Kill Zone: A Sniper Novel (3 page)

TWO MERCENARIES RESTED
their elbows in pockets of loose sand and held large binoculars steady as they watched the oncoming Thursday morning traffic. Only their hands and heads, covered by desert-brown camouflage, were visible above a small hill crowned by scrub brush about ten meters from the highway between Riyadh and Dhahran in Saudi Arabia. AK-47 assault rifles were strapped across their backs and rocket-propelled grenade launchers were at their sides. Between them, a radio transmitter lay sealed in a plastic bag that protected it from sand. Everything was in place for the snatch-and-pull ambush.

They had worked through the night, digging into the gravel beside the highway. By dawn, passing vehicles had whipped up enough dirt and debris to erase almost all traces of their work. The only evidence that a bomb had been planted was a needle-thin wire antenna that stuck up six inches above the dirt.

The night had ended suddenly, and the brilliant summer sun rising behind them punished the eyes of oncoming drivers. It was hot, already in the low nineties, and sweat trickled down their faces, but they would not lower their binoculars.

“Gettin’ hot, Vic,” observed former U.S. Army Ranger Jim Collins. He stood six feet tall but was the smaller of the two.

“No shit, Jimbo? Hot in Saudi Arabia? You’re fuckin’ brilliant.” Victor Logan’s rumbling voice was more like a low growl. The former chief petty officer in the U.S. Navy SEALs never let Collins forget who was in charge of this Shark Team.

“Just sayin’,” Collins replied, then shut his mouth and thought about the money instead. They were getting fifty thousand dollars each for this job. He wanted to talk about what he planned to do with the cash. Definitely a new truck. When they got back to the house, he would log onto eBay Motors and shop for a while.

Vic Logan and Jimbo Collins were part of an elite group of hand-picked former special ops warriors who were used only for high-risk, off-the-books jobs by a multinational private security company. Logan grinned.
If we’re Sharks, then I’m a Great White and this dumbass is a fucking Hammerhead.

The big American was pissed at everyone, including himself. He had been less than six months from retirement, with twenty years in the navy, when his career went down the toilet. The body of a badly beaten young prostitute was discovered in an alley in Naples, and the shore patrol found him passed out a block away, drunk as a skunk. Since the only witness was dead and no evidence tied him to the girl, the cops had to cut him free, but Vic Logan was through as a SEAL. They had kicked him off the teams so fast it had made his head spin.
And I hadn’t done anything all that wrong!
There was not enough evidence for a court-martial, but some sea lawyers picked through his records and found enough dirty laundry for fighting, drunkenness, assault on an officer, and suspicions concerning another dead whore in Olongapo, that dirtbag town right outside of Subic Bay, to lay an Administrative Separation hearing on his ass. The AdSep ruled Logan to be morally unfit for service, which was the navy’s chickenshit way to get rid of him. It took everything—rank, loss of pay, benefits, and retirement—and he was told to consider himself lucky that there was no jail time and no federal conviction.

Fuck the navy, the SEALs, and the whores, including the ones they never found. In his view, the AdSep was trumped-up bullshit. If he killed enemies of his country, he got medals. Stop a couple of whores trying to rip him off and he was framed. Within six months he hired on as a mere. This was payback.

The most difficult part of the job was waiting, and their patience was rewarded when three boxy, shiny black Hummers came into view, heading toward them like a line of big beetles.

They knew exactly who was in each vehicle. A radio update had come in moments after the convoy had departed the U.S. Embassy compound in Riyadh. Brigadier General Bradley Middleton of the U.S. Marine Corps was alone in the back of the big vehicle in the middle of the small convoy. A Marine guard was in the front seat, along with the Saudi driver.

Another armed Marine rode shotgun beside the driver of the lead Hummer, with two Saudi security troopers in the rear. The trailing vehicle had a driver and another Saudi guard, and its passengers were a young woman Marine captain who was the general’s aide, and a civilian escort from the foreign ministry.

On they came, arrow-straight along the broad road. A mile. Half a mile and coming fast. On the ridge, Vic Logan readied the little radio transmitter.

In the lead car, Staff Sergeant Norman Burroughs was glad the trip was almost done. He felt naked in the unarmored, civilian-style Hummer. Cool air-conditioning blew on his face, but he would have preferred to be sweating and uncomfortable inside a Marine armored vehicle with a .50-caliber machine gun up top. Burroughs did not like this place. Trouble just seemed to ooze from the desert sands. The Saudi guards and the driver were joking and smoking cigarettes instead of paying attention. Security was for shit. The staff sergeant tugged the brim of his hat lower, adjusted his sunglasses, and continued to stare into the morning sun as he counted off the miles back to the real world, which for him was the Marine Expeditionary Unit aboard the task force cruising in the Persian Gulf. His fingers unconsciously traced the trigger guard of the M-16 rifle propped between his knees, locked and loaded.

The driver smirked at the nervous American. Dhahran and Riyadh were the two safest places in the kingdom, and the long road between them was smooth as glass and totally safe. He had driven it a hundred times or more just in the past year, and knew that he would soon be away from this unpleasant heat, spending the day at a villa in the cooler Dhahran Hills, waiting to pick up a government official for the return trip to Riyadh in the evening.

Burroughs kept his eyes moving, looking for possible threats, but by the time he saw a glitter of sunlight bouncing off the thin wire antenna, the speed of the Hummer had taken them into the kill zone. The staff sergeant started to yell a warning, but didn’t make it.

The bomb detonated with a horrendous roar, and the first Hummer catapulted into the air, flipped twice, and crashed down on its roof. The fiery wreckage skidded and ground forward on the pavement, bathed in churning smoke and flame.

When the blast wave rolled over them, Logan and Collins moved smoothly into kneeling positions with the rocket-propelled grenade launchers on their shoulders. They triggered a pair of missiles that rushed with low hissing sounds toward the last Hummer, and the car exploded in a ball of fire.

They tossed the launchers aside and ran down the slope with AK-47s in hand. Collins broke away to check the rear vehicle, while Logan opened fire on the middle Hummer, a careful fusillade that destroyed the tires, crashed into the engine, shot out the front windshield, and killed the driver and the guard in the front seat. Bullets sang in ricochets, glass shattered, and a smell of burning rubber and oily smoke oozed from the destroyed vehicle.

Jimbo Collins returned from the rear vehicle dragging the general’s aide, Captain Linda Hurst, by her arm. She was dazed. Her face and short blond hair were caked with sticky blood, her ribs ached, and a leg was broken. She had barely been able to focus when she was pulled from the wreckage, and thought for a moment that she was being rescued. Instead she was jerked from the car and pulled down the road, the pavement peeling away bloody strips of skin from her legs. She was dropped at the feet of a large man wearing old blue jeans, a brown T-shirt, tan desert combat boots, and a brown scarf that masked his face. Captain Hurst could not hear her own screams, because the RPG blast had destroyed her eardrums.

“General Middleton! Get out of the vehicle right now, or I kill this bitch!” Logan pointed his rifle at the wounded and bleeding woman.

Middleton, gasping for breath in the smoke, had his pistol out, but recognized the situation as hopeless. He had seen the lead Humvee evaporate in the explosion, and when the RPGs took out the car in back, he dove to the floor for safety as his own vehicle was shot to pieces. His entire security detail was dead and all he had left was his Colt .45 pistol, while the attackers had automatic weapons, RPGs, and a hostage. Although he knew all of this, he still hesitated, because Marines don’t surrender. Why hadn’t they killed him, too?

A few seconds later, another burst of AK-47 fire tore into Captain Hurst’s right arm and her screaming rose. Several cars that had slowed on the far side of the highway scurried away when the drivers saw what was happening.

“I SAID GET OUT OF THAT DAMNED CAR!” Vic Logan roared again.

Middleton hardly knew the young officer who lay out there. She had been assigned as a temporary aide at the start of the trip, and had done little more than carry his briefcase in Riyadh while he talked with the Saudis. Had he been alone, he might have chosen to fight, but he could not let the kid be murdered. “All right! I’m getting out!” he called, and dropped the pistol. He opened the car door, raised both hands above his head, and stepped into the bright sun.

Jimbo Collins jerked the general’s arms behind his back and expertly slapped on steel Smith & Wesson handcuffs. Once he was secured, Vic Logan casually double-tapped Captain Hurst. Two 7.62 mm bullets blew off the back of her head.

The Shark Team pushed and hauled the general away from the burning pyre of the highway, over the sandy ridge, and down to where a dark green Land Rover was parked in the dry gulch. They threw him into the back seat and Logan got in beside him. Collins slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine, and the strong Land Rover surged forward in four-wheel drive.

Middleton flinched when a hypodermic needle plunged into his arm. He felt the morphine circulate through his system, and hissed through gritted teeth: “I’ll kill you both.”

“Shut up,” said Logan. “You ain’t gonna be killing nobody.” He tossed the needle out of the window.

As he collapsed, Middleton’s mind finally registered what he had been too busy to comprehend. The general’s last thought before the morphine swept him into blackness was,
My God, these are Americans!

YOU ARE A VERY TROUBLED PERSON,”
said the sniper to the knight, pointing at a beautifully presented Hearts of Palm salad that was the first course of a fantastic lunch aboard the
Vagabond.
It was an old Special Forces thing. In desert survival training, with no food, you could chop down a palm tree to get at the tasty, edible centers. Anyone who endured the experience would have done it so many times that they would swear never to eat another Hearts of Palm salad as long as they lived.

“You ungrateful American! My chef will be crushed,” said Jeff with an easy laugh as he pushed away his own salad. “Perhaps you would prefer a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” Tim Gladden also passed on the salad.

The others at the table had no idea what the three military men were talking about, so Jeff steered the conversation into areas in which his business guests could glitter and glow. As if wound up mechanically, they soon were rattling on about new companies preparing IPOs, who got how much of a bonus for leading a company into bankruptcy, and who had been indicted. It was too easy to get those guys to talk about themselves. They did not include or need anyone else in their conversation about finances and the venture capital world. The ladies switched to serious relationship chatter about the breakups and marriages of supermarket tabloid celebrities, and when Lady Pat and Shari tuned in to the gossip, Jeff hauled Tim Gladden and Kyle Swanson out on deck.

They toasted with cold green bottles of Heineken beer and lit fresh cigars that Jeff vowed had been rolled on the thighs of Cuban virgins who afterward were personally deflowered by Castro himself.

Kyle said, “You know, I swear that little blonde was giving her husband a hand job beneath the tablecloth. His eyes were crossing.”

“Gawd. How does one control newlyweds? She’s thirty years younger than he. I hope she doesn’t give him a heart attack before we can cash his Excalibur check,” said Tim.

“Our bank already confirmed it,” said Jeff. “If he dies, he dies with a smile, we bury him at sea and console the grieving widow.” He turned to Swanson and put on his serious face. “So, what’s your answer?”

“Same as always. Thanks but no thanks.” The wind pulled the smoke away, toward the distant lights that marked towns along the heel of the Italian boot.

“Kyle, you are not getting any younger. You cannot do your sort of work forever.”

“I like what I do, Jeff. I’m a pretty fair sniper, and somebody has to do it.”

Tim spoke up. “I have news for you, old man. You are not indispensable. When you leave, another Marine will step into your place. I didn’t see how Ten Para could possibly get along without me, either, but somehow they did just fine.”

Jeff agreed. “The biggest hurdle is the first one, hanging up the uniform. You know it’s going to happen sooner or later.”

“The time isn’t right. I’ll know when. Not yet.”

“Don’t wait too long,” said Gladden. “Thanks to this grumpy old man, I found a new and worthwhile career. I used to think a hundred thousand dollars was a lot of money, but with the patents and proprietary interests the company has developed, there is much, much more available. And we desperately need your help on new projects.”

Jeff emptied his beer, tossed the bottle overboard, and uncapped a new one. “You and Tim and I are the only people who know everything about the Excalibur project. We had the engineers work only on specific sections. Once we finish the field trials, those guns are gold, Kyle. After that show you put on yesterday, those investors couldn’t write checks fast enough. You have more than earned a share.”

“I worked on it as part of my job, guys,” Swanson replied. “The Marine Crotch would throw my ass in the brig if I got paid extra for it.” The sideways offer had caught him off guard. They were willing to put up part of the action on the future licensing and sales of Excalibur. A fortune.

“We only bribe politicians,” Gladden said. “We are just pointing out that you would be an extremely valuable asset to our company, and also that we could make it worth your while financially.”

Jeff looked at Swanson like a priest at a sinner and abruptly changed the subject. “Damn it all, man, why don’t you and Shari
both
just get out of the military business? I know you want to get married, but you’re wedded to your jobs instead of each other. That is not good at all, lad. You must grab time before it passes you by. Anyway, I want a grandson.”

“Been talking to her, have you? And you can’t have a grandson by us because we’re not related.”

“I was speaking in general terms. A granddaughter would be just as welcome. No, we haven’t spoken with her about it, although Pat has been planning the wedding for some time, something terribly romantic and worthy of a pop diva. You may not have reached the point yet where you want to make the change to private enterprise, but you will, my friend. When you do, I promise you a soft landing. We just want you to hurry up.”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

Tim gave him his unsmiling commando look. “Maybe we have a competitor for your highly marketable skill? Has one of those dreadful PSCs come a-knocking on your door, offering some big money to the super sniper?” He was talking about private security companies, the modern mercenaries.

“Oh, hell, no. I would never be a merc. There are a ton of those jobs out there, but you can never trust them because you don’t know where their loyalties really lie. They’re like Doctor Frankenstein’s monster, and could just as easily spin out of control. Anyway, if I kill somebody while I wear the uniform, it’s okay. I don’t know how that would play out if the mercs take part in combat ops.”

Gladden laughed. “Oh, Kyle, you are so naïve. They’re already running combat missions. Have been for years. Some PSCs have armored vehicles, choppers, and even some old jet fighters now. Bleedin’ private armies, they are, for sale to the highest bidder. And with the U.S. military heading toward privatization, it’s only a matter of time before they are authorized and paid to fight an entire war by themselves. It just plays better to the public if some South African merc is lost in action for a noble cause rather than the boy next door.”

“If it’s so great, why aren’t you two in on it?” It wasn’t like Jeff to pass up a good business opportunity. There were hundreds of millions of dollars in the PSC game.

Jeff shrugged. “Like you, chum. We were professional soldiers for much too long. I’m more than satisfied with my company and its products, and I’m old-fashioned enough to enjoy being in the service of my queen and country.”

“So, as you Marines would say, ‘Fuck the Frankensteins,’” said Tim Gladden, holding his beer aloft.

Jeff raised his bottle, too. “Fuck the Frankensteins.”

Kyle Swanson touched theirs with his own. “Fuck the Frankensteins.”