A soldier in a beret, possibly an officer, shouted at her. “You are a traitor and a spy! You were told to stay away from this place. Your infidel brother has run away.”
“No,” said the woman. “He would not do that. He is only a student and loyal to our country.”
“Another traitor.” The soldier pulled out his pistol and kicked the driver in the ribs. The man groaned. “And I know who you are, too, only too well. The president of the university student council. A man who speaks loudly against our government. You did not come out here just to find her brother.”
The driver said nothing, and the soldier gave a signal for several of his men to move in and begin savagely beating the young man, who curled into a fetal position. The woman screamed and was grabbed when she tried to protect him.
“Call in the helicopter, Captain,” Kyle said on his radio. “We’re going to stop this.”
“Negative, Swanson. Our mission does not include contact. As long as they stay outside, we sit tight. Just in case, I’ll put the bird on standby.”
There was laughter as the beating and kicking continued until the driver stopped moaning in pain and went silent, unconscious.
“Traitor,” said the officer. He walked over to the still figure on the dirt, raised his pistol, and fired two shots into the head. He turned to the woman. “You were warned several times. You disobeyed our instructions. A worthless woman troublemaker.” He balled up his fist and hit her in the head, and she fell over.
The soldiers put aside their weapons and moved closer, keeping her in the full light of the vehicles. One reached out and tore away her headcover, revealing the terrified face of a beautiful young woman with long black hair. They began to grab at her clothing, laughing and calling insults.
Kyle said to Double-Oh, “I think we need to take her back for interrogation.”
“Good idea,” Dawkins replied.
“Are you sure of that?” came the voice of Captain Newman.
Kyle replied, “My mission, my call.” They were all under his command, there only to support him.
“Roger that. Pave Low inbound.”
Swanson said, “All members listen up. I’ll take the first shot, and my target is the officer with the pistol. Double-Oh, take the target to his immediate left. Rawls, you have the target to his right, and Tipp takes the guy next to the vehicle.” He paused while he scanned the area again. “Captain Newman, your four men take the two targets behind the vehicle. Ambush commences on my shot.”
The officer was only twenty-five meters away. Kyle pulled the crosshairs of his scope on the man’s head, steadied his own breathing, and pressed the trigger. There was a single crisp retort of gunfire, and the officer’s body stood still for a moment, then fell backward with half of the skull and all of its contents missing.
The other Marines opened on their targets, and the IRGs were caught in a cross-fire from the observation point and from inside the building. It was almost impossible to miss, and the Iranians had stacked their weapons prior to assaulting the woman.
“Cease fire, we’re coming out!” yelled Double-Oh, and the four Marines charged from the building into the remaining IRG troops, moving forward in a line and with their weapons tight on their shoulders. In ten seconds, the entire Iranian squad had been wiped out, and the shooting stopped.
“Let’s go,” Kyle said as he plucked a grenade from his web gear to throw into the army truck. Tipp popped one free for the Range Rover.
Double-Oh slung his weapon, leaned over, and easily scooped up the terrified woman in his huge arms. “Don’t worry. You’re safe now. We won’t let anything happen to you.” He began trotting back to the observation post. Then there was a burst of automatic weapons fire. The big master gunnery sergeant grunted in surprise, paused for a moment, and then resumed his run, staggering the last few feet until he collapsed facedown among the Marines.
“Goddamn! Blow that fucking truck away!” Kyle yelled as he lobbed the grenade. Some soldiers had stayed behind with the truck and remained unseen in the firefight. A hurricane of bullets now shredded the vehicle, which lurched hard under the impact until the grenade exploded and the truck detonated in a ball of flame.
Kyle scrambled up the incline and dropped to his knees beside Double-Oh, looking at the bullet hole. “Oh, fuck,” he said.
7
JEREMY MARK OSMAND-JUBA- awoke from a disturbed sleep into an unsettling moment during which he did not know where he was. The former British paratrooper was drenched in sweat.
Then he realized that he was not in some war zone but safe at his family’s home in England, awakening to the smell of cooking eggs and sausage. His mother had gotten up before dawn because she knew he had to leave again. He showered and dressed in a blue Armani suit and a D &G Bengal stripe shirt with a solid blue tie, with soft black Cole Haan shoes, and a Fortis watch on his wrist. The upscale clothes were just another uniform, one that said “successful business executive.” He looked around his old room. Soccer trophies, club flags, ribbons, and photographs of the young striker scoring goals. His old prep school jacket with the golden crest on the pocket still hung in the closet. Yesterday’s hero.
He went downstairs. The house was small and immaculate, everything in exactly the same place it always was. A photograph taken ten years earlier would show the same furniture in the same spots, the time difference marked only by the changes in the faces of the people in the pictures. They were all younger then. He lifted his mother from the floor and twirled her in a circle in the tiny kitchen.
“Stop that this minute, Jeremy,” she commanded with a giggle. “I am cooking! The toast will burn.” As if that were important. He loved her without reservation.
Martha Goodling Osmand thought her son traveled too much, although she had put in more than a few miles herself as a young firebrand human rights attorney when she went out to the hellholes and recorded what the devils were doing. An Israeli bullet shattered her knee during a raid on a Palestinian refugee camp on the West Bank and clipped her traveling wings but not her spirit. Now she worked from home, hosting a Web site to help Muslim refugees.
His father, Dr. Allen Osmand, came into the kitchen and gave his wife an affectionate good-morning peck on the cheek. A thin man with a neat beard, he, too, was impeccably dressed for work, The doctor sat across from his son at the table.
“How long do you intend to keep up this schedule, Jeremy?” his mother scolded as she poured hot tea. “When are you going to get your company to assign you to the home office here in England? I want to be able to play with the toes of my grandchild before I am too old.”
“Look who’s talking.” He laughed. “You two hauled me all over the world as a kid, taught me languages, how to travel and to get along with people. Now you complain because I’m taking advantage of that training to make a living.” He sipped the tea and cut his toast into triangles, dipping them into the egg yolk. “I am just a poor salesman, forced to hustle for my next meal at some five-star restaurant in Berlin or Paris, and it’s your fault.” He looked at the clock. Almost time to go. “Are you going to watch the wedding today, Mum? Not going down there, are you?”
“Oh, wouldn’t dream of getting mixed up in that crowd. Barbara is quite lovely, and a fine match for Prince William, but my leg tells me to stay here and watch it on the telly. A volunteer from Amnesty International is dropping by to help me catch up on some work on the site.”
His father spoke. “We expect things to be quiet around the hospital today because of the wedding, so Professor
