Hot Ice

3

A trickle of hot sweat burned Jason’s right eye. Blinking was the only movement he allowed himself. He tried to concentrate on the activity in the center of the village.

Peering through the rifle’s scope, he estimated the distance to the platform under construction. It would have been helpful if he’d had the opportunity to visit the earthen square, mark the precise location with the GPS, and compare it with his present position. There were as many armed soldiers milling around the project as there were workers. A rough calculation would have to do.

Besides, the distance was, what, only two and a half football fields? Almost a gimme in his trade.

Slowly, he moved his head to make sure someone had not wandered into his area. Certain he was alone, he adjusted the scope to 250 yards. Now he was thankful for the suffocating stillness around him. The slightest breeze could cause a millimeter or so of deviation, which, at this distance, could turn a kill into a miss.

He tried not to fret about the ammunition. Ordinarily, he loaded his own, weighing both projectile and powder carefully to ensure uniformity with practice rounds and to be careful the brass casing was perfectly crimped. The tiniest of cracks in the seal around the lead could diminish muzzle velocity and arbitrarily increase the parabola that is the path of all bullets. There had been no time for self-loading or practice.

He almost succeeded in comforting himself that for once a kill was not imperative.

But why shoot Bugunda at all?

Though certainly villainous, he posed no threat to Jason or the United States. Jason had been trained on the basic level of all military — a step-by-step suspension of morality inculcated since birth: Kill the other guy before he kills you, the basic credo of the combat soldier. From there it was a short transition to kill before your opponent has the chance to kill you. Not exactly a major step. Next came the leap of killing the enemy simply because he is the enemy, not because he poses an immediate threat, the moral justification of the long-range killers, artillery, bombs, missiles, the snipers. Anyone who kills at a range beyond his sight. Then the final abrogation of civilized society’s normal mores: letting others’ decisions determine who is, in fact, the enemy and therefore subject to extermination. Once that process is complete, the soul’s aversion to the slaughter of one’s fellow human beings is suspended and those who make a profession of it feel a high, a sense of Olympus-dwelling superiority that dwarfs mere drugs.

That is why killing can become addictive.

Jason had realized all of this but his retirement from the military had been motivated not by a sense of what might or might not be moral but by the opportunity to spend his time in other pursuits, time with Laurin, painting. But 9/11 had changed all that. The rage he had felt at the loss of his wife, followed within days of contact by Momma and her shadowy organization, had been a perfect channel for his feeling of impotence to protect the woman he had loved. The chance for some measure of revenge too sweet to bypass. The money — lots of money — was a distant second in motivation. Once he had participated in the assassination or capture of half a dozen Islamic terrorists, the line between them and their allies blurred. You were either against the extreme Muslim world or part of it. Had Maria and her aversion to any form of violence not come into his life, he supposed he would have been a Narcom “contractor” until his palsied hands could no longer hold a rifle steady.

Before he could linger on the thought, a van pulled into the square scattering children and raising a cloud of dust. The dish on top signaled its purpose as a TV truck. He watched a crew of four unload equipment and set up cameras and klieg lights as finishing touches were applied to the platform.

He was so intent on observing the television crew, he almost missed it: a light impact with the ground nearby, felt more than heard.

Jason froze, reducing his breathing to short, shallow gulps of the humid air. He was thankful he had taken the time to complete filling in the sniper’s blanket, his only defense. With it over him, he was indistinguishable from the ground around him.

Then he heard a voice — a grunting, guttural language he did not understand. And he didn’t need to. Someone was scouting the area to make sure it was secure. The fact he had spoken indicated more than one, probably a patrol.

As though to confirm the guess, a boot planted itself less than a foot from Jason’s face. He did not dare look up. The light reflecting from his eyes could give him away. Instead, Jason slowed his breathing even more and suppressed the sudden urge to urinate. There was another voice, this one to his right. For whatever reason, the patrol had stopped literally right next to him.

He heard a familiar scratch and smelled a whiff of tobacco smoke. A metal canteen opened behind him and he could hear the sound of rapid, greedy gulps.

Swell. These guys were going to take a break right here.

Well, if he were lucky.

If not, they were going to form a perimeter around the village until after Bugunda and Moustaph left.

No plan is without unanticipated contingencies. This one, at best, could blow the mission. At worst, it could get Jason killed. Without knowing the number and location of the militiamen, there was no chance Jason could neutralize all of them. His best bet was to remain still and hope no one stepped on him.

There was a splash of liquid that splattered Jason’s face. Christ, someone was taking a leak inches from his nose! Worse, the thought increased his own urge.

There was a cry and then another from the village, a swelling of voices that blended into a single wavering ululation and handclapping that Jason guessed was a traditional tribal greeting. Above it, he heard the sound of engines.

Footsteps crashed around him and retreated toward the sound.

Jason counted slowly to sixty before he dared look up. Six armed men were between him and the village, running to where a cavalcade of vehicles was charging down the narrow space between huts. A World War II vintage jeep with a mounted fifty-caliber machine gun led two Mercedes limousines followed by another armed jeep. All halted in swirling dust in front of the platform.

Forgetting his bladder’s protests, Jason trained the scope on first one and then the other Mercedes as their passengers emerged. Although he had never seen the man in person, he recognized Moustaph immediately. He wore the traditional white headdress and flowing robes of his Bedouin ancestors. Carefully placing the scope’s crosshairs between the Arab’s eyes, Jason breathed deeply and felt his finger tighten on the trigger.

It took an act of monumental willpower to relax it.

Instead of the dark, bearded face, Jason was seeing the tiny office, more a cubicle, really, at the Pentagon on a bright late-summer day. Captain Peters, J. had already handed in his resignation from Delta Force, the Army’s super-elite commandos. His last month would be spent shuffling paper in Washington instead of crawling through or jumping into some of the world’s least hospitable places. He was looking forward to the day he would exchange his uniform for faded jeans and paint-splattered T-shirts. His pictures were selling well and he would soon have enough for half of the down payment on that house on the beach in the British West Indies he and Laurin were going to buy. Her real-estate investments, the ones she had inherited from her mother, would easily have covered the sum, but Jason insisted he put his money into the home too.

They had seen their last cold, drab DC winter.

Laurin, his wife of three years and a junior partner in one of Washington’s premier law firms, had surprised him that morning by walking into the cubicle. Like most DC law firms, public relations — or more plainly, lobbying — was a major source of business.

Lobbyists, the people we hire to protect us from the people we elect.

One of her firm’s major clients was the United States Army, which, like any large business, had its special needs that required congressional attention (or, at times, a specific lack thereof).

On this particular morning, she had finished her appointment early and dropped by to offer to fetch Jason a cup of coffee from the officers’ mess two floors below. His mouth sour from the brand that came out of the Mr. Coffee in his office, he had readily assented.

In the confusion that ensued almost immediately, the one thing he remembered clearly was glancing at his desk calendar: September 11, 2001.

They never found her amid the charred wreckage. Oddly, the one thing that survived was the simple gold wedding band, identified by the engraving inside: their initials, the date of the wedding, and per aevum—for eternity. He still wore the ring on a chain around his neck. He needed nothing to remind him of her. She was in his thoughts always, a fact Maria not only accepted, but also found endearing. But in places like this, the pressure of the ring against his chest reminded him he was not just doing a job; he was on a crusade. Money was not the point. He had more than he would ever spend, but he would never fully enjoy it until those responsible for Laurin’s death had paid in full.

It had quickly become apparent that 9/11 was not going to be avenged anytime soon and the so-called War on Terror would be the typical political football. Instead of simply nuking the country that had hosted the perpetrators of the outrage back into the stone age along with any who protested the action, forces were sent to overthrow the Taliban and rid the world of al-Qaida, an enterprise Jason found as useless as trying to find a specific ant in a series of anthills.

The only difference was that this particular ant had been identified before 9/11 and ignored by a president more concerned with the political fallout from a loose zipper.

Jason’s rage and frustration found a use when he was contacted by Momma. He had been her chief terrorist hunter ever since. The money was more than good and the job satisfaction better.

He would get them all if it took a lifetime. It was his purpose in life per aevum.

Now he was looking at one of the men who was as directly responsible for Laurin’s death as the pilots of the aircraft who had crashed into the building; he literally had Moustaph in his sights, a dream come true. It had been Moustaph who had recruited the hijackers and who had seen that their expenses were paid while some learned to fly.

Only the thoughts of the interrogation techniques awaiting the terrorist made Jason shift the scope to Bugunda.

Wearing a lime-green suit and bright-red tie against an electric-blue shirt, he was as obvious a target as if he had painted a bull’s-eye on his chest. And what looked like white patent-leather shoes, too.

If Jason didn’t kill him, the fashion police might.

Jason indulged himself by taking a single sip from his canteen.

He shifted his posture, spreading his legs and wiggling his elbows into firm position to support the rifle.

Bugunda, waving more to the TV cameras than to the small gathering of villagers, was approaching a microphone. Over his left shoulder, Moustaph was applauding, as were the two men next to him. Jason studied the latter two carefully. Africans in suits with telltale bulges under the left arms. Their upper faces were shielded by the reflective sunglasses so popular among dictators and tyrants of the Third World. Even so, Jason could see they were more interested in their proximity to the Arab than scanning the audience for any potential threat.

In the country’s wretched economy, small bribes accomplished a lot.

Bugunda began to speak, his voice tinny as it rattled through speakers placed around the square. Jason had no idea what he was saying but he noted periodic pauses when men in uniform, outside the view of the cameras, encouraged applause. Other men, not in uniform, circulated through the audience, brandishing sticks in case the more slow-witted spectators failed to get the message.

Jason checked his watch. The minute hand still had a little space between it and the top of the hour. Time for a final check. As slowly as possible, he turned to make sure he was once again alone. He pushed the palm of his hand against the rifle’s bolt, making certain it was as far forward as it would go, closed and locked.

He had killed men before in Delta Force operations, anonymous beings he had taken with a gun, a knife, or his bare hands. He had done so as commanded without remorse or qualms. He had only killed enemies of his country who, had the opportunity presented itself, would have returned the favor. A soldier’s duty. Today he was going to snuff out the life of a single unarmed individual who had done him, personally, no harm. The fact that the man was responsible for the deaths of thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, was of no particular interest. But anyone who gave succor to al-Qaida was a candidate for execution. Killing them involved no more moral issues than squashing a cockroach. All concept of kindness to one’s enemies, of fair play, had been burned out of Jason along with the ruins of the Pentagon that September morning.

Admittedly, there was thrill in danger: insertion into the country, the skill of getting into position without detection. It was a rush that he now realized he’d missed more than he had thought. The actual killing would be anticlimactic. Death from a distance was never as exciting as face-to-face. Still, for the pure pucker factor, it beat painting seascapes.

He returned to his former position: legs flat and wide apart, elbows resting comfortably to support his weapon. He inhaled deeply — once, twice — and centered the scope between Bugunda’s eyes before lowering it perhaps a millimeter. A shot in the middle of the forehead was desirable but it was unlikely the man would survive any head shot.

With the eye that wasn’t glued to the scope he watched the minute hand of his watch go straight up before he slipped off the safety and took two more deep breaths, and then a third, which he held as he gently increased pressure on the trigger.

So intent was he on holding his aim steady he either didn’t notice or didn’t hear the gunfire or the crack of a projectile splitting the air at ten times the speed of sound. His first real awareness came with the impact of the Heckler & Koch’s recoil and the scope’s circle of blood and brains splattering onto those standing next to his target.

He waited an extra second, watching the two men beside Moustaph drag him off the platform as though to protect him from another assassin’s bullet. As Jason dropped the rifle, his last glance toward the village took in mass confusion. Its inhabitants had either dropped to the ground or were staring stupidly at the corpse on the platform or generally getting in the way of those trying to flee. Men in uniforms were firing their weapons in every direction, including the sky. Those Jason assumed to be in command shouted orders at deaf ears as Moustaph was literally thrown into one of the jeeps, which disappeared in a cloud of red dust.

Leaving the rifle where it was, he slipped out from under his blanket and crawled as quickly as he could to the base of a flowering magic guarri tree — a bush, actually. Its fruit was often fermented into a potent liquor and its wood was said to have magic properties, two reasons it was never used to make charcoal. At the moment it would conceal Jason’s line of retreat. A rattle of automatic-rifle and machine-gun fire ripped through the grass like wind-driven rain, snipping leaves from the maize and flattening some of the millet as though by an invisible hand. He could only hope the ill-disciplined troops were firing in every direction. Still, a random bullet could kill just as easily as one carefully aimed. Ducking his head as though to present a smaller target, he stood. Keeping the guarri in line between him and the village as best he could, he moved swiftly away on a track he had predetermined with the GPS. Even as the random gunfire began to subside, it took willpower not to break into a run. The waving of the tall grass as he crashed through would not escape the notice of even the greenest troops.

The sound of gunfire had acted as a signal. Somewhere in front of him, Jason could hear rotor blades thumping the thick, humid air. From behind him there was the sound of engines.

Now Jason was in a field covered with only waist-high grass and about fifty yards across. Some sort of horned animal raised its head, spotted Jason, and fled, followed by two more of its kind.

Floating in the middle of the lake of dry grass was an old Boeing-Vertol CH-47A Chinook helicopter, the one seen on every evening’s newscast during the Vietnam War as it ferried men in and out of combat. The only difference was this one was painted black and without insignia. The payload of the Chinook had made it popular the world over for both civilian and military use. It would be as impossible to trace as the sniper’s rifle.

Jason waded through the swaying grass, the chopper’s twin rotors, one at each end, reminding him of a pair of dragonflies mating in flight. From his right, one of the jeeps he had seen in the village emerged from the tall grass, its fifty-caliber chattering at something behind it. A lump in the backseat was wrapped in flowing white robes.

They had Moustaph!

Someone in the Chinook saw it too, for a metal ramp appeared at the lip of the large cargo door halfway down the fuselage. The jeep bounced inside.

Jason was running now. With Moustaph on board, he had become dispensable. There was no need for anyone to take further risks to make the mission a success. The helicopter levitated a few inches. Once free of the earth, it began a slow counterclockwise rotation from the torque of its twin engines.

Jason was galloping at full speed, intent on reaching the chopper. Only a blur to his right caused him to turn his head in mid-stride to see the other jeep approaching. They had seen him and were turning at an angle that would put them between him and the departing Chinook.

His straining heart seemed to skip a beat as the chopper rose a little higher. He could see one of the crew members, indifferent to the approaching jeep’s machine-gun fire, standing in the doorway. Was he waving? The bastards! They were going to leave him!

No, wait. The man was signaling. He wanted Jason to stop? Jason suddenly understood. Not stop, but …

He threw himself forward onto the ground just as a finger of white smoke streaked to connect the Chinook’s doorway with the second jeep. There was a ball of fire as the vehicle disintegrated among flying parts both body and chassis and a thunder that rolled across the field like a storm.

Smoking debris was still falling like a gentle rain as Jason stood and brushed himself off before reaching out for the hand extended from the cargo door.

“Thanks!” he yelled, trying to be heard above the racket of the engines. “That was a little close!”

The crew member, his face half hidden by the visor to the helmet he wore, pointed to the still-smoking tube of the rocket launcher, smiled, pointed to his ears to indicate he couldn’t hear, and jerked a thumb at the rear of the aircraft.

There Moustaph was being helped none too gently out of the jeep, his hands cuffed behind him and his feet shackled. The crewman nodded and grinned, a smile that invited Jason’s. Stepping into the rear of the cavernous Chinook, he made sure that Moustaph was alive and in no immediate danger of anything more than the discomfort of being bound and a large, grape-colored bruise that was growing under one eye.

He stared at the terrorist whose return gaze was full of fury.

Jason smiled, remembering the old Arab proverb about revenge being a dish best served cold. Jason’s had been given over a decade to cool.