AL’S GARAGE, SAUDI ARABIA
EVEN WITH HIS DARK sunglasses and the tinted windows of the Land Rover, Kyle could barely look into the morning sun, which was still a dull orange balloon rising over the amazingly flat airfield. A dot coming out of the glare grew larger, a plane that was headed straight into the base.
“Here we go,” said Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid, son of the minister of defense and a nephew of the king. He opened the door and hot air poured into the SUV to immediately overwhelm the air conditioner. His hustling, no nonsense aide, Captain Omar al-Muallami, followed his boss.
Swanson winced as he stepped into the early morning heat. It was going to be one of those searing days with a steady wind blowing sand that streaked like gritty, little bullets across the open miles of the Prince Sultan Air Base, about sixty miles south of Riyadh. Mirages were already shimmering off the tarmac. Everyone wanted to get this over with as soon as possible, before the place began to bake. The temperature was already knocking near a hundred degrees.
The huge military installation had risen from nothing during the Iraqi wars, with millions and millions of American and Saudi dollars creating something from nothing not far from the town of al-Kharj. The thousands of American troops who had been stationed there or transited through called it “Al’s Garage.” The U.S. troops were satisfied in 2003 to turn it back over to the Saudis, the camel spiders, and the carpet snakes.
Most American military personnel left, but a training cadre and several hundred private U.S. civilian contractors remained behind to help the Saudis keep things running. Kyle, wearing his old jeans, a loose blue shirt, and a tan web vest with lots of pockets, looked like one of those ubiquitous, faceless American civilians. The floppy shirt easily covered the Marine Special Ops.45 ACP pistol that rested in a holster on his belt.
The dot in the sky was bigger now, riding down on four huge engines in a smooth landing approach.
“Prepare the loading area,” Mishaal bin Khalid told his aide, and Captain al-Muallami snapped the order with authority. A company of forty armed troops fanned out in a wide cordon around a parking area at the end of a fifteen-thousand-foot-long runway. Humvees mounted with machine guns roamed beyond the soldiers. No one was around who was not supposed to be there.
Swanson stood beside the APC that contained the tactical nuclear warhead. He reached out and patted the steel armor, making sure that the heavy vehicle had not somehow disappeared. This was the first warhead to be officially transferred from Saudi to American custody.
He was the point man for the U.S. transfer team. Prince Mishaal, who might one day become a senior prince in the royal family, was his counterpart. The king had personally paired them up to maximize authority and expedite the process.
Mishaal roamed the protective cordon like a stalking panther. He was six feet tall, a weightlifter whose sculpted body was a strong 200 pounds. Whether in uniform or in white robes, he possessed the natural command presence of someone born to lead. At thirty-five years of age, the prince was a handsome man with sharply planed cheeks and a strong chin that was covered with a perfect goatee.
Right behind him was his stern aide, whose busy eyes and agile brain tried to anticipate everything. Mishaal personally examined each soldier in turn, not necessarily trusting any of them. The assassinations had thrown a net of suspicion over everyone in the military services and Captain al-Muallami had combed the dossiers to select the guards prior to the prince authorizing their presence at the site.
Nevertheless, Kyle would not be content until the security platoon of U.S. Marines aboard the incoming plane was on the ground to “assist” in the final stage of the handover. Trained and trusted guns would extract the worry from the process.
A C-130-J HERCULES, THE most reliable transport warhorse in the U.S. airlift stable, touched down and its big tires and the blast from the six-bladed props on the four Rolls Royce engines churned a hurricane of dust in its wake. It slowed and turned onto a taxiway, then followed a Humvee into the circle of waiting Saudi troops.
The big ramp lowered in back and the Marines poured out to form a tight inner position within the Saudi cordon. A tall, black officer strolled confidently down the ramp and walked to Prince Mishaal. He saluted and the Saudi colonel returned it.
“Colonel, I am Major David Lassiter from the Marine Expeditionary Unit, Special Operations Force, and I am ready to receive the item as stated on this manifest.” He presented a clipboard containing several sheets of authorization papers.
“Very well, major. Ordinarily, I would offer our traditional hospitality to you and your men. Due to the urgency of the situation, I feel it would be best to forego that.”
“Yes, sir. I agree. Perhaps next time,” Lassiter said. “Gunny Swanson, it’s good to see you again. Perhaps you would like to check the hold of the Hercules while the colonel and I finish the paperwork.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Good idea. I want a word with the loadmaster.” Kyle walked away from the two officers, through the Marine cordon, and up the ramp. Darren Rawls was playing a major today, for the show was all Trident.
The cavernous cargo hold was big enough to carry an armored vehicle or even a helicopter with blades folded. The Herc could shuttle thousands of pounds over hundreds of miles and it had been fitted out specifically for this mission, to receive the APC waiting on the tarmac. Kyle waved to the loadmaster, who had brought along two assistants, and moved toward the darkened front of the plane. The lights had been turned off. Someone waited in the shadows.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” replied Sybelle Summers. With her black hair, and wearing black jeans and a black sweater, she was almost invisible. “You know what pisses me off?”
“Far as I know, just about everything. What?”
“This friggin’ country! Here I am helping to save them from catastrophe and I can’t set foot outside of this damned plane for fear of upsetting their frail little sensibilities. Rawls has to pretend to be a major while I, the real deal, have to stand around doing nothing. Whole nation of men traumatized by tits and ass.”
“I’m very sorry you feel that way, Major Summers, but I don’t really care at the moment. Did you bring my stuff?”
Sybelle laughed. “I have to express my outrage at their sexist behavior. Yeah, I got it.” She nudged a booted foot against a titanium alloy gun case and a smaller secure briefcase. “You sure you want to do this?”
“Absolutely. I’ve got a get-out-of-jail-free card from the king, and I’m partnered up with his nephew. No worries.”
She peered out beyond the distant rear of the aircraft. Men were pulling the tarps off of the APC and the loadmasters were laying markings to guide the machine aboard. A Marine sergeant climbed into the APC to replace the Saudi driver while Major Lassiter and Prince Mishaal bin Khalid worked through the papers.
“That prince is a good-looking guy, but how good is he in a fight?” Sybelle asked. “I don’t like not being here to cover your back.”
“Nice enough dude and seems capable. Bright guy, educated in Great Britain, went through our Army Ranger School and has become the trouble-shooter for the royal family. The princes only trust each other these days and I don’t trust anybody. Just in case, I want you to run a thorough background check on my new best buddy, Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid, and his kick-ass aide, Captain Omar al-Muallami.”
“Understandable,” said Sybelle. “Meanwhile, General Middleton wants to know if the Saudis have figured out what happened to the missing nuke over at Khobz.”
“No,” said Kyle. “They are still blaming it on the terrorists. Tell the general that since King Abdullah is now on the same page with us, I recommend telling him that we have it in our possession. Take some worry off his shoulders. Now do I still have the Green Light for this, uh, other job?”
“Middleton approved it. He is not passing it on to the White House. Pull it off without getting caught and we’re all home free. If you screw up, Middleton will cover it under a bunch of top-secret excuses.”
“Don’t worry. Am I going to get this kid Jamal from the CIA as a backup? He’s good.”
“Done. His contact number is in here.” She handed him a sealed manila envelope.
“And the Lizard is tracking my target?”
“You kidding? Freedman is having a ball with it and the NSA big ears are all over this dude. He’s operating on open frequencies and you could probably just follow him by watching television. His schedule for the next few days is in the package. Un-fucking-believably arrogant and stupid.”
“Finest kind,” Swanson said. “I can let his ego work for us. Have the Liz keep Jamal up to speed on the guy until we get together.”
They both turned as the APC moved to the bottom of the ramp, the engine was gunned and the armored vehicle growled aboard so the loadmasters could secure it with hooks and chains. Darren Rawls saluted the Saudi prince again and marched back up the ramp. “Y’all done here?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Kyle said. “I’m gone. Take this big bird away and secure that TNW. It’s the second of the five.” He stuffed the envelope into a vest pocket and picked up the gun case. “We should have the next warhead ready for pickup soon, but you may have to work a lot faster, so stay ready. See you then.”
Sybelle had a look of concern. “Kyle, be careful. You’re alone out here, like a fisherman on a big ocean with a whale pulling on the hook.”
“I got it. Really,” he said. He walked back out through the cargo bay, past the APC and down the ramp into the heat. The long gun case bumped against his thigh. His personal sniper rifle, Excalibur, was in it and that was a difference-maker as far as he was concerned. A smaller case contained a good map of Saudi Arabia, a battery-powered satellite telephone and a backup cell phone, a GPS tracking device, and a goody bag of things that might come in handy.
At a shout from Darren Rawls, the lieutenant handling the security platoon saluted his own Saudi counterpart and the Marines hustled back aboard the plane.
Kyle loaded his cases into the Land Rover as the Herc revved its engines, which had never shut down throughout the brief operation. It turned around and moved out to the vacant runway, already cleared for takeoff while the Saudi soldiers were dismissed and got aboard trucks.
Mishaal returned to the SUV and started it, clocking the air-conditioning up to high. The chill breeze was delicious.
“One down, Gunny. Three to go. One still missing. What’s in the fancy new luggage?”
He turned to look at the prince. “A secure telephone and some personal shit. Brought along my own weapon because it is custom-made and I might find a use for it. Hope you don’t mind.”
Mishaal smiled. “Not at all. I’ve heard my uncle bragging about you, so I would love to see if you’re up to Ranger standards.”
Swanson grinned as the cool air made life worthwhile again. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”
An off-key chirp of little bells sounded in the back seat, from the cell phone on the belt of Captain al-Muallami. He flipped it open, identified himself, and grimaced as he listened. Then he closed it, dropped it on the seat, wrote something on a small notepad, folded the page in half, and handed it up to the prince. “From headquarters, sir,” he said.
Mishaal read it. “I may get to see you work sooner than expected, Gunny. All hell has broken loose down in Ash Mutayr, a divisional headquarters on the southern border near Yemen. The troops have mutinied and heavy fighting is underway. They seized some armor.”
Swanson let his head slump forward. “Ash Mutayr? That was going to be our final nuke pickup site,” he said.
“It just moved up the list to be our next stop. It’s more than four hundred miles from here, beyond the biggest desert on earth.” The prince popped the Land Rover into gear and accelerated toward the flight control building. Captain al-Muallami was already on his radio, ordering up a private jet with a fighter escort.
Kyle was silently changing his own plans. He had hoped to go directly over to Jeddah, meet up with Jamal, and go take a look at the guy heading the Religious Police, who was the other half of his Green Light Package. Swanson had to make a decision on whether the man was a true danger, or just a dupe; to kill him or let him live. That trip had just flopped right in the shitter with the uprising at the southern base. Jeddah would have to wait.