Kill Zone

Shafer from the CIA or White House or wherever he works can go fuck himself and the F-16 he rode in on.”

CHAPTER 17

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, Kyle Swanson stood in the well of a portside gun turret next to the flight deck and let his thoughts roam away from the mission at hand. The irony of the job struck him. He was aboard the USS Wasp, a small aircraft carrier designed for special operations, sailing in the eastern Med beneath a massive umbrella of protection. It was part of an entire battle group that spread around the nuclear-powered carrier USS Theodore Roosevelt, about a hundred thousand tons of steel and one of the biggest ships ever to sail the seas. Needle-nosed destroyers, daunting cruisers, and big submarines also were slicing the waters, and there were enough missiles, planes, bullets, torpedoes, and sailors on hand to take care of anything that any enemy could throw at them at sea, and also to strike deep into hostile nations. So if this mighty task force, the best the squids had, was so tough, why was he standing here, dressed all in black, his face smeared with grease, and decked out with his personal firepower, getting ready to head out once again on a raid against some low-tech ragheads not all that far from the shores of Tripoli? The Marines seemed to keep coming back to this part of the world that was part of their hymn, as if there was some magnet for them in the desert sands.

Swanson felt rested. He had caught a couple of hours of sleep following a late operational briefing, and then test-firing and cleaning his weapons for a final time. He rolled out of his rack at oh-dark-thirty and joined up with the Force Recon team that would be the assault force on the TRAP, the initialized way of saying “Tactical Recovery of Air Personnel.” A longer acronym labeled them as part of the Marine Expeditionary Unit, Special Operations Capable, or MEU-SOC. The mission was a frequently practiced operation designed to rescue a pilot downed in enemy territory and had therefore been easily adapted to pull out a hostage. Two helicopters would go in, and the first to land would have the mortar platoon aboard, which would spread out and secure for the landing zone. A TRAP moved so fast that heavy mortar tubes were not part of the attack, so the Marines normally assigned to them were free for other jobs like protecting the LZ. The second helo carried the attack force. This package was built for speed, not total firepower.

The mess table was crowded with young Marines packing in big, greasy breakfasts of eggs and sausage, biscuits and bacon, and bragging and shouting insults and curses to cover their pre-battle jitters. Kyle found a place on a bench and satisfied himself with cereal and hash browns to load up on carbohydrates, and some fruit. Juice instead of coffee, to avoid the caffeine. Then he went to the war room on the second-level hangar deck of the Wasp, found a soft chair, and fell asleep while the younger dudes, eager to rock and roll, continued their grabass. When the noise abruptly stopped, Swanson awoke and saw a cluster of officers filing in to conduct the confirmation briefing.

In moments the room was totally silent, and the briefing officers began flashing photo recon pictures on the screen and putting up transparent overlays of maps. Swanson perched on the edge of his seat, watching closely. Only a few hours ago, the mission had still been vague on many points, but now it had slammed together like the hatch of a tank. Kyle had been through many briefings, but never had heard such a rapid-fire discussion of precise targets, operations, and methodology for exactly who was to do precisely what. No significant opposition was expected, since surprise would be total and only two guards were with General Middleton. How the hell do they know that?

The intel geeks claimed to have pinpointed the exact location where Middleton was being held, right down to the specific house, had downloaded satellite pictures and maps, and even had a photograph of a local guide, some French Arab who was a veteran of the Foreign Legion. Small pictures of the man were distributed with both of his names, Pierre Falais and Abu Mohammed, printed on the back. Having an inside operator should certainly make the mission a lot easier. The briefer predicted a smooth snatch-and-grab with little action, if any.

Kyle never liked planning for the easy scenario. There were always sudden twists and turns in combat, the enemy never reacted exactly as predicted, and really good intelligence was usually bad. To top it off, Murphy’s Law always clicked in: If something can go wrong, it will, and at the worst possible time. A damned goat wanders into the wrong place, or a woman decides to string a laundry line across the landing zone, or somebody breaks a leg. He settled back into the chair. Sometimes it is best not to look a gift horse in the mouth and just accept what the man says. Occasionally, the bullshit works.

There was a stir among the senior combat-seasoned guys in the room, and Kyle exchanged a quick glance with the major who would lead the assault force and received a nod of silent agreement. Here we go again. No enemy on the ground. Don’t worry about it. Yeah, right. In the Middle East, land of fairy tales and mirages.

Judging by the briefers who were taking turns at the podium, every government and spy in the Middle East had been working to find General Bradley Middleton, because his death would bring down the wrath of this big task force on somebody’s head. For him to be executed in a television spectacular would make all Muslims appear to be savage maniacs before an unsympathetic world audience. Maybe some king or prince had dropped the dime on the bad guys, Kyle thought. Middleton was being held in Syria, and the leaders in Damascus well remembered the shock-and-awe campaign that opened the war with Iraq. Whoever these kidnappers were, their security sucked.

Still, this was a hell of a lot of information to have been gathered in such a short time in a part of the world where hostages and kidnap victims regularly were missing for weeks before any word surfaced about them.

The briefing done, Kyle slung Excalibur over his shoulder in a zippered drag bag and wandered up to the gun turret to find some privacy. Noise and movement assaulted him as soon as he stepped through the hatch, for it is never quiet on a ship. The pungent smell of oil, grease, and jet fuel hung over the carrier despite the stiff wind, and grease-stained sailors looking as dirty as coal miners were working everywhere. He punched the button on his cell phone for frequently dialed numbers, hit the SEND button, and listened as the beep-beep- beep sounded on the East Coast of the United States.

“Hey, you.” Shari Towne usually was annoyed if she received a personal call during working hours, but the incoming number showed it was Kyle.

“Hey,” Swanson said. His voice was soft, distant, concerned.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m good. How was your trip home?”

“Quick and comfortable, but boring. Some kind soul laid on a little jet plane just for me. The movie was a chick flick that you would have hated.”

Kyle paused, visualizing her sitting in her tiny office, surrounded by papers while intel reports pumped out of the computers. She would speed-read them, unconsciously translating as she went, remembering almost everything. “What are you wearing?” Swanson asked.

“The shoulder boards of a lieutenant commander in the United States Navy, you horny jarhead.” She laughed.

“I just needed to hear you,” Kyle said, turning serious.

“I’m going to be gone for a little while.” The conversation was a struggle. They wanted to be intimate, but professionalism and the need for security would not let them. Just hearing her voice was the best he could hope for.

“I know.” Her mood shifted, too.

“You do?”

“Umm. Been working on it at this end. It’s a strange one.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“I don’t? I’m supposed to know it all.”

“Well, you don’t. Trust me.”

“Kyle? What’s wrong?” Her voice was tinged with genuine concern. “Should I get involved here?”

Swanson caught himself. He had said too much, and telling her more might put her in jeopardy, since the letter containing what he considered an illegal order had come from her boss. “No, no. Absolutely not. Forget it, and please don’t say anything to anyone about my bitching. It’s just some Pentagon backseat driving, and nothing I