“You think I ain’t already got my own escape covered? You may be a general, but I’m as smart as you.”
“Sure. That’s why we’re in here together in this smelly house. Couple of Einsteins, we are. E equals MC squared.”
Logan had never liked really intelligent people. He didn’t get that part about EMC. “You know why you’re really here? Think you figured it all out?”
“Yeah. It’s not all that hard. Real terrorists would have gone after an easier target, not a moving convoy with armed Marine and Saudi guards. That’s why they snatch schoolteachers, not soldiers. So who would consider me important enough to risk an ambush that would certainly result in casualties and guarantee media coverage and a manhunt? Who profits?”
“What’s your answer?”
“Simple. Gates Global. Your job was to put me on the sidelines. The only thing worthwhile on my schedule is testifying next week in Washington before the Senate Armed Services Committee. That is where I intend to stop this nutty privatization of the United States military and keep disgraceful incompetents like you from sneaking back into the tent. Shit, Logan, I wrote the book on privatization while I was at the Naval War College. The PSC concept is long on cost and short on loyalty. The Naval Institute Press published it and we even got some good ink in
“Big fuckin’ deal.”
“You’re working for a private security company, but any way you cut it, you’re nothing but a mercenary. A gun for hire. You work for Gates Global, which ordered you to kidnap me. Now, for some reason, which I assume is related to the helo crash, the original plan has changed. You never planned to let me live anyway, but Gates was just trying to figure out how he could benefit the most by my death. So it turns out the jihadists will do the honors. Once that is done, you are no longer needed either. Probably just one hole will be big enough for the three of us.”
“Not gonna happen, Middleton.” Logan moved to the door. “I’ve listened to enough of your shit. Anyway, let me tell you how it’s going to come down tomorrow. Once we get you all pretty again and give you to those Iraqis…”
Middleton snorted, a bark of a laugh. “See? You just did it again!”
“Did what?”
“Gave me information I did not need to know. I had no idea those guys were Iraqis. You furnished another piece of the puzzle, you shitbird.”
“Fuck you. I’ll tell you something else, because you’re going to be dead real soon. Not only are they Iraqis, but they work for that badass Rebel Sheikh down in Basra. At eight o’clock tomorrow morning, they are going to prop you up in a chair and cut off your fucking head!” He let the big cocky grin creep back across his face. “And I’m going to be standing there to watch. Gonna really enjoy the show.”
Middleton closed his eyes as if bored. “Okay, Logan. See you in the hole.” The general turned his back to the mercenary and did not move again until the door closed. Even then he did not move, thinking about beheadings and the alliance between Gordon Gates and the Rebel Sheikh.
CHAPTER 27
MASTER SERGEANT 0. 0. DAWKINS had not slept since the choppers had lifted off earlier that morning from the
His boss, Colonel Ralph Sims, looked like he had been punched in the gut, and waved Dawkins to a chair in his small but private stateroom. Sims was commander of the 33rd Marine Expeditionary Unit, the first one to work under the banner of the Joint Special Operations Command. Dawkins, an ex-Force Recon platoon sergeant, normally would have been the MEU operations chief, but under the realignment into special forces, he was called the MARSOC team sergeant. He was an operator, not an administrative type. New generation of titles, same jobs.
Sims and Dawkins had been friends for more years than they cared to think about, and just sat there staring at each other in silence for a time across the desktop that held a small computer, a cup filled with pens, scissors, and a small ruler, and a little nameplate sign carved in the Philippines. They felt helpless, and could do nothing more to either save their men or bring the bodies home for honorable burials. Marines had left Marines behind. Sims opened a locked drawer and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black Label bourbon. He poured shots for each of them into black coffee mugs emblazoned with the scarlet and gold crest of the 33rd MEU, and they drank the whiskey in quick gulps.
Outside sounds seeped dully into the quiet room. Ship noises. The creaking and groaning metal, the whines and whops of Harriers and helicopters, water moving through exposed pipes along the ceiling and around the red emergency lighting fixtures. The wall intercom, volume turned low, muttered just at the level of hearing. The stateroom, painted navy gray, was a combination work space and living quarters, so Sims could dash to his station in the Tactical Center only one deck up in an emergency. There was no porthole for outside light, but a small refrigerator worth its weight in gold was wedged into a corner.
“Anything new?” Dawkins asked.
Sims shook his head. “The Harrier pilots were thoroughly debriefed, Double-Oh, and their stories match. All they really saw was a big fireball when the choppers went down and no signs of life afterward when they flew over at low altitude, other than people coming out from the village. We lost ‘em all.”
“No chance, I suppose, of sending in another mission for the boys and the general?”
The colonel turned around and looked at a map taped to the bulkhead that showed the route. “Washington says it’s out of the question. They won’t even authorize a missile strike to eradicate the wreckage, and a diplomatic shitstorm is on the way. Syria is yelling ‘Invasion!’ and our State Department is trying to explain, ‘Well, not really. It’s this way…’”
“Then the fuckin’ media and the United Nations will get involved.”
“Yup. Too big a development to keep secret. The Muslim world is going to go nuts with demonstrations.” The colonel poured more bourbon into the mugs. “We’re going to get hammered.”
Dawkins nodded his big, crew-cut head. “Not our best day, sir. Looked easy on paper.”
“Always does, Master Sergeant. Always does.”
“So you think it is a safe bet that Gunny Swanson is dead?”
Sims nodded. “Pilots said no signs of life. With daylight, we got better satellite imagery, but it still shows nothing useful. I don’t see how anyone got out of that mess in one piece, even a ghost like Swanson.”
A small speaker on the bulkhead crackled, and a quiet voice announced: “Attention all hands. A sunset memorial service will be held on the flight deck at eighteen hundred hours for the men who died on today’s mission.”
They raised the cups in salute. “To those who won’t return. May they rest in peace,” said the colonel.
“And to Kyle,” responded Double-Oh.
“To Kyle.”
“Semper fi.”
They downed the smooth whiskey.
“Hard to imagine him gone.” Dawkins settled back into the chair.
“What are you trying to tell me, Double-Oh? You didn’t ask for a private meeting just to talk about old times.”
Dawkins took a deep breath. The colonel had the uncanny knack of reading right through people. “No, sir. Well, since there is always room for more bad news, I guess I need to give you some.”
