dismounting, but were standing around like spectators at a soccer match, in awe of the might of the military machinery that was parading all around. Henry Tsang stepped next to him and Kyle said, “Somebody is probably going to have to get killed before they realize this is no exercise.”
“I see tanks and soldiers, but I don’t hear any shooting,” the Chinese commando agreed. He carried an AK-47 in his right hand. “I do not like it when things go so easily.”
“Juba is drawing us in closer,” Swanson replied. “He wants to see some targets of value.”
“He really just wants you, Gunny,” said Jamal, slapping a fresh clip of ammunition into an M-16.
“Well, that’s fine,” Kyle said with a smooth calmness. “I’m here to kill that missile. I can deal with Juba when the job is done. He used to be a sharp and shrewd fighter, but now he’s just a crazy son of a bitch. Not really much of a threat.”
CAPTAIN AL-MUALLAMI HAD BEEN the first man out of Prince Mishaal’s helicopter. The efficient aide had quickly ducked through the rotor downwash, found a break in the passing traffic, and trotted off to find a good overview position. The wadi opened before him as the side road breached the canyon wall and headed down to the floor of the valley, but that only provided a limited view. Prince Mishaal would need a better vantage point from which to direct this battle, and Captain al-Muallami spotted a slight incline that led to a higher, irregular ridge. He sprinted to the crest.
Behind him, the rest of the command group was moving across the road, following him. From the top, he was able to see the missile and the arid acres of debris. He removed his sunglasses and brought a pair of binos to his eyes, swept the area, and decided that this position would do. He raised his hand to signal the command group.
The sudden slam of a heavy rifle barked from somewhere in the junk yard, and a heartbeat later, Captain al- Muallami was staggered as a big bullet punctured his throat. His eyes flared wide in surprise as he grabbed at his neck, then he toppled to his knees and fell sideways.
PRINCE COLONEL MISHAAL WATCHED in disbelief as his aide fell, mortally wounded. Al-Muallami, always so sure of himself and seemingly indestructible, now lay dead only thirty yards away, his life erased in a blink. When Mishaal broke into a run to reach the fallen captain, Kyle Swanson reacted immediately, took two steps forward and drove into a hard tackle that knocked the prince sprawling. Kyle immediately rolled free but kept a strong hand on Mishaal’s arm as a deafening staccato of return gunfire erupted from the gathered troops to answer that deadly single round. The soldiers had not seen the source, so they did not have a target. After the initial volley, all shooting stopped and silence covered the wadi.
“Stay down, Mishaal,” Kyle ordered. “Juba is doing exactly what a good sniper is supposed to do: take out key officers first. Captain al-Muallami had the look of being important and walked into the open, so he became a natural target. If you go over there, he will pick you off, too.”
Another shot lashed out and the sergeant wearing the heavy backpack radio for the command team caught a bullet in his chest and fell backward, pulled down by the weight of his communications gear. The long aerial on his radio had pinpointed him for death. Juba was throwing the entire attack off balance. A thousand eyes scanned the battlefield.
When an armored personnel carrier roared off the road and lurched to a stop to provide a shield of protection for the command team, Swanson released Prince Mishaal and helped him up. “Sorry about the tackle, sir. Juba would love to clip you, and we can’t afford that. Keep control of the situation from here and tighten the net so he can’t escape,” Swanson quietly told the prince. “Please stay under cover. I’ll be back in a minute.”
JAMAL AND HENRY TSANG had worked their way up the backside of the ridge where Captain al-Muallami had been killed, and found an observation point behind a rusted Volkswagen bug that was resting upside down on its curved roof. They could see through the blown-out windows. Kyle wiggled in beside them. The interior of the skeletal automobile was shaded. A scattering of rocks and a few bushes provided concealment while they surveyed the area. A tremendous amount of noise covered the place as helicopters took off, big vehicles growled about, men shouted, and gunfire chattered. “Spotted anything?” he asked.
“No shooter,” Tsang answered and rolled onto his side. He smoothed some dirt with his palm and poked a finger down to make a hole, then drew a straight line. “This is the missile and this is the road. No more than 200 meters. Can’t-miss range for a decent sniper.”
Kyle agreed with the judgment of the Chinese operator. “That can work both ways. He could see those two targets that he took down, so there has to be a sightline from this ridge to his hide, with nothing in between that would block a clear shot.” He let his eyes roam the area.
“We don’t care about him,” Tsang said with a sharp tone. “We are here for that nuclear weapon and to prevent a real war. The deaths of a few soldiers mean nothing.”
Kyle was getting edgy himself. “But Juba’s the one who will launch the damned thing! We spot him and we can end this.”
“It doesn’t matter. I say we have the Saudis go charging in there immediately and take it down. Deal with the sniper and anything else later.”
“Major, he may be using the missile as bait, but he would sure as hell launch it the moment he sees an attack start.”
Tsang and Kyle reached the same conclusion at the same time and the Chinese commando officer said, “If he has control of the weapon, then why isn’t it already in the air?”
Jamal edged in closer. “Simple answer, guys. Like Kyle said before. He hasn’t fired it because he can’t.”
Kyle said, “Because it’s his best leverage. As long as it is there, Juba still has a chance that I will be exposed for that one second he needs to get me. And as soon as the missile flies, the Saudis will roll this place up like a rug…he dies and I’m still alive.”
“No, no, no, no!” Jamal replied, shaking his head. “I mean it literally: I don’t think he can make the shoot.”
The surprise explosion just behind them was like a shout of doom, a warning they heard too late.
