microscopic fins popped open and a tiny solid-fuel motor ignited with a roar of its own that kicked the bullet forward even harder and multiplied its normal effective range without altering the spin. The bullet became a missile.
It struck Curtis with such brutal force that it ripped his head off at the neck, and the impact hurled the body forward as if it had leaped ten feet. The corpse hit the slope hard, and it cartwheeled hideously down the length of the high dune, leaving behind a splattered trail of blood and gore that shone brightly in the sunlight of the new day.
LANCE CORPORAL JIM “BOOMER” Carpenter saw the head fly off of the man at the top of the steep dune before he heard the double-whammy of the shot. As the body tumbled down the sharply angled slope, he kept up the speed of his MRAP and dodged it, letting the truck’s Caterpillar turbocharged diesel engine churn the strong Michelin tires until it could go no farther. Sand and gravity stopped it about halfway up. Boomer was a little disappointed that he had not run over any booby trap. He grasped the microphone from the dashboard and flipped on the loudspeaker. “Ladies up there! It’s all over! Stay calm. The helicopter is inbound from the south.” Then he unbuckled the four-point safety harness and climbed up behind the machine gun in the turret, just in case.
The Eurocopter Panther did not touch the ground when it swirled in to let Kyle and Mickey jump aboard, and then it covered the two and a half miles to the dune in a flash. To keep from creating a sandstorm with its rotors, it hovered above the crest and the two Marines fast-roped down, crouching beneath the blast until the bird flew away.
Kyle ran to the hostage on his left while Mickey sprinted to the other woman. Margaret Ledford’s eyes were tightly shut, and tears tracked from the corners; her body shook with sobs. Kyle knelt down and propped her into a sitting position against his left arm and leg. “It’s OK, Mrs. Ledford. Everything is under control now. My name is Kyle Swanson, and I’m a friend of Beth’s.” He gently peeled away the duct tape gag, and she hauled in deep breaths and gagged a bit while he used his Ka-Bar knife to slice away the ties at her wrists and ankles, then closely examined the dynamite pack. “I don’t see any triggering device on this vest, Mickey. He probably wanted to command detonate after he got away. I think we can just cut them off.”
He looked over to where Mickey and Beth were, less than ten feet away. She was sitting up on her own, and Mickey had removed the tape from her mouth and cut away the bindings. He had his black beret low over his forehead, and somehow his desert camo uniform looked clean and sharp. They were looking directly into each other’s eyes, dark Latin brown and bright Iowa blue, and Mickey lifted Beth’s right hand to his lips to give it a light kiss. “I am Captain Miguel Francisco Castillo, Infanteria de Marina, senorita. At your service. Please, call me Mickey.”
Swanson shook his head in wonder as Beth gave Mickey a ten-thousand-watt smile that erased the dangerous past hours as if they never had happened.
TWO WEEKS LATER, KYLE Swanson was wrapping up some leave time in Hawaii before heading back to Washington. He had spent long days on the beaches of Oahu, hanging out with the surfer crowds and even now and then catching an empty wave where he would find himself alone with his board atop a surging mountain of water. As much as the waves called to him at Makaha and Waimea and out in the Pipeline, he tore himself away from the lure of the breaking surf for his final evening in Hawaii, had his hair cut, shaved, and donned his full evening dress uniform. For a change, he wanted—needed—to look sharp. Even the Medal of Honor would be worn around his neck on its silken blue ribbon.
At 1700 hours sharp, Swanson strode up the gangway to the mighty battleship USS
Kyle spent an hour of meaningless mingling to make sure that Middleton would be informed that everything had gone off well; then he casually drifted away from the herd of dress uniforms, stars, and tuxedoes, and the women in gowns that seemed to glow in the bright lights. The cocktails would be followed by dinner and dancing, but Kyle wanted some alone time aboard the Mighty Mo.
The ship was huge, as big as a small city, and he wandered freely beneath the big guns, from the stern to the bow, which was pointed directly at the
Alone at the bow, Kyle came to attention and saluted the
Kyle would never stop going after them.
He turned back to where the ladies and officers and gentlemen were gathered on the deck beneath a new and cloudless Hawaiian night. He would go back to them now, tolerate the speeches, enjoy the lavish buffet, but pass on the dancing and get back to the hotel. There was a flight out early the next morning that would take him back to Washington, where he would report for duty at Task Force Trident and then go kill Charlie Brown.
ALSO BY JACK COUGHLIN
ALSO BY DONALD A. DAVIS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
GUNNERY SERGEANT JACK COUGHLIN was with the Third Battalion, Fourth Marines during the drive to Baghdad and has operated on a wide range of assignments in hotspots around the world.
