THE SHOOTING OUTSIDE HAD not increased in volume, nor in proximity, which allowed Mishaal to establish a sense of calm in the tight confines of the headquarters, simply by his confident demeanor. Kyle listened in on the update.
There were about 4,000 men on base at the time the rebellion began, and about 2,500 were estimated to be in revolt. They had used the captured armor and exploited the sudden breakdown of command to push the loyal units entirely off the base itself and into the town, where house-to-house fighting was underway.
Kyle asked, “Prince Mishaal, would you please have him draw a line around our estimated position?” When the briefer did so with a red grease pencil on the map’s plastic overlay, it was clear that the command strong-point was at the southwestern edge of the city, about 500 yards from the end of the runway and 200 yards from the big highway, near where their plane had been destroyed. Beyond that, smaller red circles denoted other random strong points.
“Since we are outnumbered, we have to consolidate our force,” the prince said, folding his arms as he stared at the map. “We protect Highway 15 so a relief column can drive in. Maybe we can get an air drop of supplies or some airborne units.”
Kyle said to him in a soft voice no one else could overhear, “Prince Mishaal, most of your air force is grounded for a good reason. Remember what happened the last time some of those planes went up. Best keep it that way.”
“You have a suggestion, Gunny Swanson?”
“Yes, sir. I’m going outside to look around and make a call on my sat phone back to Kuwait to get a C-130 launched to come pick up the nuke. That’s really our goal. You handle the defense of the base. This will be over soon.”
Mishaal turned to face Kyle and the two men again spoke in whispers. “In case you did not notice, Gunny, we’re outnumbered and outgunned.”
“Just hold the fort, sir. Pull all of the friendlies back into a strong position around this block of buildings.”
“Is that all?” The prince was almost sarcastic. It was not his nature to let the other side keep a combat advantage.
Kyle slung his satellite phone over his shoulder, picked up a couple of grenades and a spare M-16. He slapped in a fresh magazine and stuffed more into his pockets. “No. There is one other thing I need. Where is the prisoner?”
Mishaal repeated the question to the captain, who pointed to a whitewashed house next door. “Still under arrest, sir.”
Kyle winked at his Saudi partner. “We will need to let him go.”
40
ASH MUTAYR, SAUDI ARABIA
SWANSON DASHED ACROSS AN open area to a line of storage buildings on the rebel flank without drawing a shot, searched for danger among the street’s rooftops, windows, and doors, and then picked a huge, sturdy structure for an observation post. It was about the length of five normal houses and slightly taller than the neighboring buildings, which would give him some elevation to oversee the area.
The place looked vacant, as if the workers had closed shop when the shooting started and retreated elsewhere for safety. The door was locked. Kyle paused until there was a burst of some gunfire about a block away to cover the sound of him kicking it open. Finding no opposition, he closed it again. With the M-16 at his shoulder, he carefully cleared room after room as he made his way to the roof. At the top of the stairwell, Swanson gently pushed open the topmost door and when there were no shots, squirmed through, closing that door behind him, too.
He was not surprised to find the roof unoccupied and quickly made the place his own. First things first: Cover your six, baby. He was alone, and without a partner for cover, he had to be certain that no enemy would show up unannounced. Swanson placed a claymore mine in position to face the doorway, then stretched the tripwire taut and tied it to the knob. Anyone pushing the door outward would trigger the booby trap and some 700 small steel balls would scour the area with a single horrendous blast.
Next, he needed to construct a hide that would not draw attention from the street or another building. There were four square, vented air-conditioning system ducts available, and he considered tearing the back off of one of them and squeezing inside next to the machinery to peer out through the vents. But there was a lot of junk spread around, which provided a better option. He decided to arrange some empty crates and boxes and other debris just to the left and slightly behind one of the boxy air-conditioning ducts, with cracks and openings to give a good view of the surrounding area. Anyone who chanced to look up would just see the boxes which masked his silhouette. He moved in, sat down, laid his rifle beside him, and took out his binos.
He was soaked in sweat by the time he looked out to see what the rebels were doing. Damn, there were some easy pickings down there. It was hard for Kyle Swanson to suppress his sniper instincts in such a target-rich environment. For the moment, the satellite phone and his binos were much more important than the rifle.
Having captured the buildings along the edge of the town next to the military base, the rebels were shifting into positions to press their attack. Their probes were finding points in the defense that were intentionally being left uncovered by Prince Khalid, and rebel patrols were moving to occupy them.
The rampaging soldiers were trained on flat desert with heavy tracked vehicles and were interested only in an armored slugfest. In the town, the battle was rolling fast, surging between buildings and down streets, with the emphasis on brute force. After taking a building, the rebels would immediately leave it before doing a thorough search and move on, screaming about victory and Allah and ceremoniously firing their AK-47s into the air. Kyle had seen that false euphoria before. It was a comfortingly normal event to him.
Things were ragged down below, which was also something he had expected. Many officers had been executed in the first hours of the uprising, and other sergeants and soldiers had escaped from the insurgent force. Without leaders, unit cohesion had disappeared and the reins of the fight were in the hands of a bunch of ill-trained morons, Kyle thought. Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid should be more than able to handle this bunch. Keep coming, boys, keep coming.
THE SAT PHONE, ONLY about the size of a police walkie-talkie, had a folded aerial that popped into place when Swanson pulled it from a pocket of his gear vest. The electronics hummed to life when he switched it on and a built-in global positioning system provided his exact coordinates.
His first call went to Kuwait. “Trident Base, Trident Base, this is Bounty Hunter. Over.”
There was only a momentary hiss of static, then a familiar voice came back: “Bounty Hunter. This is Trident. Send your traffic. Over.” Joe Tipp was on the horn.
“Roger that, Trident. Another package is ready for pickup,” Swanson said. He wanted the Hercules and the Marines on the way over as soon as possible and it would take the big, slow bird a lot of time to cover that distance. He read out the grid coordinates for Ash Mutayr.
“Uh…Bounty Hunter. Intel advises that area is hot.” Tipp obviously was surrounded by staff members.
“Roger that. Just pick up the package, Trident. I will not attend the meeting. Work with my counterpart.”