“That’s a solid copy.”
The data was locked in the stealth bomber’s computer, which passed the settings to the smart bombs. “Roger that, Bounty Hunter. I can see them now. Quite a crowd.”
“I’m popping smoke.” Kyle snapped the pin on the smoke grenade and threw the oblong device into the street alongside the building, where it cracked open and spewed out a ballooning column that was thick and crimson, starkly visible against the brown landscape.
The B-2A bomber pilot now knew exactly where to deliver the load, and where not to bomb. “Roger, I see red smoke.” As the computer made its final calculations, he opened the big doors in the belly of his plane and confirmed, “Starting my bombing run.” In moments, eighty GBU-39 small diameter bombs, each weighing about 300 pounds, spun away from the internal rotary bomb racks and the pilot hauled the stealth plane, the Spirit of Georgia, into a gentle turn and whooshed quietly away.
THE CLAYMORE MINE THAT guarded the door to his rooftop perch exploded with a flash and such sudden violence that it shook the building. Kyle jumped at the surprise blast and heard a man scream. Some rebel nosing around the building had tripped the booby trap and was blown out of his boots. Automatic weapons began stuttering, with the bullets zipping harmlessly through the smoke of the destroyed doorway. Kyle shifted the phone to his left hand and grabbed his M-16 with his right. If a woman can steer a car, apply makeup, text-message, and drink coffee at the same time, I can do this.
FROM THE CONTROL TOWER, the imam’s shrill words were still goading his former captors, and bringing shouts of delight from the cheering rebels when the first smart bombs from the B-2A crashed into the lines of armored vehicles at the fuel farm and ammunition depot. A jackhammer staccato of violent explosions crushed the columns with a thorough carpet-bombing, and the storage areas of petrol and ammunition erupted. The ground underfoot shook as the typhoon of destruction consumed the entire area in a fire-storm. Blazing battle tanks flipped about like ruined tin cans.
Before the roar of the first attack ceased, Kyle had a pair of Marine F/A-18 Hornets barreling in low. They had been flying a mission in Kuwait when the Black Flag was unfurled and arrived as the first package in the circle. Swanson read them the location and azimuth of the wide field that was jammed with rebel soldiers, all of whom were watching the disaster at the tank pens.
THROUGH A CRACK IN his hide, he saw an enemy soldier creeping slowly along the roof. Kyle held his fire because the man was not specifically hunting him. All the soldier really knew was that a claymore had blocked the doorway and caused casualties. Swanson judged the enemy strength was most likely just a few guys, a squad at most, and the claymore already had sheared off a few. The soldier probed around an air-conditioning duct and found nothing, then turned and saw the hide. The rebel’s eyes grew wide in alarm as Swanson took him down with a careful three-round burst.
THE FAST F/A-18 HORNETS sailed in on a south-north run and laid a trail of bombs and rockets through the massed infantrymen in the open area. Shrapnel chewed through them like broad razors and their shredded bodies fell in bloody heaps.
Kyle figured one more strike would be needed and he assigned the target of the control tower to two Navy F-35 Joint Strike Fighters just as another pair of rebel infantrymen darted from the wrecked rooftop doorway, charging toward him with their rifles on full automatic. Swanson kept the radio tight to his ear and put his M-16 over his head, pointed it at open space, and pulled the trigger to let it rock and roll on full auto. The bad guys would either have to take cover or hit the deck. There was another scream and he gave the final instructions to the planes.
The JSFs came in low and hard to lay a long, fiery string of napalm that wrapped the control tower in broiling flame and smoke.
The entire attack required less than ninety seconds and had left the rebel force broken and its leaders dead. The aircraft were gone almost before any of the rebels even had a chance to look up.
“Frequent Flyer. Bounty Hunter. End mission. One hundred percent success. No more help is needed from the planes waiting in the stack. We owe you all a drink.”
“Roger that, Bounty Hunter.” The captain was on the line again and was sounding upbeat and flirty. “Stay safe.”
THE FLIMSY WALL OF the hide crashed down in a tangle of debris as the final rebel soldier slammed into it at a hard run, his thought process unhinged from reality by the ferocity of the fight. The man had lost all sense of reality and was gripped by a temporary insanity: He just wanted to kill the unseen tormentor, face-to-face.
The attack knocked Swanson down and the M-16 was trapped beneath a board. The furious soldier was on top of him, trying to untangle his own rifle from the wreckage. Kyle slapped him hard in the face with the sat phone receiver in his left hand, a move that broke the bridge of the nose and caused the eyes to water. The head snapped to the left, but the momentum was still propelling the man forward. Kyle released the M-16, lunged forward, and buried his own chin against the enemy’s right cheek. Wrapping his arms around the man and clasping his hands together to complete the body lock, he used remaining momentum to complete a judo throw back over his shoulder. The soldier’s feet left the ground and he sailed overhead.
The rebel was still holding his AK-47 and the middle part of the weapon smacked Kyle hard in the forehead, cutting the skin and making him see stars momentarily. He held on. When the roll was completed, Kyle was kneeling on top of the soldier in a full mount. He folded his right arm and drove the sharp elbow straight down into the left temple of his opponent, dropped the sat phone so he could yank the Ka-Bar knife from his harness with his left hand. He stuck it hard into the neck, twisting it. He did not have to examine the soldier to know he was dead, so he moved away from the corpse and grabbed the M-16 again, then visually scanned the rooftop while he caught his breath. It was quiet. That was the last one.
SWANSON RETRIEVED THE PHONE and changed frequencies one more time. Blood was dripping from his forehead into his right eye and he wiped it away.
“Crown, Bounty Hunter.”
“Bounty Hunter, this is Crown. That was a bit of a surprise.”
“Yes, sir. The Saudi Royal Air Force is a splendid unit and deserves commendations for its action here today.”
“Roger, Bounty Hunter. Care to join us in the attack to finish off the stragglers?”
“No thanks. Best that this remain an all-Saudi fight. I’ll see you in a little while. Good hunting.”
41
TRUE REST WAS HARD to come by; sleep, virtually impossible. Three of the nuclear missiles had been scooped up. Kyle Swanson felt an unreasoning pressure to finish the task and get the remaining two. It was as if an unseen clock was ticking and he did not want to lose the impetus he had going. Keep pushing over the dominoes. Keep stirring the pot.
The end of the fighting at Ash Mutayr came with a whimper, and a sight that was peculiarly tribal. To a Western military observer such as Swanson, it was incomprehensible. He had seen the phenomena before and still didn’t understand it.
While the smoke from the air strike was still rising, the remaining rebels began to surrender, walking away from their positions, with their hands up. Some still held weapons, but were smiling. Prince Maashal’s main task turned from fighting to orchestrating the surrender of hundreds of rebel soldiers who only minutes earlier had been trying to slaughter those loyal to the crown. Instead of acting like prisoners of a defeated army, they acted like they were attending some weird high school reunion. They immediately started mingling with their captors, who were content for now just to round everybody up and take away the weapons. The hair-raising violence and threats evaporated like a mirage. Friends again. Comrades once more. Muslims together. Return to the barracks and the mess halls and pray and get ready for tomorrow’s big cleanup, as if nothing ever happened. It would take some time to sort out appropriate punishment.