Kyle sat down and propped his weapon beside him. “When we light up that phone, we expose our position. The Syrians and Washington will be listening, so we want to burn off a few daylight hours to cut into the available search time, but still give the MEU enough of a window to execute a pickup.”
Middleton eased himself into a sitting position, holding his ribs. “You mentioned Washington. Made me think of something. Did anything really unusual or important happen while I was being held?”
“No, sir. I don’t think so,” said Kyle. “I was out of the country and wasn’t watching the news before things started happening pretty fast.”
“Think hard, Gunny. Anything that impacted the military services?”
Swanson lay down, resting his head on his pack. “Nothing comes to mind. I got to get some zs, General, so let’s take two-hour shifts. You wake me up and then you get some sleep. I’m about to fall over.” He pulled his boonie cap over his eyes, then lifted it again. “Yeah, wait. There was this one thing. Senator Miller, the old airborne guy, died of a heart attack while campaigning.”
“Miller? The head of the Senate Armed Services Committee?”
“Yes, sir. Apparently keeled over in his hotel room after a speech.”
“Be damned!” Middleton let out a low whistle, feeling the pieces click together. “Tom Miller was the one person in the government who was more opposed than me to privatizing the U.S. military. We had been working together so that my testimony before his committee next week would block the legislation by turning a bright light on its ugly side.”
“So with Senator Miller dead and you held captive and maybe also dead, what would happen?” Kyle pushed back his hat.
“Not good, Gunny. Not good at all. The hearing would probably go forward as scheduled, only with Senator Ruth Hazel Reed succeeding Miller as head of the committee.”
“Does that change things?” Kyle cocked his ear and sat back up.
“Yeah. In a big way. Rambo Reed was the one who wrote the damned privatization bill. If major parts of the military are given to the lowest bidder, it will still involve billions of dollars and an immense amount of political power. Worse, it will set the pattern for other parts of the federal government to be sold off.” The general rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I kid you not, Gunny, this thing threatens America as much as any terrorist group. So Gates has some of his mercs kidnap me. They plan an ambush to create a military fiasco, but the choppers crash, doing the job for them. Buchanan has sent you in to make absolutely sure I don’t come back. Rambo Reed takes over the committee and pushes the bill through. They’re all in this together. Jesus, Gunny, I’ve got to get back there.”
“Listen!”
The thump of helicopter blades was heard in the distance, but coming nearer.
CHAPTER 52
EACH TIME YOUSIF AL-SHOUM received another report of a white pickup truck being spotted, the position was plotted on the plastic overlay of his map with a red thumbtack pushed into the corkboard backing. After a few hours, the map was littered with the little pins, each a sharp point of failure in his massive search. Several dozen white Toyota trucks had been stopped at checkpoints or by search teams, but all were legitimate, except for one fool who had been trying to steal the vehicle when he was apprehended. It was almost noon when he decided to abandon all efforts to the north and toward Lebanon, peel away some of the strength watching the routes to the Israeli border, and take Victor Logan’s advice. He would saturate the southern region all the way down to Jordan.
With a black marker, he slashed a boundary line from the southernmost point of the border with Israel, curving over to Dar’a, then northeast to As Suwayda and back down through El Adnata to Jordan. It was a kill box that had the look of an inverted cup. They had to be in there somewhere, and he would construct a net of roving search parties and scour the area like a broom.
Members of his staff had arrived from Damascus and he told them what he wanted, leaving it up to them to draw up the grids and issue the necessary orders. One by one, the helicopters and the road units would be reassigned and move into southern Syria. Al-Shoum had never failed, and was absolutely determined to find the elusive sniper. The chase had become a challenge to his pride and his ability, while back in the capital, competitors probably were already measuring his office for their own desks. If the Marines got away, they might be taking his career along with them. That could not be allowed to happen.
The heat was growing. Even beneath the tent, the air was thick and stale and unmoving. He put on his beret and sunglasses and stepped into the sun to have a word with Victor Logan and two mercenaries who had come down from Lebanon aboard a Huey that was parked in the distance with its rotors pegged tight. Logan had told him in advance that the tall man with the dark tan was from South Africa, and that the pilot was a former Russian Spetsnaz commando with big arms that bulged from a skintight muscle shirt.
Al-Shoum paid no attention to their names when Logan introduced them. The mercenary added, “We have two more men driving over from Israel. They should be arriving in about an hour.”
“Good,” said al-Shoum. “Will you be in charge, or do I have to talk to someone else?”
“Anything doing with Gates Global still comes through me,” Logan said, careful not to appear impolite. He had not forgotten to whom he was speaking, and had warned the new men to watch their mouths or they would all end up in a Syrian jail.
Al-Shoum explained the changing search patterns. “There is no need for you to be out flying without a target. It would only waste your fuel and time, for your expertise will be needed soon enough. Brief your team and be ready to move as soon as somebody spots the Americans. When they start to run, as I anticipate, you will go get them.”
Logan shifted the strap of his rifle. “Good plan, sir. We’ll be ready.”
“Very well,” al-Shoum said. “I’ll call you when something turns up.” He turned on his heel and went back to the tent, where more pins had been stuck in the map overlay. He issued a new order: Every Toyota pickup in the new search area would be halted and immobilized until the Marines were found. There was no use counting the same ones twice. The pins seemed to mock him.
“Sir! I’ve got something here!” A sailor at a communications console inside the Combat Command Center of the
“What’s up, Armstrong?” asked the lieutenant.
“We’re picking up a repeater sat phone signal, sir. Call sign is Long Rifle.”
The bosun tapped a computer to scroll a list of recent call signs. “That’s Gunny Swanson from the rescue mission!”
“I’ve got it.” Lieutenant David Garvey immediately depressed his TALK key. “Long Rifle…
Kyle Swanson gave a thumbs-up sign to General Middleton. “Loud and clear,” he responded. “I have a package and need a FedEx pickup.”
“What is your address, Long Rifle?” The call was encrypted but was still over an open frequency, which required both parties to use code whenever possible.
“Simple Shackle,” Swanson said, then read off a line of numbers in an encoded format specified in the operational orders. The Simple Shackle was a l-to-10 box grid, horizontal and vertical, that could be interpreted only if the recipient had a similar code sheet. The little code in 100 squares repeats hashed versions of the alphabet. Any specific letter might appear in three or four different boxes that are used at random. “THE” might read 1-12-16 on first use, but 36-98-53 the next time. As an added safeguard, it would change at specified times. Even computers as powerful as those at the National Security Agency would have to put in some time to break it.
“How long can our driver expect you to remain at that address?”
“No more than a few hours, then we are going to see
