Robert Gandt
Acts of Vengeance
For my son, Robert Gandt, Jr.,
with love and amazement
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Huge thanks to friend and fellow writer Lt. Cmdr. Allen “Zoomie” Baker, USN (ret). His mastery of tactical air combat and the F/A-18 Hornet fighter have again steered Brick Maxwell — and the author — out of harm’s way.
A salute to 1st Lt. Chris Parente, USMC, for his help with matters of infantry tactics, weapons, and Marine Corps arcana. For their guidance through the murky waters of undersea warfare, another salute to Submarine Group 10 Command Master Chief Terry Byerly and Chief Petty Officer R. J. Hoon, USN.
Again a “well done” to Doug Grad, my editor at New American Library, for his clear eye and steady hand. To my literary agent, Alice Martell, another bouquet and big thanks.
To the real-life heroes who are holding the line against our nation’s enemies, my admiration and profound respect. You’re the best of the best.
EPIGRAPH
“Never do your enemy a small injury.”
“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”
MAP
CHAPTER ONE
BETRAYAL
It sounded like a distant storm.
Colonel Jamal Al-Fasr pulled the Land Rover over to the soft shoulder of the highway. He rolled the window down and cocked his head, listening.
There it was again. A familiar rumble. An alarm sounded in Al-Fasr’s mind.
Shakeeb, in the opposite seat, looked over in surprise. “Why are we stopping, Colonel?”
Al-Fasr ignored the sergeant. He opened the door and stepped out on the sand. He peered eastward, in the direction of the sea. Heat waves shimmered from the surface of the desert. The barren landscape seemed devoid of any sign of life.
Then he saw them. A wave of dread swept over Al-Fasr.
They were low, no more than two thousand feet above the desert. They looked like killer angels, flying in a loose combat spread. Al-Fasr tried to count them. A dozen, perhaps more. He recognized the sleek profiles, the canted vertical stabilizers: F/A-18 Hornets. Their long gray noses were pointed toward Abu Dhayed.
Al-Fasr felt his heart beating like a hammer. He squinted against the glare of the low morning sun, scanning the horizon. They wouldn’t send fighters in low unless —
There. In the distance, just crossing the shoreline. He could pick them out, dark blobs pulsating like apparitions in the heat waves. He could hear the faraway beat of the whirling blades reverberating over the sand hummocks.
CH-53s, he guessed, and they would be filled with battle-ready marines. He stared in disbelief. Where had they come from? How did they know?
He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes past seven in the morning, exactly fifty minutes before the overthrow of the Emir’s government. Al-Fasr had planned each minute detail, orchestrated every movement, assigned each duty of his clandestine force. It would be a lightning-quick transition from a feudal administration to a modern Arab state.
Something was wrong. The coup had been compromised. The Americans were in Abu Dhayed, and it could be for only one reason — to save the Emir.
He reached inside the Land Rover and yanked the cell phone out of its cradle. After several rings he heard the voice of his younger brother, Akhmed. In the background he heard the crackle of small-arms fire.
“They have the building surrounded,” said Akhmed.
Al-Fasr muttered a curse. His brother’s forty-man garrison was stationed in a downtown warehouse, poised to move out.
“Who?”
“The Royal Guard. Armored cars, tanks, at least a hundred troops.” Akhmed’s voice sounded desolate. “How did they know?”
“I don’t know. But you must hold out. Naguib will be there soon with his brigade.” There was no point in telling Akhmed the truth — that American troops were in Abu Dhayed. Naguib and his brigade were probably trapped.
For several seconds Akhmed didn’t reply. Al-Fasr heard the sound of his brother’s raspy breathing and, in the background, more gunfire.
Then a succession of explosions. “They’re using grenades,” said Akhmed. “I must go.”
“Fight the bastards. We are on the side of the people.”
“It looks bad, Jamal.”
“You must hold out.”
“Inshallah. If God wills it. Good-bye, brother.”
“Good-bye, Akhmed.”
Al-Fasr stood for a moment beside the Land Rover, stunned by the turn of events. His eyes remained focused on the incoming helicopters. The sound of the beating blades rolled across the desert like drumbeats from hell.
His main force, commanded by his Air Force colleague, Maj. Naguib Shauqi, was bivouacked at the Bu Hasa armory, five kilometers from the downtown headquarters. With armored cars, they were poised to race down the main highway to Abu Dhayed, where they would seize the radio station and the military command headquarters. At the same time the secondary force, led by Akhmed, would smash through the gates of the royal palace and take the Emir and his family into custody. The plan depended on the emirate’s regular army troops perceiving that their position was untenable. They would lay down their arms and offer no resistance. Like most of the populace, the common soldiers had no love for the Emir.
Al-Fasr tried to imagine what had gone wrong. There could be only one possibility. Someone had betrayed them.
He had no doubt that Naguib’s brigade at the armory, like Akhmed’s downtown garrison, was surrounded by the Emir’s soldiers.
He called Naguib’s cell phone. After a dozen rings went unanswered, he replaced the phone in its cradle. Grimly he peered again at the warbirds swooping down on Abu Dhayed. If Naguib and his brigade were cornered or captured, the coup was doomed.
Akhmed was doomed.
They were all doomed.
Al-Fasr wondered how his brother would be treated by the Emir’s soldiers. He shoved the image from his mind. It would be better if Akhmed were killed in battle. The Emir’s Royal Guard was legendary for its viciousness.
Suddenly Al-Fasr remembered his parents.
His father disapproved of his sons’ political activities, but he had not interfered. Al-Fasr’s father had a special loyalty to the Emir, with whom he had gone to school and under whose protective umbrella the Al-Fasr family had accumulated great wealth.
Which was why Al-Fasr had kept his father ignorant of the approaching coup. Though the family would be exposed to a brief danger, the coup would be a fait accompli before any retribution could be taken against the family.
He cursed himself for his misjudgment.
Al-Fasr jumped back inside the Land Rover. In a flurry of sand he wheeled the vehicle around and sped back down the highway.
He kept the Jet Ranger low, skimming the floor of the desert.
Perched in the left seat, Shakeeb had the AR-15 pointed out the open hatch. For over twenty kilometers they hugged the ground, avoiding the roads that radiated like veins from the center of Abu Dhayed.
The Al-Fasr family compound lay to the west of the city, in an irrigated glade with grass and a palm-covered hillside that sloped behind the main building. Instead of using the helo pad next to the compound, Al-Fasr set the Jet Ranger down on a flat stretch of desert that was shielded from the compound by the hill.