Hunter Killer

Computerized screens were caved in, alarms were sounding, all transmissions to incoming aircraft ceased abruptly, and fourteen staff were badly hit by shrapnel. Two of them died instantly.

The commandos stormed the tower, demanding the surrender of all personnel in air traffic control, but there were no key operatives who could surrender. That antitank rocket had caused total catastrophe, and Jacques Gamoudi was going to be displeased. He had warned them to use rockets only if they met stiff resistance.

And now the control tower was wrecked. And Major Majeed’s men were swarming into the airport ordering passengers out of the terminal at gunpoint, telling them to return to their homes, to the city, by whatever means they could. Airport buses were commandeered, taxis were ordered to fill up with passengers and to get out.

A squad of six heavily armed al-Qaeda warriors charged through the downstairs baggage area, informing personnel to concentrate on outgoing flights. They informed staff that their jobs were safe, but their task was to get people out of the airport and swiftly onto departing flights.

The al-Qaeda fighters in the tower ordered electricians from the first-floor ops room to switch off the runway lights. Fueled aircraft ready for takeoff could leave, but fully laden passenger jets would not be permitted to land.

Major Majeed ordered the restaurants to stay open and keep serving, and he told the airport announcement system to keep ferrying passengers out to Riyadh, but on no account was any aircraft to land without special permission from the Major himself.

Abdul Majeed wanted to ensure that private corporate jets coming to pick up senior technology staff from Aramco and British Aerospace were given maximum cooperation. Prince Nasir was going to need these people in the very near future. One hour after his arrival, the Major called Jacques Gamoudi and informed him that the airport had fallen to his forces.

Back on King Khalid Road, Colonel Gamoudi’s convoy was again heading north, back toward the junction with Makkah Road. There must have been 10,000 people swarming behind him. He ordered a halt to the convoy at that junction and ordered the now-returned Colonel Bandar to take command of another tank, one armored vehicle, plus four troop carriers and to head for Jubal Prison, on the outskirts of the city, where many al-Qaeda sympathizers were held, most without trial.

His orders were terse. “Blast your way in, and take it by force of arms. They’re only prison guards, and they’ll surrender. Then release everyone. And stay in touch.” Colonel Bandar was pleased at the prospect of driving a tank straight through a big doorway. It was an opportunity he had refrained from at the glass entrance to the television station.

And now, with the airport, the Ministry, and the broadcasting services under control, Colonel Gamoudi turned his attack toward the main objective — the palace of the forty-six-year-old King of Saudi Arabia.

But first he wanted to deal with the Prince Miohd Bin Abdul Aziz Palace, where Prince Nasir had said that a full morning council would be convened. Whether or not the royal princes in this family gathering were still there, Colonel Gamoudi did not know. But he knew this was the guiding council of the monarch. If there was ever going to be a future uprising, it was likely to emanate from men in that palace this morning.

In the lead tank, now sitting up on the hatch with his machine gun held across his chest, Gamoudi looked every inch the conqueror, a powerful, bearded man, ice cold in his expression, riding at the head of a formation of tanks and armored vehicles, troop carriers, and literally thousands of born-again desert warriors, marching along, not cheering, dead serious, as they moved to dethrone the King.

Their route took them deliberately through the Diplomatic Quarter, since Colonel Gamoudi wished to make it quite clear that all foreign governments understood the thoroughness of the takeover. Occasionally there were small crowds of embassy staff out on the sidewalk watching the passing army gravely, doubtless making a thousand mental notes for soon-to-be-written diplomatic reports on the battle for Riyadh.

There was a crowd outside the British embassy, no one outside the French embassy, and a large crowd outside the American embassy. Jacques Gamoudi did not want any of these people to be injured if his convoy met sudden resistance. And he shouted at them as they passed, “GET BACK INSIDE! DO NOT COME ONTO THE STREETS! YOU WILL BE INFORMED OF GOVERNMENT CHANGES LATER!”

No one, of course, had the slightest ideas who he was. He spoke Arabic with an accent, and all the armored vehicles carried the insignia of the Saudi Arabian armed forces. But this was a sizable convoy and it was plainly headed somewhere. And despite the general savvy of the personnel at the embassies, who knew perfectly well something major was most definitely afoot, it was still extremely baffling.

But as Jacques Gamoudi’s tanks rolled by, it was particularly baffling for one senior U.S. envoy, Charlie Brooks, who had served in many U.S. embassies in North and sub-Saharan Africa throughout a long and distinguished career in the Diplomatic Service. It was rumored that Charlie Brooks might be the next U.S. Ambassador to Iran, at the new Tehran embassy.

Brooks stared hard at the man on the tank who was yelling at him to get back inside. Brooks was not terribly used to being yelled at. He looked at the man hard. There was a flicker of recognition. Gamoudi was wearing a ghutra, and it was quite hard to get a clear picture of him. And yet…to Brooks there was something familiar about him.

His mind ranged back over his many postings, trying to think of anyone he may have met who looked similar. But he could not focus on an individual. At least not until the convoy was out of sight around the next corner.

And then Brooks’s mind slipped back several years, to a blister-ingly hot day in June 1999, in the Congo, the old French colony, when the U.S. embassy in Brazzaville had been under direct threat from revolutionary forces. He remembered the siege conditions behind the embassy walls, and he remembered the rescue. That was what he really remembered.

The helicopter clattering into the grounds, manned by French Special Forces, their leader running into the embassy ordering everyone to grab what they could, documents and possessions, and to get on board either the helicopter or the French army truck at the gates.

He remembered the leader — an amazingly tough-looking bearded character, brandishing a machine gun and barking orders. He remembered him on the embassy driveway, ordering the helicopter into the air. And he remembered him herding the remaining staff down to the truck, manhandling packing cases full of documents and then running and jumping aboard the truck at the last minute.

They had made it the few miles to Kinshasa Airport, where the same French military officer was in charge, leading everyone out to the apron at the edge of the runway where the MC-130 aircraft was waiting.

If he thought hard, he could recall Aubrey Hooks and his staff piling up the steps into the aircraft, carrying what suitcases they could. He could hear in his mind the shouts and commands of the bearded man with the machine gun as he urged them onto the plane.

And he recalled the team from Special Ops Command Europe, mostly survey and assessment personnel, also joining them, until the aircraft could take no more. There was room for everyone except the French troops who had made the evacuation possible. And they remained at Brazzaville. Charlie Brooks remembered sitting with the United States Ambassador as the MC-130 hurtled down the runway and banked out across the Congo River. The last sight he had of the Congo was of the little group of French Special Forces standing outside the airport buildings, waving to the flight as it left them. He did not think he would ever forget their bearded leader.

But now he was not quite so sure. He could almost swear the guy up on the lead tank was the same French combat soldier. He could even remember his name…well, nearly. He seemed to recall the French troops called their boss Major Chasser.

He just wished he could have heard him speak in his normal voice, then he would have been sure. The yell a few moments ago, “GET BACK INSIDE!” addressed to the Americans in English, did not do it. But he was still damn near certain that was Major Chasser up there on the tank.

And as a career diplomat, working closely with the CIA, he did have one overriding thought: what the hell was he doing up there on the tank anyway, reading the riot act to local citizens in the goddamned middle of the capital city of Saudi Arabia? It beat the hell out of Charlie Brooks.

Unless France was somehow attacking the country. But the tanks were Saudi. And no foreign nationals served in the Saudi Arabian armed forces. It didn’t make sense. And after several minutes of serious thought, it still didn’t make sense to Brooks. Maybe he was mistaken after all. The guy did look like an Arab. But then…so had Major Chasser.

The big lead M1A2 Abrams rumbled on through the Diplomatic Quarter, the marching army bringing up the rear looked even larger now than it had been fifteen minutes previously. Their next stop was the Prince Miohd