THEY ARRIVED BACK AT Incirlik with plenty of time to shower, change clothes, and have breakfast before their next flights. With the special op done, they could mix anonymously with the crowd. Lines of soldiers and airmen and Marines talked in a garble of background noise, and silverware and china clinked a tinny chorus. The aroma of cooking eggs, sausage, and bacon rose like a cloud from the grills as cooks in stained whites kept the food moving to the steam tables. Air Force chow halls were the best, so although the flyboys wore bus driver uniforms, Kyle was always happy to share their food. He stacked a tray full of the good stuff, while Sybelle settled for bran flakes and fruit. Plenty of black coffee. They found a small table off to one side and put down their trays.
“What are you going to do on your R-and-R, Kyle? Two weeks is a long time.”
“Rack time. Sleep. Wake up and then go back to sleep. I’m tired.” He drank some coffee and thought back over the last few months, during which he had been constantly on the go. The two weeks spent stalking a terrorist in Chechnya had been exhausting, and before that he was looking for a drug operation buried deep in Brazil’s giant rain forests. Leading a Filipino marine unit against an island hideout of Islamic terrorists ended in a screwed-up firefight. Last night’s raid into Kurd country seemed like just another routine day at the office for Swanson, but even professional hunters get tired.
Sybelle studied him as they ate. Kyle Swanson: the legend himself, the ghost arisen. He was not a big man, 5'9" and 175 pounds, with muscles that were sinewy rather than bulging. The kind of guy with remarkable endurance who could fight all day, long after the bigger guys gave out. Gray-green eyes and sandy brown hair that was longer than normal, even by civilian standards, around an angular face. He was neither handsome nor unattractive, just unremarkable, which was exactly what he needed to be.
On paper and in all government computer banks, Swanson was dead, and he had a tombstone in Arlington National Cemetery to prove it. Two years ago, Kyle was the best scout-sniper in the Marines, a veteran shooter who was often tabbed for special ops work by other agencies. Then General Bradley Middleton had been kidnapped as part of a plot to topple the United States government and put the Pentagon beneath the thumb of a private military contractor. Kyle was on the rescue team sent into Syria, and although the rest of the force had been wiped out, Swanson pulled Middleton to safety while most of the Syrian army hunted them. He was badly wounded in a final firefight, and his fiancée, Shari Towne, was murdered by the plotters in the United States.
Important people realized the value of a single operator in the modern-day climate of terrorism, and it was decided that Kyle Swanson, with no living relatives, should cease to exist. He accepted the deal, with one condition. After recovering from his wounds, the billionaire maniac responsible for killing Shari Towne was soon thereafter found dead on a Colorado mountain, shot through the head in what was ruled to be a hunting accident.
With the fake burial at Arlington, and Kyle’s entire identity and fingerprints wiped away, Task Force Trident was created around him, with General Middleton in charge and Sybelle Summers as the operations officer. Swanson was virtually the invisible man, free to take on any assignment. He could kill anybody, anywhere, and walk away untouched by law.
But he had never fully recovered from the death of Shari, his bride-to-be, and one of the reasons that Sybelle had come out from Washington for this otherwise routine operation in Iraq was to evaluate his physical and mental condition. She found that he still had his normal cold edge and the hard shell that made sure nothing got inside. Swanson simply did not care about much. Kyle’s problem was not about being dead but about continuing to live with himself.
“Middleton wants me to report back on how you’re doing, Kyle.” She held the warm mug of coffee in both hands. “I know you can still shoot straight, but how’s your head?”
“You mean, am I crazy?”
“Are you?”
“Of course. I have to be crazy to do this job!” He grinned. “No. At times, I get tired of being dead. It can be a pain in the ass. I mean, having to wear a black mask in that room with other Marines? I knew half of those guys but couldn’t even say hello. I have to check my latest fake passport every morning to remember my name for the day. They even gave me a set of Dutch identification papers a while back. Do I look Dutch to you?”
“Got to be tough,” she agreed. The ultimate loner. “Tell you what. You’re obviously exhausted and running on battery power alone. So take your R-and-R and rest up, get drunk, get laid, and sweat out a hard physical conditioning program. Then come back to Washington and let’s figure out how to slow down the workload. They can’t expect you to cover the whole world by yourself.”
“Is the general complaining about me again?” Swanson and Middleton had not gotten along for years, dating back to their first encounter during the First Gulf War. Middleton had come across Swanson after a particularly vicious firefight and saw the sniper trembling as he reflected on the carnage he had caused during the battle. Swanson always had found a few moments alone after a fight to bring himself back to normal, but Middleton had mistaken the reaction as evidence of incompetence. Not only had he tried to get Swanson kicked out of the Marines, but he also used the term “shaky” in the official report. The attempt failed, but the ironic nickname of “Shake” stuck, for his friends knew that Kyle Swanson was anything but unreliable in battle. It had taken the rescue in Syria to start Middleton and Swanson on a path of mutual respect and friendship.
“No. He’s just concerned. We all are. Without you, there is no Task Force Trident.”
Kyle finished a final slice of toast and pushed away his plate. “Well, Captain Summers, tell the folks back home that I am just skippy. I still believe in our mission. I still hate terrorists, and I’m still willing to kill whoever the president decides needs a good killing.”
WITHIN A FEW HOURS, Summers left for Washington aboard a military transport, and Kyle climbed into a Sikorsky S-76 helicopter. It was shining white except for two narrow bands of dark blue stripes and a gold corporate symbol on each side marking it as part of Excalibur Enterprises Ltd., the holding company for the many businesses of British tycoon Sir Geoffrey Cornwell. The sleek bird was a combination executive passenger vehicle and all-around workhorse, and Kyle was the only passenger in its spacious and soundproof cabin. The aircraft had no ties to anything military, and its flight log for the day recorded just a routine trip for a company executive, but in the world of clandestine operations, Sir Jeff was known to occasionally lend a hand for off-the-book operations. Kyle strapped into a comfortable leather seat as the powerful Turbomeca Arriel 2S2 engines revved up, and in minutes the Sikorsky was up and heading toward the Mediterranean Sea. The steady low throb of the engines helped him fall asleep almost instantly.
“We’re landing, sir.” The pilot’s voice on the intercom aroused him after what seemed only a few minutes, but when he checked his watch, Swanson saw they had been in the air for more than an hour. The blades were slapping hard, and from the cabin window, he could see the square landing deck of a luxurious yacht with the same color scheme as the helicopter. The sparkling Vagabond seemed to rise from the waters to meet the wheels of the descending bird, which touched down lightly on the landing deck.
“Home, sweet home,” said Kyle Swanson as a crewman pulled open the door from the outside. “Thanks for the lift, guys.”
He stepped to the deck while the chopper was still shutting down its engines and ducked away from the powerful downdraft of the rotor blades. A woman moved toward him from the cabin area. She was Lady Patricia Cornwell, in a blouse of blue silk and dark slacks, with a silver necklace and earrings. “Welcome back, stranger,” she said, giving him a tight hug and handing over a cold beer. Her eyes took in everything: the weary movement, the sun-reddened skin, a slight limp. He had been gone for almost two weeks. No questions. “Jeff is on his way back from a NATO meeting and should be aboard before the storm arrives.”
“Good to be here, Pat. Lord, I’m tired.” Clouds were gathering on the horizon, and crewmen in crisp uniforms hurried about, coiling rope and lashing canvas to get the big yacht ready for the approaching heavy weather.
Pat gently touched a small bandage taped on his chin. “Did you forget to duck?”
“Cut myself shaving,” Swanson answered with a laugh.
“You seem to do that a lot these days.” She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go take a nap before you fall asleep on your feet, Kyle? We will call you for dinner at seven.”
“Yes, m’lady.” He walked away across the teak deck and disappeared into an open hatch, heading for his own cabin as the yacht shifted beneath his feet on the rolling waves.
Pat stared out to where the black waters met the graying sky. An unhappy soul, she thought as the breeze pulled at her hair and clothing. She knew that he would fall asleep fully clothed and that they would not see him at dinner.
Swanson heard a soft bump against the hull and immediately smelled rot and decay. He knew who it was before he shrugged out of bed and went on deck to peer over the rail. Below, bobbing in a long, low craft that rode easily on the churning water, was the Boatman, grinning up at him. Dead people sat erect on the benches, three to a side.
“You’ve been busy,” Kyle observed.
“Wars. Revolution.” The Boatman shrugged with a low cackle. “I always have many waiting to go over.” He pointed a finger of ivory bone toward a narrow ridge of fire in the north, a glowing rim between the black of the night and the black of the sea. When the Boatman pulled on a long oar to steady the craft, the wind pushed the soiled black robe around his thin figure, and his skeletal face flashed an evil smile of broken teeth.
“So what do you want? You already have a full boat, and I ain’t planning to go with you.”
“Not yet. But very soon.”
“Fuck you.”
“I have retrieved the two souls you just killed.”
“Good. They thought they were going to paradise and each would collect his six dozen virgins.”
The Boatman cackled. “They were wrong.” There was a long pause. “You are a good and reliable supplier.”
Kyle spat overboard. “And you are nothing but a bad dream. I’m going to wake up soon and you will be gone.”
The Boatman placed his hand against the white hull of the Vagabond and gave a push, then leaned onto his oar, and the little boat swung away. A few more sweeps put some distance between them before the specter turned and spoke again. “Yes? That is true, but I am never too far from you, awake or asleep. I will be back when you finally decide to put a pistol in your mouth and finish self-destructing. It will be a special trip, and you can have the whole boat to yourself.”
The shuttle craft paddled away with its cargo of corpses, the Boatman disappearing into the storm, trailing a croak of laughter.
When Kyle awoke, he was standing outside on the rolling deck of the Vagabond in his bare feet with wind-driven rain sluicing over him, drenching the clothes in which he had fallen asleep. Lightning sizzled off the water and thunder rumbled through the night sky as he held the rail in a death grip. Just a dream. Just the damned dream again.
Swanson had been trained for years to keep his emotions in check while on a mission, when precision and control frequently marked the difference between success and failure. It was after the shooting, when he was alone, that he allowed his thoughts to deal with what had happened, and the process was not always pretty. Now, the Boatman had become an unwanted part of that procedure.
All of the storms in the world could not wash away what really troubled him, so he staggered into the main cabin, pulled a bottle of tequila from the bar, and went back outside. Rain didn’t bother him. Cold didn’t bother him. Killing people didn’t bother him.
What gnawed at his brain was the simple equation that Shari was dead and he was still alive. He upended the bottle and took a large swallow, feeling the tequila bite in his throat, then he sought shelter from the thundering gale in the corner of the superstructure and drank himself back to sleep. About four o’clock in the morning, a pair of Vagabond crew members found him curled up there, wedged between a locker and a lifeboat, and they hauled him back to his cabin, stripped off the wet clothes, roughly toweled him down, and left him on the bunk beneath blankets.
“WE’VE GOT A NEW mission.” Major General Bradley Middleton made himself comfortable in his Pentagon office by opening the lower right-hand drawer of his desk and propping a spit-shined shoe on it, loosening his tie, and unbuttoning his collar.
Master Gunnery Sergeant O. O. Dawkins, one of only forty-five men in the Marine Corps to hold that highest enlisted rank, occupied most of the sofa. Double-Oh had helped write the book on special operations. Next to him sat Sybelle Summers, who had just flown in from Turkey.
In a chair of burgundy leather sat U.S. Navy Lieutenant Commander Benton Freedman, whose hair was always tousled, as if he had just gotten out of bed. He was a brilliant computer geek, engineer, and master of all things technical. At the Naval Academy, he was given the nickname of “Wizard” because he seemed to perform witchcraft with electronics and possessed an astonishing memory. Middleton yanked the Navy guy into what was essentially a Marine operation when Trident began, where his nickname became “the Lizard.”
The other member of the team, Swanson, the Dead Guy, was missing, starting an R-and-R.
Middleton pointed at Freedman, whose busy brain had been sucking information from the folder in front of him. “Lizard, summarize it, with anything you have picked up from other sources.”
“Yes, sir,” Freedman said, not looking up. “An Iraqi physicist who we thought had disappeared in 1992 showed up two weeks ago in Baghdad. He arranged a surrender to an Army intel officer and claimed to have vital information about a new weapon of mass destruction at a place he called the Palace of Death.”
Sybelle, studying her red fingernails, interrupted. “A WMD? I thought we killed that old horse and buried it a long time ago. Everybody looked everywhere and nobody found anything.”
“Save the questions and comments,” said Middleton. “Go ahead, Lizard.”
“Other than saying it was a chemical-biological agent, he was reluctant to give much real information until he was formally given immunity from prosecution and protection for himself and his family. He was kept under wraps until yesterday, when a meeting was set up at Coalition Headquarters for the first formal interrogation, and he was being delivered by an armed escort of four soldiers. A sniper picked him off before he got there and also killed the officer in charge of the escort detail.”
“Talk to me, Double-Oh,” said Middleton.
“A good piece of shooting,” said Master Gunny Dawkins as he went through the photographs of the corpses. “The first bullet hit the officer by going through the unarmored point beneath the armpit of his vest and took out the internal organs right to left, including the heart. Then the Iraqi was hit in the jugular vein along the neck, just above the collar of his armored vest, left to right. Exit through his throat.” He closed the folder. “One of those might be a lucky shot. Not two. This sniper hit what he was aiming at, and both victims bled out on the spot. My conclusion is that this was another attack by Juba.”
The general closed the drawer with his foot and slid the chair forward so he could rest his arms on the desk. “What’s your take, Captain Summers?”
“I agree with Double-Oh. It’s got to be Juba, sir. Shoots, kills, and disappears. We don’t know whether he is just one man or several different snipers, whether he is even real or just some Arabian fairy tale to pump up the spirits of the jihadists. Whatever, he’s the best they’ve got, and pulling off an assassination like this in the Green Zone enhances his reputation.”
Freedman did some calculations in his head. “I figure the shooter had a target area of no more than an inch. The unprotected opening between the vest and the sleeve of the first victim was only about an inch wide, and the sniper squeezed a bullet in there. The second shot was exact enough to hit the vein, an even smaller target. I can work up the ballistics, angles, and all that if you want.”
“Not necessary,” said Middleton. “The people in Baghdad are doing that, and we will have their data when it comes in. What is interesting is that he knew exactly who to shoot and when the target was going to appear in a certain place at a certain time. Total inside information.”
“Liz, did the informant say anything else worthwhile before he got popped?” Double-Oh crossed his right leg over his left knee, taking up even more space. Sybelle pushed him.
“An intel report arrived just before we came in here for the meeting,” interjected Middleton. “The scientist said he had escaped from a laboratory in Iran, and he gave a general location near the Iraq border.”
“He used that particular word, sir? Escaped?”
“Right. So, people, that’s our mission. We are going to do a little snoop and poop and find that mysterious lab.”
Middleton stood and stretched, throwing his arms wide, then put his hands on his hips. “So we’re going in. Sybelle, you will stay here this time and oversee the operation. Spin up an infiltration team and get them over to Doha. Double-Oh, you will lead the team on the ground. On your way over, detour out to Sir Geoffrey’s boat and pick up Swanson. Give them a briefing, and then you two hustle down to Kuwait. Order anything you need through Lieutenant Commander Freedman.”
The Lizard blew out a short breath of relief. He did not like to travel far from his desk. “Sir, is it wise to use Gunny Swanson on this? According to Captain Summers, he really needs some down time.”
Double-Oh answered. “Liz, if there is any fucking chance at all that we might bump into Juba while we run this job, I want our best shooter along to cover my ass. I’ll put my money on Kyle, tired or not.”
“Then he can sleep on the plane to Kuwait,” said General Middleton. “Get to it, people. Go get me some pictures of this Palace of Death.”