Time to Kill: A Sniper Novel

23

For Kyle Swanson, it was now open season on Iranian soldiers anywhere he found them. So far, the big guns of the military forces of the United States and its powerful allies remained muzzled, and the diplomats were slogging along doing whatever it was that diplomats did. His MI6 partner was off doggedly pursuing her own agenda and of little help to him, and unfortunately she had taken along Omar, who would not leave her. Ah, fuck it. He drove on rapidly, watching the fire in the distance. The massive round of initial explosions had quieted, but there were new ones cooking off sporadically, still jarring and strong, and flames rolled across the airport, which meant firefighting was at a minimum. He believed that all the Iranians could do was form a tighter perimeter, try to extinguish the smaller fires, and let the big one cook unchecked until the things stopped popping.

A new plan was forming in his mind as he drove, pushing away the absence of the Pathfinders, for there was nothing he could do about that anyway. For the present, momentum and darkness and surprise were still on his side, and he wanted to strike again, to lay on even more pressure to knock the Iranians further off stride.

He pulled to the side of the road, shut down the Toyota, and used his small flashlight to study the crude map that Omar and Tianha had made for him showing Iranian strongpoints, tracing a finger across the northeastern edge of the city to a place they had labeled MOTOR POOL. An old saying, Napoleon or Frederick the Great or somebody, proclaimed that an army marches on its stomach, but modern armies didn’t march much at all. Wheels, Kyle thought, remembering the hodgepodge convoy that had transported the first wave of invaders from the beach to the airport. He suspected that the Iranians did not bring any trucks with them on the airliners; it would have been a waste of space. A few small armored vehicles probably came in, but not plain vanilla trucks. Omar said they had officers all over town yesterday buying a small fleet of large-capacity vehicles from the locals. Those were all driven to a large garage that was being outfitted as a maintenance and fueling center for the military force.

His mind made up, he folded the map, cranked the SUV, and headed south along Al-Sheikh Zayed, splitting between the tranquil big hotels on his left and the burning airport ammo dump on his right.

A mile later, buildings became more numerous in a light industrial area, and Swanson was able to use less-traveled roads, dodging into lanes and nooks when he saw oncoming headlights. Steadily, he wound toward the big garage that hulked on one of the wider streets. An apron of light in the big parking area of sand and gravel was almost as good as a WELCOME sign. A number of buses and trucks were parked in the yard, side by side with military precision, while the noise of power tools and voices came from the open bay doors. Mechanics were at work inside. A single soldier lazily walked the yard with his rifle across his chest, guarding the wide front gate in a weather-scarred chain-link fence and watching the ammo dump go up at the airport. Several workers were taking a break in the yard, with their attention also glued to the dazzling show on the horizon, and one man in a stained mechanic’s overalls was in the wide bay door, wiping his hands on a rag. Kyle drove around back, into the shadows.

No one was there, as if any threat were expected to politely walk up and announce itself to the guy with the gun in the lighted front. There was absolutely no sense of panic, despite the rolling thunder from the airport still occasionally vibrating the ground and the buildings. The surprise of the initial blasts and shocks was over, and people with work to do were losing interest. He maneuvered the 4Runner until the mirror on the passenger door brushed the fence, and he left the motor running, got out and climbed atop of the SUV, then spider-dropped over the barrier. Moving in a crouch, he reached the first of three sets of fuel pumps and planted his last brick of C-4, with the timer set for thirty minutes. Since fences surrounding businesses are designed to keep people out, not in, Swanson found a wooden loading pallet leaning against the wire, stepped on it, grabbed the top rail, and pulled up, over, and out. He checked his watch and drove away. Total elapsed time inside, less than three minutes.

The 4Runner had been tricked out by Omar to provide tourists with comfort, but nothing had been given away that would make it any less reliable off-road, for some intrepid prima-donna adventure seekers would insist on heading out where no man or woman had ever been before, as if every square inch of Egypt had not been explored over the past few thousand years. Swanson engaged the rugged four-wheel drive and peeled away from the paved road and into the dirt, lights off and steering by the cold January moon. Mercury and Mars nearby hung like bright ornaments.

Ten minutes later, a halo glowed at a new checkpoint that had been established on the main highway, maybe a mile away. Slowing, he closed the gap to what he guessed was a half mile, beyond the reach of the light bubble, then stopped and switched off the engine so the exhaust vapors would not curl up like a smoke signal. Swanson dug out and assembled the rifle and put the laser range finder on the target. Just under half a mile: 2,640 feet or 880 yards. He could make that shot but wanted to be absolutely certain, which meant closer observation, so he walked forward carefully, letting his toe feel the way before planting his heel and shifting the weight. When he was almost on the edge of the lights, he went to his stomach and crawled until he found a small depression at the base of a sad old palm tree that would provide cover and concealment.

He settled in against the rock-strewn sand, brought up the stock of the rifle, and allowed the Leupold 10-power scope to carry him right inside the Iranian outpost. The laser range finder snapped the number right at six hundred yards. Just like at the motor pool, these guys still didn’t get it, even with the ammo dump still thudding like a jackhammer; they did not understand the danger zone they were in, because they were elite fighters and everyone was supposed to be afraid of them. One rifleman was on the road to wave down oncoming traffic, a second was ten yards behind him, and a third, apparently the noncom in charge, was standing beside a Jeep to make sure the others did what they were told. A .50 caliber machine gun was mounted on the Jeep, but it was unmanned, apparently there to show passing motorists the soldiers meant business. These guys were asking to die, standing there with their dicks in the wind staring stupidly down a corridor of dark road, talking loudly, even laughing, and pointing out particularly impressive fireworks over the airport. According to his watch, there were two minutes left before the motor pool provided still another light show.

Swanson’s fingers ran a final check of his weapon, a familiar task that was built into his brain. Then he slowed his breathing and ticked off the seconds in his head as he waited for the C-4 to blow. It did, and he went to work. His first shot took out the sergeant by the Jeep to keep him from getting the big gun going. By the time the middle man turned toward the motor pool explosion, Kyle’s semiautomatic rifle had cycled in a new round, and he moved the scope just a hair, then pulled the trigger again. The man’s arms flew wide, his AK-47 spun away in slow motion, and his knees buckled. The bullet tore through his chest.

The third soldier, the guy out front in the road, had reacted to the close gunshots but was running back toward the Jeep instead of into the darkness, or at least falling flat or charging toward the shooter. Kyle slid the rifle back to the original aiming point, and the guy ran right into the scope and caught a bullet through the spinal cord. Three shots, three dead targets, less than three seconds.

Swanson was up instantly, jogging back to the waiting 4Runner, breathing steadily and not looking back. The work at the outpost was done, and he still had more mail to deliver.

He went out into the desert, where there were fewer roads, and angled away from the main highway before looping around wide to the east to avoid the communities that were out that far. He parked again and used his cell phone to contact Bialy, who answered on the second buzz. “Are you and Omar in the Blue Neptune now?” he asked.

“Yes. We’re good. Where are you?”

“Out shopping. Anything happening that I should know about?”

She almost laughed. “I should be asking that question, Swanson. We keep hearing these explosions, and the Iranians are running all around. Did you hear about the firing squad?”

“No.” His blood chilled. They were executing civilians because of his actions. “Anyone significant among the victims?”

“The mayor of Sharm,” she replied, reading the list of names. “Mohammed El-Din. The people aren’t going to accept that one very easily.”

“Who was he? Anything might help.”

“The head of a prosperous local family. Omar says he has been mayor for many years and was well liked. Owned a good-sized business called the Gold Sun Water Equipment marina, which served the big hotels. The other victims seemed to be just a cross-section of citizens. El-Din was the example the Iranians wanted.”

Kyle paused and thought for a moment. Most of civilization clung to the water, and the people of Sharm were no different, for water brought trade and money and success. He realized that he might have found the next step in his night’s work. The Gold Sun should have what he needed, and it most likely would be closed because the grieving family of the mayor, who ran it, would be huddled together at their home. “OK. You guys stay safe.”

“Kyle?” Tianha said, but he was gone.

Heading south again, he checked his position on the Toyota’s global positioning system and found a small track that led to the back road to the Gold Sun Water Equipment marina. The tourism trade of Sharm depended on watercraft, for this was a world-famous diving spot, but even divers needed a break from the reefs and caves and coral, and they rented everything from sailboats to windsurfer boards and played around the beaches when not lying around the hotel pools. All of that had collapsed, and now the storehouses of the fun toys stood empty and locked. Just outside the city, he entered a wide rectangular area in which a central road was flanked by storehouses. Upturned kayaks lay stacked alongside like pancakes. A few palm trees loitered around the buildings, beyond the reach of the sprinkler systems of the hotel grounds.

He parked one street over and made a careful circuit of the area on foot, checking the rear of the buildings, the rooftops, the windows, the yards, other parked vehicles, anywhere that danger might hide. He saw no inside lights, although a few bulbs glowed feebly above some front doors. The place was deserted. He went back to the 4Runner and took it almost to the water’s edge, parking behind a battered white pickup that bore the words GOLD SUN WATER EQUIPMENT in English.

The building extended out over the water, and a blunt pier outside extended inside, too, so watercraft could be sailed directly into the building. A metal roll-down gate sealed the opening. Kyle went to the glassed-in front, where the rental office could be seen. Colorful posters of underwater scenes hung behind a single desk and over a four-drawer filing cabinet. Two straight chairs were in front of the desk, with one cushy executive model behind it. Beside the front door, another passage led out to the waterside working area where all of the gear was stored. He kicked around at the decorative stone border until he found a heavy rock. In the middle of a night that was already filled with explosions and fires, nobody would even notice the shatter of the small glass window in the door. He threw it and was in.

The inner door opened into a wide space in which two concrete piers were separated by an open finger of water. Swanson switched on his flashlight and went directly to a rank of five jet skis that were cradled on lifts, and two more — a Yamaha and a Honda, both blue — were tied at the pier, ready to be taken out in the morning. He unscrewed the fuel caps and found that both had full gas tanks.

He went over to a broad piece of plywood that was used as a bench and table where wet suits were rented. Once again he was happy to be of average size, for he immediately found a full-length diver’s suit, a face mask and snorkel, and a pair of swimming flippers.

He had constantly been alert for noises but had heard nothing except the lapping of the water, and he peeled off the sagging Egyptian clothes. As he began putting on the wet suit, there was a movement in the shadows, and a young man stepped out, pointing a pistol at him. Kyle stopped, with one foot in the suit, one out, then slowly raised his hands. “Don’t shoot,” he said in English. “I am a friend.”

Merchants and businessmen throughout Egypt usually speak several languages, and he was betting this guy was one of those multilingual types who dealt with tourists from all over the world. Anyway, Kyle’s knowledge of the Egyptian language sucked.

The young man stepped forward, but not too close. He was in his early twenties, wore an oil-stained T-shirt over baggy cargo shorts, and had a stubble of beard above penetrating eyes rimmed in red, as if he had been crying. The pistol remained steady. “You are an American?”

“Yes.”

“The Americans are coming here?”

“Maybe. Who are you?”

The man walked to the left, not even looking down as he stepped through and around the gear, indicating that he knew where everything was. “Who are you?”

“I’m a tourist who was caught here by the attacks, and I am just trying to get out.”

“So you were going to steal my jet ski?”

“Yes.” A grain of truth helps the total lie. “Try to make my way to an American ship.”

“You would never make it out alive through all the boats out there. You really are not an Iranian?”

In answer, hands still raised, Kyle spat into the water. To his surprise, the young man did the same and slowly lowered his weapon. “Those bastards executed my brother last night. Had you been Iranian, I would have killed you on the spot. You can lower your hands.”

Whoa, thought Kyle. This might be better than I expected. “Your brother was Mayor Mohammad El-Din?”

“Yes.” He said it with a grim face. “My name is Abdel El-Din. Now who are you, and why are you here?”

“First, I’m sorry about your brother, Abdel. I would have stopped it if I could.”

Abdel pushed himself up to sit on the counter. A wall clock behind him showed the time to be just a minute or two after five o’clock in the morning. “Really? Just you?”

“My name is Kyle Swanson, and I am a United States Marine.” Kyle nodded his head toward the outside, where explosions were still being heard. “I’ve been doing what I can.”

“My brother was a good man, Mr. Swanson. We do not know why he was put among those people the Iranians decided to murder, for they were just picked up at random. He went to his death with his head held high, scornful of the executioners. My family made me hide out here to avoid also being picked up in some future sweep. I was asleep until I heard you break the glass out front.”

“So I will tell you the truth, Abdel. I’m not really trying to escape. I’ve been fighting them on my own, but even my own government doesn’t know I am here and what I’m doing. I really was here on a business trip, had a room at the Blue Neptune and everything. Now I just cannot let the Iranians take Sharm without a fight.”

“I want to fight back, too.” El-Din’s face twisted with emotion. “Nobody asked those soldiers to come to our city.”

“Fighting is dangerous work,” Kyle said. “I’m trained to do this kind of thing. You aren’t.”

“Those Iranian pigs have come to our home and took my brother and shot him in cold blood. They are not wanted in the city. A lot of people feel just as I do. We were stunned by the suddenness of it all, but now we are getting angry.”

“Do you think there will be an uprising?” Kyle believed he was witnessing the first spark on a sputtering fuse of rebellion.

El-Din gave that rueful smile again. “Maybe. Only Allah knows the future. I only know that I must do something to avenge my brother.” He paused, took a breath. “So let me help you. You want a jet ski, I’ll let you have it. And I know these waters well and can be of help out in the channels.”

While he thought, Kyle finished wiggling into the wet suit. Another local asset in addition to Omar would be a definite advantage, and this job would be a good test to determine if the kid had any guts or if it was just bravado coming from grief doing the talking. Zipped up, Swanson said, “OK. You’re on, Abdel. Here’s what we’re going to do.”