Time to Kill: A Sniper Novel

24

Abdel El-Din listened wide-eyed to the audacious idea, then immediately proved his merit by turning on all of the lights in the boathouse. Should anyone stop by to question why, he could say he was simply getting ready for tomorrow’s business. In minutes, he was suited up like Swanson.

“We have to tow these things around frequently, so hooking them together is no problem,” he explained. Tie-off rings were installed fore and aft, and Abdel pulled down a twelve-pound coil of steel links sheathed in tough plastic, with snaps welded to the ends. It took only a moment to hook the Honda so it would trail behind the Yamaha.

A small roll of duct tape was on a worktable, and he pocketed it, then walked to the big roll-up door and hit the red button to open it. The clanking of chains retracting on the pulleys sounded like a warning siren as the door was ratcheted back, and before it was fully open, Abdel already had mounted the lead jet ski and was puttering to the fuel station at the end of the pier. The second machine slid along behind, with Kyle in the saddle, thinking how having Abdel as an ally had already saved him a lot of work.

They tied off at the gas pump. El-Din opened the lock with his keys, and the two of them filled a group of red plastic five-gallon containers and lashed them all with loops of duct tape along the sides, front, and low back of the trailing jet ski. When the cans were secure, the men released the moorings and both skis drifted free. The Yamaha started with the first twist of the key, but Swanson made no attempt to start the Honda, for he was sitting in a giant improvised explosive device, and any spark could be spectacularly fatal. The lead ski hummed slowly to take up the slack in the chain, and Abdel sidled them out into the calm waters of Naama Bay, burbling along at a minimum speed, about three hundred yards from the beach.

Around the harbor, red and green navigation lights pierced the darkness. Swanson wryly noted the absence of the usual huge sleek yachts; the monied people who could leave had already left. Farther inland, the sky was still being chewed by the bonfire at the motor pool and the unrelenting flames at the ammo dump. That reflected brightness, plus the running lights of the big ships, made it easy for Abdel to thread a familiar path out to deeper water, and he put on a little more speed.

Kyle was glad to get a bit of breeze across his face, for the cloud of gasoline fumes made breathing difficult. The skis drove farther out into the harbor at a minimum pace, sliding over small swells, with Abdel ready to rack up the pace if they were discovered or challenged. About three miles from the beach sat the target, the brightest ship in the harbor, the Iranian freighter that had brought in the original waves of troops and had since been off-loading supplies onto a barge anchored alongside. Hired laborers and soldiers moved the material into smaller boats that hauled them to shore. The ship was alight from stem to stern, but only colored warning bulbs were at the corners of the transfer platform. About a half-dozen boats were tied to it, for work had been shut down for the night.

Abdel looked back to check on Kyle, and Swanson motioned with a hand to head out even deeper, then circle back and come in from the blind side. The young Egyptian understood. They motored on unseen.

Major Shakuri answered the telephone in his office at the disgusting hour of five o’clock in the morning with an impatient response but immediately settled into a respectful tone when he heard that it was Colonel Naqdi. He sighed to himself. This had been expected.

“I have received a rather interesting call from General Khasrodad at the airport,” the colonel said. He was still on his bed in Cairo, pushing away frustration and anger. “The ammunition dump has been blown? Why didn’t you alert me immediately?” The voice betrayed only curiosity, not anger.

“The general had the responsibility of guarding those vital supplies, sir. He failed.” Shakuri was at his desk and looking at his notes. It was depressing. “It seems that about twenty are dead out there as of right now. Maybe … probably … more. Another one of the big planes was destroyed.”

“You did not think that I needed to be informed?”

Careful, Shakuri said to himself. Unstable ground here. “Of course not, sir. I did not call for several reasons. There was nothing you could do, and you need your sleep. Allah, praise be unto him, knows how much I need sleep, too, and you work harder and longer than I do. I was planning to call you after daybreak, when we will have more facts, and possibly even have captured the saboteurs.”

“I know, Major. General Khasrodad is given to panic when under stress. As you say, he had several thousand top soldiers at his disposal and should have prevented that attack. Is it still going on?”

“Yes, sir. It’s quite a show.” The grumble of explosions could still be heard downtown.

Naqdi steered the subject away from the airport. “Then you are actively hunting saboteurs?”

“Correct, sir. I have been forced to implement stern measures and requisition some soldiers from the general, who is resisting giving me any. He wants to pull his protection perimeter in tighter, while I want active patrols in the streets.”

“What was this firing squad the general told me about? Something else of which I had been unaware.” The voice had switched back to cold. “It seems you are very busy with things of which I know nothing. Are you keeping things from me, Major Shakuri? Am I going to have to come down there?”

“If you wish to come, of course, Colonel, but there is really no need. After the initial problems — again, the general’s soldiers — I had six examples, including the mayor, shot in the public square to discourage any public uprising. We must be firm with this population. As the Americans said, ‘When you have them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.’”

The colonel stopped himself before laughing. Shakuri was really getting a grip on leadership. “I agree, but please be careful with reprisals, Major, for killing somebody’s husband or cousin might breed enemies.”

“Absolutely, sir. Already, obviously, the one-for-one idea will no longer work. With more than twenty of our soldiers already dead tonight, we would have to execute twenty more residents of Sharm. Will the unarmed people of Sharm be willing to make such an exchange?”

“You know the path around that.” It was a declaration straight out of the occupation rules established in Tehran before the invasion. Mercy went only to a certain point; then the iron glove was needed.

“Yes, sir. We must ruthlessly kill more, enough to instill fear and suppress their opposition. After the twenty, I will increase the ratio to two of them for every one of us. Women and children will be included.”

“Very well.” There was a momentary stiff pause. “I’ll probably be down later today to see how things are going after all, but you seem to be doing the job as well as possible.”

The major felt the pleasure of the compliment override the lash of reprimand. He was doing a good job. “Thank you, sir. Your visit might be the best way to settle the nerves of our general out at the airport. Now let me give you some good news. I was saving it for the morning report, along with the other material, but you will like this. That British woman you wanted, Bialy, has been located. Should we wait until you arrive to pick her up?”

“A good point, Major. Go ahead and arrest her, so when I come down, she will be waiting for me. I will let you know my travel plan. Anything on the American, Kyle Swanson?”

“Not yet, sir, but we will get him. Can I ask what your interest is in them?”

“They are spies, major. CIA and MI6. I want to personally interrogate them both.”

Shakuri decided to push a step further. “Our intelligence people report she has been asking about someone with the code name of Pharaoh. Can you tell me what that is about, sir?”

A deep pause while the colonel thought it over. Shakuri had done well so far, but he did not need to know this. The Pharaoh was a one-man show, the colonel’s mask as a valuable counterintelligence source and his ticket to freedom. “That sounds like another enemy for us to track down, Major. Find Swanson, and if you uncover the Pharaoh, arrest him, too.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Good. So why don’t we both get a few hours of sleep? Good night, Major.”

“I can’t sleep, sir. The night isn’t over yet.” The major hung up, still chuckling, feeling that the razor had been removed from his throat. But Colonel Naqdi did not understand that his blade had two edges these days, for Shakuri knew all about the colonel’s backdoor ruse as being the Pharaoh, and his contacts in London and within the Egyptian military. In his time as chief of staff, he had burrowed quietly into everything he could find in the colonel’s private files and the office safe, and even had followed him to determine his contacts. He had enough to confirm, if the need ever arose, that the man was a traitor. The question was, who was using who? If Naqdi held a razor, Shakuri believed he held an ax.

He, aware of his growing independence and ability, had not told Naqdi about the attack on the motor pool, and now he had been handed this report that a Guards outpost was wiped out. This could not be the work of a few upset civilians, for the signature of upscale ferocity indicated military activity. He would call back in a few hours, hopefully interrupt the colonel’s sleep again, and warn him that based upon the latest information, there was a strong possibility that NATO special operation teams had been inserted.

Five thirty in the morning, with the bleak winter dawn only an hour away. Please, Allah, let the rest of the night remain quiet.

The two jet skis were side by side, bobbing together some two hundred yards from the hulking mass of the Iranian freighter that separated them from the shoreline. Abdel was in the water, having unhooked the connecting chain and let it sink rather than chance having it make a sudden clatter if they tried to stow it in the compartment under the seat. He had other chains back at the shop.

Then his attention turned to Kyle’s ski. Tourists had a bad habit of thinking they were extreme sports athletes when they got a jet ski between their legs, and going too fast and making sharp turns was dangerous in a crowded water sports environment. Head-on collisions were not uncommon. Therefore, marina operators usually rigged governors to the jet ski throttles to limit the speeds, and El-Din was putting one in place on the accelerator that Kyle would use. It was a plastic wedge screwed onto the handlebar to prevent the throttle from being squeezed all the way back in an overenthusiastic grip. When he tightened the bolt, he swam back to his Yamaha and climbed aboard.

“Are you ready?” he whispered.

“Have to crank it up sometime,” Kyle responded. “Might as well be now.” While Abdel had dealt with the chain and the throttle, Kyle had used duct tape to secure both ends of the handlebar to keep the ski pointed straight ahead. “You go ahead and drive out of danger range. If something goes wrong, get the hell out of here. If not, come and get me.”

“Or whatever is left of you.”

“I’ll creep in to about thirty yards from the midsection, light the rags, then jack the throttle back all the way and tighten it in place with duct tape. I will roll into the water.”

El-Din nodded in agreement. “I will be right behind you. Just grab on tight as I pass and hold on until we get clear of the target and the blast. After that, you climb aboard and we leave in a hurry. Right?”

“Right. Let’s get this done.”

Abdel cranked his jet ski with a minimum throttle and little noise and scooted into a wide circle without creating a disturbing wake. Swanson took a deep breath and turned the key on his Honda. The engine spun to life without igniting the extremely flammable cargo, allowing him to exhale. He pressed the throttle slowly and the little ski slid forward, as if being summoned by the big boat, which loomed larger in his sight by the second. A hundred yards away, he could see a few figures moving around on board, but no alarm had been sounded.

Seventy-five yards, and he forced himself to concentrate on delivering the package perfectly, not on getting off of the homemade bomb as quickly as he could. Sixty yards, and the ski remained perfectly positioned, its nose aimed directly at the metal hull looming in front of him. Kyle revved it up, pulled the throttle back to its maximum position, and held on tight as the ski almost stood on its tail. When the bow hit the water again, he looped a turn of duct tape around the accelerator to hold it in place.

Jump, you crazy fool, he thought as the ski lunged ahead like a Thoroughbred out of the gate. A cigarette lighter had been kept dry in the neck of his wet suit, and he thumbed it once with his left hand, then twice, and the little flame caught. He touched it to a gasoline-soaked cloth that snaked from the filled gas tank tied at the front, then to another rag that fed into the rear tank. Somewhat surprised that he was still alive, Kyle Swanson rolled easily off and smacked into the water, careful not to kick away hard, which might throw the jet ski off course.

In the old days of wooden ships, enemy fleets and blockades were often attacked by ships that had been sailed into them while burning fiercely, thus torching the sails, spars, and hull. Swanson popped to the surface just in time to see his own version of a fire ship crash into the Iranian freighter.

“Oh, my God. not another one!” Dr. Tianha Bialy had been awakened for the third time in a single night by a monstrous explosion, this new one sounding like it was just outside her hotel window that opened out onto scenic Naama Bay. She had been dozing in her wrinkled clothes, and her hair felt wild, her eyes were blurry, and a foul taste was in her mouth.

She staggered to the window as sirens and alarms began sounding around the harbor, where a ship was in obvious great distress. It took her only a moment to realize that the new blaze was engulfing the Iranian ship that had been so placidly rocking at anchor all day long, unloading supplies. A wave of flame from the starboard side was marching hungrily along the deck, fingers of fire licking around the wheelhouse superstructure while boxes and crates on deck started to ignite. There was another crash as one container of mortar shells blew apart.

Grabbing her binoculars from the night table, she focused tightly on the ship. Crewmen were unreeling hoses, and spotlights came to life from other nearby ships to give the scene an awful glow. A tugboat was already approaching, looping a line of spray from a middeck water cannon. There was a pounding at the door behind her, and Omar came in with his own key to join her and watch the fiery disaster. Another explosion, more muffled, rumbled through the ship.

“That one was belowdecks,” said Omar. “They have big trouble out there.”

“So do you think there is a guerrilla force at work in Sharm? Maybe a special ops team from outside that we don’t know about? I mean, all of these attacks tonight have been severe.” A sudden sheet of flame spouted from an open deck hatch, and two men with fire chewing at their clothes dove overboard, screaming. Then there came another thud below the waterline, but no accompanying flame, just a ball of smoke.

“No. I think our dangerous friend Kyle has been working hard all night long. That last explosion may have put a hole in the hull.”

Bialy sniffed. “Impossible. He’s only one man, and these attacks have been all over the place. The airport and the ocean? What do you think I should report to London, Omar?”

As he watched, the topside fire crawled swiftly across the deck, obviously out of control. A harbor firefighting boat arrived and started arcing water uselessly into the inferno, but the men on board had withdrawn in the face of the heat and the implacable moving fire and the danger of being blown to pieces.

“Don’t call them quite yet. Look. The ship is starting to list to starboard.” As the right side of the hull edged lower, the left side rose, pulling with it the platform on which unloaded supplies were waiting, and those boxes started to topple. More men leaped overboard and were picked up by circling small boats.

The tilt continued as water rushed unchecked into the ripped hull and all of the volatile material burned hard and fast, heating enough to burn the paint throughout the interior. The crew had not had time to block all of the watertight compartments, and tons of rushing seawater flooded through the open ports. The ship was not only tilted but was also going down by the stern.

“It’s going to sink right out there in the harbor, isn’t it?” Tianha’s voice was hushed.

“Yes, it is. The Iranians are not going to be happy. I think the time has come for us to leave, Tianha.”

“I’ll call London. Then we can go.” The telephone on the polished bedside table rang.