ASH MUTAYR, SAUDI ARABIA
SWANSON DASHED ACROSS AN open area to a line of storage buildings on the rebel flank without drawing a shot, searched for danger among the street’s rooftops, windows, and doors, and then picked a huge, sturdy structure for an observation post. It was about the length of five normal houses and slightly taller than the neighboring buildings, which would give him some elevation to oversee the area.
The place looked vacant, as if the workers had closed shop when the shooting started and retreated elsewhere for safety. The door was locked. Kyle paused until there was a burst of some gunfire about a block away to cover the sound of him kicking it open. Finding no opposition, he closed it again. With the M-16 at his shoulder, he carefully cleared room after room as he made his way to the roof. At the top of the stairwell, Swanson gently pushed open the topmost door and when there were no shots, squirmed through, closing that door behind him, too.
He was not surprised to find the roof unoccupied and quickly made the place his own. First things first: Cover your six, baby. He was alone, and without a partner for cover, he had to be certain that no enemy would show up unannounced. Swanson placed a claymore mine in position to face the doorway, then stretched the tripwire taut and tied it to the knob. Anyone pushing the door outward would trigger the booby trap and some 700 small steel balls would scour the area with a single horrendous blast.
Next, he needed to construct a hide that would not draw attention from the street or another building. There were four square, vented air-conditioning system ducts available, and he considered tearing the back off of one of them and squeezing inside next to the machinery to peer out through the vents. But there was a lot of junk spread around, which provided a better option. He decided to arrange some empty crates and boxes and other debris just to the left and slightly behind one of the boxy air-conditioning ducts, with cracks and openings to give a good view of the surrounding area. Anyone who chanced to look up would just see the boxes which masked his silhouette. He moved in, sat down, laid his rifle beside him, and took out his binos.
He was soaked in sweat by the time he looked out to see what the rebels were doing. Damn, there were some easy pickings down there. It was hard for Kyle Swanson to suppress his sniper instincts in such a target-rich environment. For the moment, the satellite phone and his binos were much more important than the rifle.
Having captured the buildings along the edge of the town next to the military base, the rebels were shifting into positions to press their attack. Their probes were finding points in the defense that were intentionally being left uncovered by Prince Khalid, and rebel patrols were moving to occupy them.
The rampaging soldiers were trained on flat desert with heavy tracked vehicles and were interested only in an armored slugfest. In the town, the battle was rolling fast, surging between buildings and down streets, with the emphasis on brute force. After taking a building, the rebels would immediately leave it before doing a thorough search and move on, screaming about victory and Allah and ceremoniously firing their AK-47s into the air. Kyle had seen that false euphoria before. It was a comfortingly normal event to him.
Things were ragged down below, which was also something he had expected. Many officers had been executed in the first hours of the uprising, and other sergeants and soldiers had escaped from the insurgent force. Without leaders, unit cohesion had disappeared and the reins of the fight were in the hands of a bunch of ill-trained morons, Kyle thought. Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid should be more than able to handle this bunch. Keep coming, boys, keep coming.
THE SAT PHONE, ONLY about the size of a police walkie-talkie, had a folded aerial that popped into place when Swanson pulled it from a pocket of his gear vest. The electronics hummed to life when he switched it on and a built-in global positioning system provided his exact coordinates.
His first call went to Kuwait. “Trident Base, Trident Base, this is Bounty Hunter. Over.”
There was only a momentary hiss of static, then a familiar voice came back: “Bounty Hunter. This is Trident. Send your traffic. Over.” Joe Tipp was on the horn.
“Roger that, Trident. Another package is ready for pickup,” Swanson said. He wanted the Hercules and the Marines on the way over as soon as possible and it would take the big, slow bird a lot of time to cover that distance. He read out the grid coordinates for Ash Mutayr.
“Uh…Bounty Hunter. Intel advises that area is hot.” Tipp obviously was surrounded by staff members.
“Roger that. Just pick up the package, Trident. I will not attend the meeting. Work with my counterpart.”
The staff people wanted to know what Swanson had in mind, but Tipp cut them short and gave the confirmation. He trusted Swanson’s judgment. “Solid copy. Trident out.”
KYLE MADE ANOTHER SECURITY check around his perimeter and noticed that the gunfire had become sporadic. Mishaal was breaking contact and pulling back to gain space between the attacking rebels and his defending units. Settling back into the hide, Swanson raised the binos again and scanned the airfield and then looked deep into the base. The rebels were mistaking the sudden lull in the shooting for a preliminary sign of coming victory, taking it as an opportunity to regroup for a final push.
Armored vehicles were rolling back to a rendezvous point to refuel and rearm, falling into lines at the pumps and ammo sheds. Teams of soldiers were also coming back out of the city and settling beside the perimeter road of the base for a rest and to get some food and water while the armor was replenished. When everything was ready, they could launch the assault.
He checked his watch. Time to call Mishaal. “Crown, Crown, this is Bounty Hunter.”
“Bounty Hunter. This is Crown. Go,” the prince responded.
“In exactly thirty mikes, be prepared to release the imam. Tell him that you wish to negotiate a cease-fire and surrender your remaining forces, but only after he has a guarantee that the rebel leaders will spare the lives of your soldiers. Have a vehicle deliver the imam to within a hundred meters of the control tower at the airfield, then cut him free.”
“I don’t like this,” said the Saudi officer, with some strain in his voice.
“You will,” promised Swanson. He briefed the prince about the current rebel activity, then did a time check and ended the call.
THE NEXT CALL WAS going to be more difficult and would cause a ripple that would reach all the way back to the White House. Precision was necessary, so he paused to do some careful math homework before making it. A battered green sniper’s logbook and a ballpoint pen came from the vest so he could make notes.
The GPS in the sat phone had provided his precise position, and using a pocket compass, he determined the exact directions from his location through azimuth readings to the control tower, to the fuel and ammo dump zone, and to the broad area where the tired rebel troops were gathering to rest. The third part of the equation was solved with his laser range finder, and he measured the distance between himself and the targets.
Now for the tricky part. He dialed up a new frequency and called, “Frequent Flyer, Frequent Flyer, this is Bounty Hunter.”
A U.S. Air Force captain at the communications console aboard an AWACS plane flying in high circles over the Arabian Sea answered with a stone calm voice: “Bounty Hunter, this is Frequent Flyer Seven-Oh. Send your traffic.”
“Roger, Frequent Flyer Seven-Oh. I have a Black Flag mission. Stand by to copy.”
“Send your traffic.”
“Roger. I have targets at grids six niner seven four, five niner six four.”
“I copy. Six niner seven four, five niner six four. Is this correct? Over.”
“That is a solid copy.”
There was a slight pause as the captain punched the numbers into her computer and it flashed a bright red warning. “Bounty Hunter, that is a no go. Those coordinates are in a friendly country and we have no authorization for that.”
The moment of truth. “Frequent Flyer Seven-Oh. Bounty Hunter. Stand by to copy authorization codes.”
“Roger that. Send your traffic.” The captain’s fingers were poised over the keyboard on the electronics warfare plane and her total concentration was on the voice coming over her headset. She did not want to miss a syllable.
“I send: Zulu Delta, One Niner Seven, Whiskey X-Ray.”
“I copy: Zulu Delta, One Niner Seven, Whiskey X-Ray.”
“Roger that.”
“Bounty Hunter. Stand by one.” This is above my pay grade, thank goodness, the captain thought, touching a switch to alert the colonel who was overseeing the day’s flight at the far northern edge of the carrier battle group. “Colonel, we have received a Black Flag request with a presidential-level approval code from inside the kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Call sign Bounty Hunter. Switching to you.”
Swanson had expected initial disbelief and then eventual capitulation by everyone who handled the call. From his rooftop hide, he was summoning a strike by U.S. warplanes on a precise target within an allied country. He would provide timing and other directions to the individual pilots once they were in the area. The AWACS colonel read the traffic, acknowledged receipt and sped the request up the chain of command to the battle fleet commander.
Aboard the carrier, the admiral’s chief of staff was a cautious man and advised his boss that they probably should check the request first through Washington. The admiral snapped, “No, goddammit! I don’t know who or what this Bounty Hunter is, but he has all of the proper codes and has verified authentication. A Black Flag means that he wants us to get in there and help, not to waste time climbing the cover-our-asses telephone tree. Tell him that we’re on the way. If I’m wrong, I’ll retire early.”
SWANSON LET TEN MINUTES pass, drank some water and talked to the pilots. The tired rebels had spent their initial burst of energy and excitement and had settled into lethargy, as if the outcome of their mutiny was now certain. They had won and had plenty of time to clean up the remnants of the old regime.
“Crown, this is Bounty Hunter.”
“Go ahead, Bounty Hunter.”
“Turn him loose. When he reaches the control tower, I’m going to pop smoke.”
“Then what?”
“You guys hold your line and keep your heads down. Do not venture out beyond your positions.”
KYLE WAS CAREFUL IN sorting out the calls of aircraft arriving on station, finding out what weapons they had and stacking the planes in packages, flying in circles starting at fifteen thousand feet and fifty miles away. He heard the grumble of the APC heading up the runway and put his binos on it. A white flag was tied to the machine gun in the turret, flapping as the vehicle slowly ventured onto the black tarmac. Picking up the sat phone, Swanson gave a command and a single aircraft peeled away from the stack and headed in toward Ash Mutayr.
The armored personnel carrier came to a cautious, rattling stop and then the track commander lowered the ramp. The imam, a short and bearded man wearing dirty robes, stepped out and walked with calm confidence toward the rebel command post in the tower. He would deliver the surrender message of Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid, but order the rebels to ignore it. Kill all of the heretics and spit on their bodies! The APC buttoned up its hatches and sped back to its position, fleeing sporadic fire from men to whom the flag of truce meant nothing.
Within three minutes, the imam’s voice was heard warbling over the loudspeaker system throughout the base, announcing his miraculous escape through the hand of Allah, and exhorting the troops to finish their glorious battle.
FORTY THOUSAND FEET OVERHEAD, a U.S. Air Force B-2A bomber made a slightly descending approach. Illuminated dials and computerized figures were projected on the heads-up display, but the pilot wanted to get his eyes on these targets. The radio in his headset crackled.
“Nighthawk, Nighthawk, this is Bounty Hunter.”
“Go ahead, Bounty Hunter.”
“Roger. My position is as follows: Six niner, seven four, five niner, six four. Your target is an ammo dump and refueling depot that is 1,150 meters from me at 38 azimuth. I will identify my position with red smoke.”
“I copy, Bounty Hunter. Target is a gas station 1,150 meters from you at azimuth 38. Over.”
“That’s a solid copy.”
The data was locked in the stealth bomber’s computer, which passed the settings to the smart bombs. “Roger that, Bounty Hunter. I can see them now. Quite a crowd.”
“I’m popping smoke.” Kyle snapped the pin on the smoke grenade and threw the oblong device into the street alongside the building, where it cracked open and spewed out a ballooning column that was thick and crimson, starkly visible against the brown landscape.
The B-2A bomber pilot now knew exactly where to deliver the load, and where not to bomb. “Roger, I see red smoke.” As the computer made its final calculations, he opened the big doors in the belly of his plane and confirmed, “Starting my bombing run.” In moments, eighty GBU-39 small diameter bombs, each weighing about 300 pounds, spun away from the internal rotary bomb racks and the pilot hauled the stealth plane, the Spirit of Georgia, into a gentle turn and whooshed quietly away.
THE CLAYMORE MINE THAT guarded the door to his rooftop perch exploded with a flash and such sudden violence that it shook the building. Kyle jumped at the surprise blast and heard a man scream. Some rebel nosing around the building had tripped the booby trap and was blown out of his boots. Automatic weapons began stuttering, with the bullets zipping harmlessly through the smoke of the destroyed doorway. Kyle shifted the phone to his left hand and grabbed his M-16 with his right. If a woman can steer a car, apply makeup, text-message, and drink coffee at the same time, I can do this.
FROM THE CONTROL TOWER, the imam’s shrill words were still goading his former captors, and bringing shouts of delight from the cheering rebels when the first smart bombs from the B-2A crashed into the lines of armored vehicles at the fuel farm and ammunition depot. A jackhammer staccato of violent explosions crushed the columns with a thorough carpet-bombing, and the storage areas of petrol and ammunition erupted. The ground underfoot shook as the typhoon of destruction consumed the entire area in a fire-storm. Blazing battle tanks flipped about like ruined tin cans.
Before the roar of the first attack ceased, Kyle had a pair of Marine F/A-18 Hornets barreling in low. They had been flying a mission in Kuwait when the Black Flag was unfurled and arrived as the first package in the circle. Swanson read them the location and azimuth of the wide field that was jammed with rebel soldiers, all of whom were watching the disaster at the tank pens.
THROUGH A CRACK IN his hide, he saw an enemy soldier creeping slowly along the roof. Kyle held his fire because the man was not specifically hunting him. All the soldier really knew was that a claymore had blocked the doorway and caused casualties. Swanson judged the enemy strength was most likely just a few guys, a squad at most, and the claymore already had sheared off a few. The soldier probed around an air-conditioning duct and found nothing, then turned and saw the hide. The rebel’s eyes grew wide in alarm as Swanson took him down with a careful three-round burst.
THE FAST F/A-18 HORNETS sailed in on a south-north run and laid a trail of bombs and rockets through the massed infantrymen in the open area. Shrapnel chewed through them like broad razors and their shredded bodies fell in bloody heaps.
Kyle figured one more strike would be needed and he assigned the target of the control tower to two Navy F-35 Joint Strike Fighters just as another pair of rebel infantrymen darted from the wrecked rooftop doorway, charging toward him with their rifles on full automatic. Swanson kept the radio tight to his ear and put his M-16 over his head, pointed it at open space, and pulled the trigger to let it rock and roll on full auto. The bad guys would either have to take cover or hit the deck. There was another scream and he gave the final instructions to the planes.
The JSFs came in low and hard to lay a long, fiery string of napalm that wrapped the control tower in broiling flame and smoke.
The entire attack required less than ninety seconds and had left the rebel force broken and its leaders dead. The aircraft were gone almost before any of the rebels even had a chance to look up.
“Frequent Flyer. Bounty Hunter. End mission. One hundred percent success. No more help is needed from the planes waiting in the stack. We owe you all a drink.”
“Roger that, Bounty Hunter.” The captain was on the line again and was sounding upbeat and flirty. “Stay safe.”
THE FLIMSY WALL OF the hide crashed down in a tangle of debris as the final rebel soldier slammed into it at a hard run, his thought process unhinged from reality by the ferocity of the fight. The man had lost all sense of reality and was gripped by a temporary insanity: He just wanted to kill the unseen tormentor, face-to-face.
The attack knocked Swanson down and the M-16 was trapped beneath a board. The furious soldier was on top of him, trying to untangle his own rifle from the wreckage. Kyle slapped him hard in the face with the sat phone receiver in his left hand, a move that broke the bridge of the nose and caused the eyes to water. The head snapped to the left, but the momentum was still propelling the man forward. Kyle released the M-16, lunged forward, and buried his own chin against the enemy’s right cheek. Wrapping his arms around the man and clasping his hands together to complete the body lock, he used remaining momentum to complete a judo throw back over his shoulder. The soldier’s feet left the ground and he sailed overhead.
The rebel was still holding his AK-47 and the middle part of the weapon smacked Kyle hard in the forehead, cutting the skin and making him see stars momentarily. He held on. When the roll was completed, Kyle was kneeling on top of the soldier in a full mount. He folded his right arm and drove the sharp elbow straight down into the left temple of his opponent, dropped the sat phone so he could yank the Ka-Bar knife from his harness with his left hand. He stuck it hard into the neck, twisting it. He did not have to examine the soldier to know he was dead, so he moved away from the corpse and grabbed the M-16 again, then visually scanned the rooftop while he caught his breath. It was quiet. That was the last one.
SWANSON RETRIEVED THE PHONE and changed frequencies one more time. Blood was dripping from his forehead into his right eye and he wiped it away.
“Crown, Bounty Hunter.”
“Bounty Hunter, this is Crown. That was a bit of a surprise.”
“Yes, sir. The Saudi Royal Air Force is a splendid unit and deserves commendations for its action here today.”
“Roger, Bounty Hunter. Care to join us in the attack to finish off the stragglers?”
“No thanks. Best that this remain an all-Saudi fight. I’ll see you in a little while. Good hunting.”