weapons to both sides during the Iran-Iraq fighting, and so much materiel and cash has been lost or stolen during the current war that it cannot even be counted. Throw in the massive support the United States supplied to the Afghan rebels that fought the Soviet Union and it is reasonable to believe they had access to plenty of raw materials and plenty of time for development.”
“So you think there really may be something to this Palace of Death idea?”
“The name is just a name, like Saddam’s ‘Mother of All Battles,’ but they have to call it something. Whatever is out there needs to be uncovered.”
“That’s the job. Kyle and I are heading down to Doha to pick up a MARSOC team, then go in early tomorrow morning.” Double-Oh stood and put away his map. “Give my apologies to Pat for my not being able to stay longer. I still have some money she hasn’t stolen from me at poker.”
Kyle shook hands with Jeff. “Tell m’lady I’ll be thinking about what she said…and for her to have a good time in London. I’ll be back in a few days.”
Sir Jeff slapped him on the shoulder. “Right. Only wish I was going with you.” He walked them to the helipad and waved as the helicopter lifted away.
THE MARINE ASSAULT TEAM arrived at Camp Doha in Kuwait as fast as it could be assembled and flown out of North Carolina. They boarded a plane on a sunny afternoon, flew most of the night, and got off to find themselves in the desert sun of Kuwait. A waiting helicopter ferried them to a secure barracks in the special operations sector of the sprawling American base at Camp Doha, north of Kuwait City.
Every member of the team had been to Doha before, during previous tours in Iraq. It was Little America. Uncle Frosty’s Oasis, the Marble Palace, the beach, and great Mexican food downtown at the La Palma. Pizza, camel races, ice cream. Doha was not a hardship post.
They knew, however, that this was not going to be vacation time, for the first thing they saw in their barracks was a stack of hazmat suits on a table by the door. They pawed through the stack and picked out correct sizes, tossed the suits onto the bunks, and followed Captain Newman over to a private room in a mess hall for chow. Afterward, he disappeared for a briefing, and the rest of them ambled back to their small barracks. Special operators do not linger in the daylight when starting a mission, and they were glad the sun was going down.
The lights were off, and Travis Hughes was the first one through the door, feeling for the switch. He was snatched from his feet by a big, meaty arm and thrown to the floor, where someone jammed a knee into his chest and pressed a knife to his neck.
Darren Rawls, the next through the door, thought Hughes had tripped and fallen. Then he felt a pistol barrel being jammed under his chin so hard that his head was forced back.
The lights snapped on. Master Gunny Dawkins removed the pistol he held on Rawls and looked furious. A guy with a black mask had Travis Hughes pinned to the floor.
“You people get in here!” Dawkins bawled in a parade ground voice. “You’re supposed to be hot shit MARSOC troops, and you are bumbling around like a bunch of Girl Scouts. Walked right into an ambush! You are on a mission, goddammit, and a lot of you would be dead by now if we were a couple of terrorists. There is no safe place over here, not even in Doha. So pull your heads out of your asses, right now!”
The other Marines sheepishly filed into the room and gathered around Double-Oh. The man in the mask sheathed his knife and held out a hand to Hughes. “Get up, Trav,” he said. The voice was familiar. The masked guy sat on a bunk, and Captain Newman entered, locked the door, and joined Double-Oh at the front. The attention of the men was totally in focus now because they had been professionally embarrassed by letting down their guard.
“Here’s the drill,” Newman said. He explained the snoop-and-poop mission and told them they would be providing fire support, if necessary, for Master Gunny Dawkins and the other man, who would be principal investigators.
Dawkins then took over. “I know that you do not like going into a possible firefight with someone you don’t know covering your back, so we have to break a rule here tonight. You all have clearance for Top Secret material, and you will never speak of what we are about to tell you to anyone, ever. Understood?” He looked around and received nods from each of the six men. Then he nodded, and Kyle removed his mask.
“This is Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson. Because of special ops purposes, he was declared dead back after the Syrian mess. We both now work for Task Force Trident, which you don’t need to know much about.”
“Haaaayyy! Shake!” hooted Travis Hughes, while others shouted “Dude!” and “Muthafucka!” and “Awrite!” They clapped, and a few gave him high fives. Everyone knew Swanson, or knew of him. “Quiet down,” barked Double-Oh. “Save the happy horseshit reunion crap for later. Right now, everybody get a couple of hours sleep. We leave at 0200 hours. Be ready.”
LONDON
Juba showed his pass and walked without incident into the media grounds in Kensington Park, carrying his bag of tools. A small army of technicians was laying down rivers of cable, lighting specialists were clamping big, glaring bulbs into position, soundmen were rigging microphones, and makeup artists flung powder puffs and eyeliner on the TV news readers while writers pounded out copy and producers pulled their hair in frustration. Juba was just another tech and made his way effortlessly through the dozens of production trucks and the forest of satellite dishes atop thin poles. He spotted the distinctive Edinburgh vans and went toward them.
A pretty young woman was seated on the steps of the truck, working on a laptop computer that was balanced on her knees. She looked up with a start when she realized someone was standing in front of her. He wore a technician’s purple and white jumpsuit with a belt of tools hung around his narrow waist. Even in the dark, he looked as if he had a deep tan. “May I help you?” she asked.
The man referred to a scrap of paper. “Are you Miss Drake?”
“Yes.”
“I’m from Edinburgh All-Media. They sent me down to give the vans a last-minute look to be sure you don’t have any problems tomorrow. Is your engineer around?”
“Sure. He’s inside.” She led him into the cargo bay. “Harold? This tech is from the rental service and wants to see if anything is wrong.”
Juba followed her in, shook the hand of the engineer, and turned back to Kim. “Nothing is wrong, Miss Drake. Just a precaution, mind you. We want everything to go smoothly for you tomorrow. So, have you encountered any problems?” he asked Harold.
“Nope, but glad you came around to check.” The engineer had on a headset and was working a bank of lighted dials. “I’m setting the uplink to go live. Let me know if you need me.”
“Right. Won’t be a minute.” Juba studied the desktop area, dropped to the floor to look at the underneath wiring, and clicked a flashlight to see into small places. He opened the engine and played around in the compartment, climbed to the top and back down, then crawled beneath the truck, where he removed two cans of aerosol spray from his toolbox. Each was labeled as a commercial product that was widely used to blow blasts of clean air onto delicate computer components. Juba twisted the exterior coverings and pulled out the canisters within, then carefully attached them to small clamps above the exhaust pipe from the muffler. Tiny bits of explosive plastique were on the tips of the canisters, and he joined them with a common wire to a small detonator. It would go off when a certain cell phone number was dialed, and the contents of the canisters would be released.
While he worked, Kim Drake continued preparing for her upcoming live shot for the six o’clock evening news back home. She had managed to snare a good report, standing in front of the palace with one of those tall soldiers in the red coat and funny-looking fur hat. When she was done filming, she stepped away from the spot, and a press officer ushered in another reporter to do the same thing. The news director back home loved it and set the report for the evening news.
Juba finished just as Kim was doing her makeup at a mirror in the van. “Pardon, Miss Drake, if you don’t mind. May I snap a few photos of you and Harold and your cameraman? Hate to be such a bother, but the company wants some pictures for its adverts after you lot are gone. Drum up more business for us in the lean times, you know.” The request was so polite that they all agreed, and Juba took out a digital camera.
“Just wait until I finish my hair,” Kim called. “I look horrible.” He shot a series of pictures of Harold at the
