Dead Shot (7 page)

In his hotel room in Belgium, Juba smiled as he recognized Kim Drake. She had her opportunity, just as he had predicted. He dialed another number, and this time a soft pop no louder than a firecracker went off unheard beneath the van rented by the Arkansas station. The contents of the canisters bled invisibly into the air, crawled out from beneath the van, rose, and spread.

Kim’s mike was live. Her dream was coming true. She was on live network TV! Once she started to talk, her nerves calmed and the training kicked in. Nothing fancy.
Let the pictures speak while you give the who, what, when, where, why, and how.
The network news directors were impressed with the kid.

Crew Manager William Warner of the London Fire Brigade was chewing a chocolate and peanut energy bar when the first explosion detonated less than a hundred meters from his truck. He had kept his team on full alert during the wedding, so they were already in their bulky coats, overtrousers, and fire boots. The truck was rolling in seconds, its lights flashing, the horn honking and the siren shrilling to push a path through the crowd as the crew slapped on helmets and pulled on gloves.

There were some casualties but only a small area of actual damage, and his firefighters were on it immediately with suppressant chemicals,
then waded into the charred debris with their tools. Some cleared a circle for emergency medical personnel. Walker found himself bumping against a small American news reporter with a microphone in her hand.

Kim had finished her first report, but the appearance of the fire truck and its flashing lights gave her more material. Tom had them in his eyepiece as they dove into work.
Let the pictures talk!
Her throat was very dry; her eyes started to mist, and her skin itched. Probably the smoke, she thought, and plunged ahead with her work.

She had expected to be shoved aside by the big firefighter because that is what would have happened in the States, but this was England, where people valued courtesy. William Warner let her stand her ground because nothing important was happening anyway and his people had the work in hand. He coughed.

Warner had listened to the reporter and agreed with her quick conclusion that this had the look of an accident, maybe an undetected electrical fire inside the truck that set off a gas tank leak. Only an off-the-cuff hypothesis by an untrained observer, but a pretty good guess. Arson investigators would sort it out soon enough. He had already given basically the same report to the Command Center; the situation was under control. He felt a tug on his sleeve. The disheveled young reporter thrust the microphone at him, and Warner leaned down to answer the question. The telly camera was pointed at him.

Kim cleared her throat, then had to do it again before speaking. Exposed portions of her skin were stinging as if she had been attacked by a swarm of bees, and she felt woozy. She wouldn’t let that sideline her. “I am standing with an official of the London Fire Brigade,” she said. “Sir, what can you tell us about this explosion?”

Warner was about to answer that all was quite well, that it was an accident, when he actually looked at her. The girl’s face was flushing bright red, and she was rubbing her forearm, where a gelatin-like substance was clinging. Then a sharp chirp squealed from a rectangular device attached to the thick collar of his coat. He jerked his head up. More chirps were coming from the crew’s uniforms, and his firefighters
turned to him with alarm and shock on their faces. They were in the midst of thousands of people, and their hazardous materials detectors were singing like mad canaries.

“Get your rebreathers on and button up!” he yelled. The reporter was collapsing at his feet, clawing at her skin as she sucked in air, having trouble breathing. Her eyes rolled back. The cameraman was falling to his knees.

“Oh, dear God,” Warner said, slapping down his own face shield as he grabbed the radio that was on the frequency of the Royal Command Center. “Red Alert! Crew Chief Warner in Sector Kensington Three. Red Alert! Dirty bomb! I repeat:
Dirty bomb!
”

D
AWKINS WAS A BIG
,
strong man who had more muscle tissue than an ordinary person to protect his organs, and the adrenaline coursing through his system gave him the extra burst of strength he needed to reach the Marine position while still carrying the woman. Then his eyes closed and he toppled hard to the ground.

Marines do not have medics, but they have a brotherhood relationship with combat-trained Navy corpsmen. Corpsman Rick Suarez trained alongside the MARSOC Marines, even having the mission specialty of being a demolitions expert. Suarez jumped to the side of the wounded Double-Oh even before Kyle scrambled to them.

They used knives and surgical scissors to slice away the thick gear harness, then tore open the MOPP suit and the T-shirt to get to the wound. A lot of blood was spilling from a small entry hole on the right side of the muscled back.

“Help me turn him over to see if there is an exit wound,” Suarez said. There was none, but Kyle could hear oxygen gurgling from the bullet hole, and air flowed out like bubbles in water. They had him propped in a sitting position.

Double-Oh was in the Golden Hour, the vital sixty minutes between the instant a man is hit and the time a field hospital gets him on the table. Keep him alive back to Camp Doha and his chances of recovery improved considerably. Each minute was a treasure.

Captain Newman was on his radio. “Whiskey One-Niner, this is
Hotel Seven. I have one emergency evac. Forty-year-old male. Gunshot wound to the back.”

“Roger, Hotel Seven,” said the smooth voice of the helo pilot. “We are inbound and will meet you at designated pickup zone. Three minutes. We have a PJ aboard.” A PJ was an Air Force pararescue specialist trained in emergency medical procedures.

“Roger that,” said Newman.

“Alert the PJ that it’s probably a collapsed lung with internal bleeding. Vital signs appear shallow,” Suarez called over his shoulder. Newman repeated the information.

“Help me here, Shake. We have to dress the wound and help his breathing,” Suarez said. He rummaged around in his first aid kit, found morphine, and tossed it aside because he could not administer it to an unconscious man. Then his hand closed around a thin plastic card about the size of a driver’s license. He pushed it against the bleeding wound. Above that he secured a pressure bandage with medical tape.

Kyle kept holding the unconscious man in a sitting position, talking to him with a stream of vulgarity and insults, just as they usually spoke to one another. Maybe Double-Oh could hear him and maybe he couldn’t, but if Kyle spoke normally, then his friend might recognize the voice and believe the wound was not serious. That would inspire hope. Getting all sappy and sorry would have the opposite effect.

“I ain’t got time for your crap tonight. Patch up your fat ass and haul it to the hospital, then wait around to see if you bleed out. Probably have to dig your grave by myself and then put up with a bunch of Pentagon pukes at your funeral. You stand up out there like a fucking carnival target and get shot by that amateur? Jesus Christ, Dawkins, you are supposed to be some kind of Superman black ops dude, and I swear you would trip over a crack in the sidewalk if somebody wasn’t around to lead you around like a blind mutt. You did this on purpose, didn’t you? Just to get some attention and another medal and polish your résumé before retiring. Anyway, what did you leave me in your will? You
ain’t really got nothing I want but maybe that Ford truck, so I’ll take that. Dammit, don’t you die until you buy some better stuff, you hear me?”

The time for stealth was long past, so Captain Newman had designated their current overwatch position as the pickup zone for the Pave Low extraction. There was no indication of any more vehicles on the road from the city, but that would not last long if the Iranian patrol was supposed to report in at regular intervals. The roar of the approaching helicopter grew louder, and as soon as it touched down, Marines grabbed the legs and arms of Double-Oh and got him into the open door.

Swanson came next, with his hand tight around the wrist of the girl to help her aboard and strap her in. She took a last look around at the carnage of the ambush, knowing she had escaped certain death, and did not resist. Whatever lay ahead was better than being another corpse for the Palace of Death. Then the Pave Low was gone, leaving no trace that it had ever been in Iranian airspace.

T
HE TWIN ENGINES STRAINED
as the helicopter grabbed for altitude. The PJ wrapped a blood pressure cuff on Double-Oh, leaned in close to use his stethoscope, then reported to the pilot. “Breathing is ragged, heartbeat still strong. Vital signs weak but steady, so he’s holding his own. We can keep him stable until we land. Notify the docs to prepare for a serious gunshot wound in the back. The lung is punctured.” The corpsman cleared an IV needle, found a vein in the arm for a hydrating solution, and then adjusted an oxygen mask over Double-Oh’s pale face. He cut away the field bandage, cleaned the wound, administered some medication to the opening, and recovered it with a thick, large sterile bandage.

Kyle could do nothing to help and snapped his mind back to the mission. “Captain Newman, we got everybody?”

“Roger that. I counted them coming on. All plus one.”

Plus one. The woman. Swanson, seated beside her, was suddenly
aware of how they must look to her eyes, a group of large foreign men with faces greased with camo warpaint, laden with weapons and helmets and packs. The attempted rape, followed by the unexpected ambush, followed again by being snatched aboard a helicopter—her senses were overwhelmed, and she sat staring straight ahead, her arms clutched about her. He removed his cap, laid aside his weapon, and pulled a box of baby wipes from an onboard pouch, using the soft papers to wipe away some of the grime and grease on his face. Then he handed her the box. The small gesture was an icebreaker, forcing her to act, to make a minor decision.

After a moment, she pulled out a few papers and wiped her own face, with a small smile of appreciation and a nod.

“Don’t worry,” Kyle said in Arabic. “You are safe with us.”

“They killed my friend,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t save him, too.”

The woman sniffled and pulled away her scarf to dab at some tears. Lustrous brown eyes, firm cheekbones, a pretty face. She asked in English, “You are Americans?”

“Yes. U.S. Marines,” Kyle said, then changed the subject and handed her an unopened bottle of water. “What were you two doing out at that place so early in the morning?”

“We went out looking for my brother, a student. He was taken prisoner last week because of his political views, and we learned yesterday that he was being held in the forbidden zone. We wanted to help him escape.” She spoke with a slight British accent.

“But it was some kind of secret military installation,” Kyle said. “You had to know that.”

The woman nodded. “The site was being evacuated because the work, some government project, apparently has been completed. People were leaving, trucks hauling away equipment. We felt we could be safe if we moved in a hurry.” She began to weep, a nervous shudder shaking her body. “My brother was just a headstrong boy.”

Kyle recognized that physical shock was setting in, but he would
not touch her, for in her country, no physical contact whatsoever was allowed between unmarried and unrelated men and women.

“Did you see anyone in the building?” she asked softly.

“I’m sorry. There was no one alive in there when we arrived,” he said.

As she sobbed, her shoulders heaved, and finally she leaned against Kyle’s shoulder for support as the helicopter jarred through the sky. “He was just a child. Only sixteen.”

He let her lean against him but remained silent. The girl had just broken a huge religious and cultural taboo, and Swanson knew she had reached some momentous conclusion about her life. He would not tell her that her brother was probably one of the six unfortunate inmates who were found dead and locked in individual cells. Instead, he said, “Try to relax. We’ll be in Kuwait soon and sort things out. You’ll be okay.”

Travis Hughes watched the interplay between Swanson and the woman carefully, again observing the duality of the complex man. The Marines had expected Shake to remain the coldhearted son-of-a-bitch leader who was perfectly capable of standing in the shadows and letting those Iranian assholes rape the girl rather than take the chance of compromising his mission. With him, the mission always came first.

Nevertheless, no plan ever worked perfectly. Sooner or later, you had to face something unexpected, and Swanson had made an instant decision based on factors that Hughes was only now adding up. It wasn’t really the rape at all that triggered him.

If they allowed the IRGs to kill her, the fuckheads probably would have thrown the bodies into the building anyway. Then again, if they were any sort of soldiers at all, they probably would have at least taken a quick look inside the building. Chances of exposure in either case were almost certain, so the mission was already compromised.

That meant that the Marines were going to have to smoke the Iranian troops anyway, so Swanson decided to take them down hard and fast to prevent any information from being radioed back to their headquarters.
The woman obviously was not with the soldiers, therefore she was against them, which made her a good possible source of intelligence, but only if she was alive. Kyle had decided all that in the space of a few seconds and triggered a rescue.

It was not a heroic act. Swanson had just figured that was the best way to salvage the mission and at the same time gain a bonus of intelligence. Now he sat over there talking quietly to her and letting her cry on his shoulder, as if this whole effort had been mounted just to save her.

Travis was impressed. He leaned close to Joe Tipp and motioned at Swanson. “I think ol’ Shake has a girlfriend,” he whispered.

T
WO CLUSTERS OF PEOPLE
were waiting at the hospital helipad when the Pave Low came to rest at Camp Doha. They were standing apart, grouped by their specialties, as if on different teams. Just because everyone wore the same uniform did not mean they were friends.

The first small group was comprised of medical personnel, and even before the helicopter cut its engines, they hurried forward with a rolling stretcher. The team of medics helped maneuver Double-Oh onto the gurney, and the entire group ran off toward the emergency room of the base hospital, a young triage doctor trotting along behind calling instructions ahead into a handheld radio. Swanson checked his watch. Double-Oh had made it with time to spare in the Golden Hour, and now the professionals could get to work.

The second group was more rigid and moved with serious purpose: four grim soldiers wearing armored vests and carrying weapons. They approached as the MARSOC Marines climbed out of the helicopter and gathered their gear.

“Captain Newman?” called a tall man. “I’m Lieutenant Zahn, sir. Military Police. We’ve been sent to collect your enemy combatant for interrogation.”

Rick Newman was surprised. “What?”

“Your prisoner, sir. We’ll take her now.”

Newman looked over at Kyle Swanson and shrugged his shoulders. His brief situation report during the helicopter ride had somehow been read as the team bringing home a valuable enemy prisoner. Swanson had his face turned away from the soldiers but shook his head slightly.
No.

“Afraid there has been a mistake, Lieutenant. We rescued a civilian who got caught in the middle of a firefight, that’s all. You can stand down. We will turn her over during our debriefing.”

The woman understood every word and pushed closer to Kyle as fear grew inside of her. She had heard how Americans interrogated prisoners.

“Sorry, Captain. I don’t know anything about that, but our orders are to bring her in immediately because she is a suspected terrorist.” The lieutenant waved his hand, and three MPs, two male and one female, moved forward.

While the officers had talked, Kyle had helped the Iranian girl from the helicopter and moved her in behind the MARSOC Marines, who appeared to be lounging about watching the episode with disinterest. When the MPs stepped forward, however, they were met by a solid wall of special ops warriors. Darren Rawls, Joe Tipp, and Travis Hughes stood between the MPs and their target. Kyle was close behind but did not want them to see his face.

“Okay, fellows, move aside,” ordered the lieutenant. “Your part of the mission is done, and now we have to deal with the captive.”

“Sorry. Can’t help you,” said Travis Hughes. “Sir.”

“Lieutenant, you can lead us to the debriefing room if you wish, but that is all,” snapped Rick Newman.

Lieutenant Zahn was not used to having his orders disobeyed. He squared up before Newman and sharpened his voice. “Captain! I am giving you a final warning. You and your men will stand aside and give us the enemy combatant or you will be placed under arrest.”

Darren Rawls grabbed the lieutenant and leaned into his face. “You want her? Well, you will have to come and take her. Sir.” The rest of the team formed a knot around the woman and Kyle. Then Rawls pushed the lieutenant so hard that the man sprawled on the helipad.

Newman stepped forward and extended his hand to the fallen officer and pulled him up. “Be careful there, Lieutenant. Easy to trip and fall around here. How about taking us over to the debriefing room now. You can’t have her because we won’t give her up. The woman is already in the custody of the CIA, and you don’t know shit about what is going on, so let’s cut the crap and get on with things before somebody gets hurt.”

Zahn brushed himself off. He made a mental note about that big black guy who shoved him and would settle that score later. “Yes, sir. This way, sir.”

The MARSOC team moved as a group toward a convoy of waiting vehicles that would take them over to another part of the base. The MPs posted themselves in a square at the front, back, and sides of that formation, as if taking the whole group to the brig.