built into the timetable for the inevitable visit by that black cloud asshole Mr. Murphy. He ran through a mental checklist:
He pulled himself onto the wall, rolled over, and almost landed on a goat. It jumped back, then stood facing him, shaggy and white, big ears, the lower jaw chewing something and the dark eyes staring without curiosity or fright. Two stubby horns had been cut off. Behind it was another goat that looked exactly the same. If they panicked, they might awaken somebody, and he couldn’t shoot both of them at the same time. Swanson stood stone still and let the animals take a good look at him. They walked away.
Kyle headed the other way, down the street, sticking close to the walls. Time to
CHAPTER 34
DOUBLE-OH WAS EMOTIONALLY exhausted after working the Sergeants’ Network most of the night and stood at a rail of the USS
“Since this is about those boys who died out yonder in the desert, we’ll come up with somethin’,” promised a flyboy master sergeant who had a thick Southern drawl. “Just won’t be no C-20. But I got me an idea. Lemme make a couple of calls.” It was, Double-Oh thought, a hell of a way to run an airline.
Weariness and tension had crept into his bones, and he was ready to go below to his quarters, one of the six racks in a small squad bay reserved for chief petty officer ranks. Privacy was not a high priority on a ship, and the bunks were arranged in two stacks of three each. With the combined farts, snoring, and belching of six middle-aged men at night, sometimes the flight deck was more quiet, and never mind the smell.
Once he entered that steel-walled room, there would be no cell phone reception, so he made one last check of his messages before putting the phone away until morning. He would be able to catch an hour or so of sleep before Sims changed planes at Andrews, if the air force types came through. He pressed a button on his Nokia and the screen showed that two calls had come in while he was busy, both from the same number in Washington, both from Shari Towne. Each flashed a red exclamation point icon that meant “urgent.” He hit the automatic dial and heard the beeps and squawks of an international commercial call, then the phone was answered after the first ring.
“Shari? What’s happening?”
“Thank God you called back, Orville. Something is going on here that I don’t understand… about the mission.” Her voice was agitated, unusual for Shari. “Have you heard anymore about Kyle?”
Double-Oh’s thoughts begin to race. She worked for Buchanan at the NSC. Had she found out about the letter? “No, we haven’t. It’s tough to accept, Shari, but he probably died in the crash. I know you’re hurting, girl. Me, too.”
“No, no, no. Listen,” she said rapidly. “I apologize for bringing you into this, but just listen. I’ve got what may sound like a silly question, but it’s very important.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“Did Kyle get a tattoo before he left the boat?”
“What?” Double-Oh was rocked by the question. “Hell, no. First, there is no place to get a tattoo around here because we are at sea. Anyway, you know how he feels about that stuff. No markings for a sniper. Ever. No way would he put any distinguishing marks on his body.” If a sniper was captured, he did not want the enemy to know his job.
Shari exhaled, and Double-Oh heard the breath from thousands of miles away. “Well, then. He’s alive.”
There was silence for a moment. “What makes you think that?” Double-Oh was suddenly wide awake again.
“They gave me the official file on the crash to examine, and it contained horrible photographs of each of the Marines who were killed.”
“Photographs? How the hell did you get individual pictures?”
“That’s just one of several weird things. They came to Buchanan through Gordon Gates. Seems a couple of his PSC guys were near the village and able to get into the crash site. We have no idea how. Anyway, each photo included a close-up of the dog tags for identification. Double-Oh, the picture that was supposed to be of Kyle was of someone burned beyond recognition about the face, but the dog tags were clearly readable. They had not even been charred and the rubber ring was still intact. How can a torso and face be destroyed by fire, but the dog tags around the neck remain untouched by heat? The tag laced into his boot was identical. No doubt that those were Kyle’s tags.”
The big sergeant was holding tight control of his voice. He was not going to jump to conclusions. A couple of mercs were at the scene? “Maybe they made a mistake, screwed up with the wrong dog tags.”
“Doesn’t matter, Orville. It was the left forearm that really caught my attention. It was visible and in pretty good shape, with DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR lettering around a good-size USMC tattoo of the eagle, globe, and anchor. I think Kyle was betting that you or I would see the report, and would pick up on it.”
Double-Oh rubbed his face.
Shari paused, then said, “Okay. Try this. They report one Marine is missing and presumed alive; a young radioman with no combat experience. So far, this kid is out there on his own and has not only managed to escape the crash site without being spotted, but has evaded the Syrian army, dodged all of the civilians and any Bedouins in the area, and has not even been spotted by our own satellites. You tell me, Double-Oh. How many men on the mission could do that? Not some dial-spinner, that’s for sure. So who would it be?”
“Jesus.” There was a moment of silence, then Double-Oh agreed softly. “Gotta be Kyle. He’s alive.”
“Yes. He is. I just needed to confirm my conclusions with you before I did anything. We have to go get him. I’m going to talk to my boss and get things moving from this end right away.”
“No!” Double-Oh’s voice changed from wavering uncertainty to parade-ground intensity. “You can’t do that, Shari.”
“Why?”
“Are you calling from your office?”
“Unh-uh. I’m on my cell outside of Starbucks. I took a walk after the meeting to clear my mind and call you to confirm my thoughts about the tattoo.”
“Okay. Listen up. I’ve got to bring you up to speed on something that’s going on. My boss, Colonel Sims of the Thirty-Third MEU, is heading your way.” He outlined the letter Kyle had received from Gerald Buchanan’s courier, how Kyle had refused the assassination order, and that Sims was flying under covert conditions to deliver the copy of the letter to someone higher up. “It seems like Buchanan is involved in some borderline treason, Shari,” he said. “If Kyle brings General Middleton out safe, there is going to be some big trouble when this thing blows up in public.”
“Tell me about the courier.” She dropped the cardboard cup of coffee in a trash can. Down the street she could see the White House, the black fence in front of it, and the broad open plaza. Protesters, cops, and tourists mingled. Buchanan secretly sending a Marine sniper in to kill the general instead of rescuing him was illegal. No wonder there had been no memo about it, not even Top Secret. “The man who came out there to meet with Kyle. What did he look like?”
“Civilian dude, playing at being a spook. He admitted later being from the White House. He was slim and tall, with a big mop of black hair that was slicked back like he was a singer for some doo-wop quartet. I never caught his real name, but he was a real cocky asshole.”
Shari sighed. “That’s Sam Shafer. He’s Buchanan’s right-hand man.”
Double-Oh said, “Look, Shari. This is spinning off the deep end fast. Did you tell Buchanan and Shafer what you
