Michael couldn’t contain his laugh. Six arms waved like a spastic tarantula. “You’re kidding, right? We’re going to take Kuwait International, in one of the Caliphate’s biggest cities, and the Caliph and Prince Siraj are going to just let that happen? Hell, they’ll have every inch of the ground covered with troops.”
“We’re hoping that won’t be the case,” Baden said stiffly through the smile that appeared to be chiseled on her face. “Even though negotiations have broken off, Secretary-General Jayewardene has kept the lines of communication open with Prince Siraj. He has reminded the prince and the Caliph what happened the last time they attempted to interfere with the Committee aces. We hope that they understand that ‘permitting’ a small incursion into the Caliphate would be better for them politically than resisting one and losing.”
Rusty grumbled something unintelligible, Kate said nothing. Tinker was staring at his hands. Michael looked at Lohengrin. “You buying this?” he asked.
“Well . . .” Vell . . . A shrug. “I trust that John won’t give us anything we can’t handle.”
“Must be nice to have that kind of trust in him.” Michael felt Kate’s gaze snap toward him with that.
Barbara continued to smile at him. “I’d also remind you, DB, that you’re here because you specifically requested this mission. John told me to tell you that if you’ve changed your mind, he’ll arrange to fly in another Committee ace to take your place. Should I tell him to make that call?”
Michael had no good answer for that. They were all staring at him. His fingers tapped his chest involuntarily and the sound of sticks on a hi-hat reverberated in the room. “No,” he told Barbara, not daring to look at Kate. “I haven’t.”
“Good, then,” she said. Smiling. “Then we’re in agreement. Now, if you’ll open your notebooks, we’ll look over the initial attack plan . . . .”
I know you hate me,
I know seeing me gives you pain
I don’t care, but
You better not try to stop me again
Michael tugged on the cord to pull the earbuds from his ears. The current studio mix of “Stop Me Again” and The Voice’s acid voice went to shrill, insectlike piping, to be replaced by the thrup-thrup-thrup of the CH-47 Chinooks’ rotors and the shriller whine of fighter jets and attack helicopters farther overhead. Each of the aces had been placed on a separate chopper—Michael declined to consider the obvious logic behind that. He glanced down through the smeared windows and saw the buildings of Kuwait City’s southern outskirts below them. His stomach churned; at any moment, he expected to see the bloom of antiaircraft fire, or fighter jets with the insignia of the Caliphate on their wings diving on them, or the fiery stem of an RPG arcing up toward their Chinook from the houses below to bloom in death and fire. He leaned toward Lieutenant Bedeau, with thick earphones over his blue helmet. “Anything?” he half shouted.
Lieutenant Bedeau—in command of the troops in Michael’s chopper—shook his head and gave a thumbs-up. It did nothing to reassure him.
Taking Kuwait International couldn’t be easy. At any second, it was all going to go to hell. Michael knew it. He could feel it. Any second now, he was going to hear the chatter of machine guns and the sinister thrump of mortars. Helicopters would be pinwheeling down to crash to the tarmac. There were going to be explosions and smoke choking the air, and blood. Too much blood.
They dipped and turned sharply, and Michael’s eyes widened. Below, he could see the concrete lines of the airport, coming up fast toward them. A couple of the flotilla of choppers had already landed alongside the main terminal, and he felt their own craft touch down. No chatter of guns. No explosions. The rear door of the Chinook slammed open, letting in a wash of harsh light and swirling sand. “Go! Go! Go!” Lieutenant Bedeau shouted in French-accented English, waving his arms. The cord of the headphones jiggled heavily. “Move!”
It’s gonna happen now. Now.
The troopers from his Chinook piled out from the rear ramp in a quick, nervous double line, fingers caressing the triggers of FAMAS G2 automatic weapons. There was no answering gunfire. There was no resistance at alclass="underline" no Caliphate soldiers eager to defend the airport, no tanks clanking toward them, no fighter jets dropping bombs, no RPGs streaking red death. No Islamic aces. Nothing.
Yet, DB reminded himself. He was lugging two M-16 rifles himself, one in each set of his four lowest arms. A custom-made armored vest was pulled tight around his heavily muscled, tattooed body, and he wore one of the blue helmets over his shaved head. He was the last one out, hitting the ground under the wash of chopper blades and blinking at the gritty sand that still managed to get past the plastic goggles.
The landscape was dun dotted with green, pinned under a vicious, relentless sun. Back in the desert. Fucking lovely.
Around the tarmac, the rest of the Chinooks had also landed, UN troops spilling out like blue-capped coffee beans from broken bags, the aces of the Committee team—one to each chopper—following them: Lohengrin and Rusty, who like Michael might also be having flashbacks to Egypt; Barbara Baden; Tinker.
And Kate. Michael waved to her—a hundred yards away. She waved back perfunctorily. The dry air felt cloying, as if somehow, impossibly, a thunderstorm was about to break. He hoped not too many people were going to die when that happened.
“DB!” Lieutenant Bedeau was gesturing at him. “Let’s move!” He pointed toward the terminal.
Michael grunted assent and took a single step. That was as far as he got. Something whined past his ear—like one of Hive’s wasps in some great hurry—then a duller k-chunk came from the fuselage of the Chinook behind him. He half turned his head to see a ragged, circular hole torn in the metal. The sharp report of a rifle came in that same breath. “Sniper!” he yelled.
That was when an invisible semi slammed into his chest and knocked him to the ground. He went down hard, barely able to breathe from the force of the impact. The world went dim around him momentarily and he nearly blacked out. He heard the M-16s he was carrying scratch along the concrete of the runway, dropped from stunned hands; he heard other people shouting and the familiar, bowel-churning rattle of automatic weapons fire. Hands pulled on his multiple arms, dragging him away. He shook his head and pulled away from them. “I can do it,” he growled, but the effort of moving and talking hurt like a son of a bitch. He half crawled, half limped to the other side of the Chinook where the blue helmets were crouched, scanning the rooftops and windows of the terminal. He fell more than crouched. The fingers of his middle right hand probed his chest: there was a hole torn in the Kevlar-and-steel vest, right above his heart.
With the realization, the world spun around him once.
Another bullet ricocheted from the ramp, leaving a bright scratch close to Michael’s head. “There!” one of the soldiers shouted, pointing to a puff of smoke from the terminal. M-16s and FAMAS chattered and stone chips flew from the building’s facade. A Tigre Eurocopter attack helicopter, looking like a monstrous wasp, lifted fifty feet in the air. Weapons fire spat from the front guns of the Tigre, then stopped. A soldier waved from the chopper’s open window, then drew a finger over his throat. The Tigre banked and moved away.
“Drummer Boy!” Lieutenant Bedeau was crouched next to him, his thin Gaelic face concerned. “You are okay?”