CAPTAIN AL-MUALLAMI HAD BEEN the first man out of Prince Mishaal’s helicopter. The efficient aide had quickly ducked through the rotor downwash, found a break in the passing traffic, and trotted off to find a good overview position. The wadi opened before him as the side road breached the canyon wall and headed down to the floor of the valley, but that only provided a limited view. Prince Mishaal would need a better vantage point from which to direct this battle, and Captain al-Muallami spotted a slight incline that led to a higher, irregular ridge. He sprinted to the crest.
Behind him, the rest of the command group was moving across the road, following him. From the top, he was able to see the missile and the arid acres of debris. He removed his sunglasses and brought a pair of binos to his eyes, swept the area, and decided that this position would do. He raised his hand to signal the command group.
The sudden slam of a heavy rifle barked from somewhere in the junk yard, and a heartbeat later, Captain al-Muallami was staggered as a big bullet punctured his throat. His eyes flared wide in surprise as he grabbed at his neck, then he toppled to his knees and fell sideways.
PRINCE COLONEL MISHAAL WATCHED in disbelief as his aide fell, mortally wounded. Al-Muallami, always so sure of himself and seemingly indestructible, now lay dead only thirty yards away, his life erased in a blink. When Mishaal broke into a run to reach the fallen captain, Kyle Swanson reacted immediately, took two steps forward and drove into a hard tackle that knocked the prince sprawling. Kyle immediately rolled free but kept a strong hand on Mishaal’s arm as a deafening staccato of return gunfire erupted from the gathered troops to answer that deadly single round. The soldiers had not seen the source, so they did not have a target. After the initial volley, all shooting stopped and silence covered the wadi.
“Stay down, Mishaal,” Kyle ordered. “Juba is doing exactly what a good sniper is supposed to do: take out key officers first. Captain al-Muallami had the look of being important and walked into the open, so he became a natural target. If you go over there, he will pick you off, too.”
Another shot lashed out and the sergeant wearing the heavy backpack radio for the command team caught a bullet in his chest and fell backward, pulled down by the weight of his communications gear. The long aerial on his radio had pinpointed him for death. Juba was throwing the entire attack off balance. A thousand eyes scanned the battlefield. Where is he?
When an armored personnel carrier roared off the road and lurched to a stop to provide a shield of protection for the command team, Swanson released Prince Mishaal and helped him up. “Sorry about the tackle, sir. Juba would love to clip you, and we can’t afford that. Keep control of the situation from here and tighten the net so he can’t escape,” Swanson quietly told the prince. “Please stay under cover. I’ll be back in a minute.”
JAMAL AND HENRY TSANG had worked their way up the backside of the ridge where Captain al-Muallami had been killed, and found an observation point behind a rusted Volkswagen bug that was resting upside down on its curved roof. They could see through the blown-out windows. Kyle wiggled in beside them. The interior of the skeletal automobile was shaded. A scattering of rocks and a few bushes provided concealment while they surveyed the area. A tremendous amount of noise covered the place as helicopters took off, big vehicles growled about, men shouted, and gunfire chattered. “Spotted anything?” he asked.
“No shooter,” Tsang answered and rolled onto his side. He smoothed some dirt with his palm and poked a finger down to make a hole, then drew a straight line. “This is the missile and this is the road. No more than 200 meters. Can’t-miss range for a decent sniper.”
Kyle agreed with the judgment of the Chinese operator. “That can work both ways. He could see those two targets that he took down, so there has to be a sightline from this ridge to his hide, with nothing in between that would block a clear shot.” He let his eyes roam the area. Where would I hide?
“We don’t care about him,” Tsang said with a sharp tone. “We are here for that nuclear weapon and to prevent a real war. The deaths of a few soldiers mean nothing.”
Kyle was getting edgy himself. “But Juba’s the one who will launch the damned thing! We spot him and we can end this.”
“It doesn’t matter. I say we have the Saudis go charging in there immediately and take it down. Deal with the sniper and anything else later.”
“Major, he may be using the missile as bait, but he would sure as hell launch it the moment he sees an attack start.”
Tsang and Kyle reached the same conclusion at the same time and the Chinese commando officer said, “If he has control of the weapon, then why isn’t it already in the air?”
Jamal edged in closer. “Simple answer, guys. Like Kyle said before. He hasn’t fired it because he can’t.”
Kyle said, “Because it’s his best leverage. As long as it is there, Juba still has a chance that I will be exposed for that one second he needs to get me. And as soon as the missile flies, the Saudis will roll this place up like a rug…he dies and I’m still alive.”
“No, no, no, no!” Jamal replied, shaking his head. “I mean it literally: I don’t think he can make the shoot.”
The surprise explosion just behind them was like a shout of doom, a warning they heard too late.
58
A ROADSIDE BOMB DETONATED by a cell phone signal went off with volcanic force, the violent explosion destroying a Humvee that was on the highway. The unarmored vehicle flipped end-over-end in a bloom of flame, and the driver and three soldiers inside were killed instantly.
The tsunami of shrapnel scythed through a nearby squad of soldiers walking nearby, causing more injuries, then the blast force reached into the position where Kyle, Jamal, and Henry Tsang already were on the ground. It picked them up and slammed them back to earth with bone-jarring suddenness. Needles of shrapnel pinged and clanged against the upside down Volkswagen, which teetered from the pressure and started a slow topple down the ridge like a large pebble. They were showered with a hurricane of dirt that caked their faces and left all three of them momentarily dazed and blinded.
Swanson was on his back, stunned and gasping for air, with brilliant colors swirling in his mind as he lay semiconscious, aware only of the desire to fight back, the need to be a warrior, not a victim. The brush with death had forced him into a zone of comfort and familiar feeling in which everything but survival became secondary, and new strength was pumping through his body with each heartbeat. The world was a slow-motion, black-and-white movie that he was watching alone, in the private theater of the mind. The zone: his private roosting place when fighting loomed, an exclusive and wonderful place. Usually, Swanson would wrap himself in that comfortable cocoon just before he squeezed the trigger. His sight and hearing grew sharper and his senses of smell and touch began to return. As his thoughts reassembled, he wanted to grab a long rifle and finish this private fight. He had gotten the better of Juba in previous encounters and he could do it again! Just the two of them! I’ll blow his ass away!
Kyle staggered to his knees, starting to stand, but Henry Tsang grabbed his arm and pulled him down hard and, as he fell, a bullet sizzled through the airspace where his head had just been, and the sound of the shot followed.
Ambush! Juba had planned the ambush in advance, picking the wrecked VW as the logical observation position on the high ground. The bomb was hidden specifically to hit it, but at the last moment, the Humvee arrived and soaked up most of the devastating blast.