“WE’VE GOT A NEW mission.” Major General Bradley Middleton made himself comfortable in his Pentagon office by opening the lower right-hand drawer of his desk and propping a spit-shined shoe on it, loosening his tie, and unbuttoning his collar.
Master Gunnery Sergeant O. O. Dawkins, one of only forty-five men in the Marine Corps to hold that highest enlisted rank, occupied most of the sofa. Double-Oh had helped write the book on special operations. Next to him sat Sybelle Summers, who had just flown in from Turkey.
In a chair of burgundy leather sat U.S. Navy Lieutenant Commander Benton Freedman, whose hair was always tousled, as if he had just gotten out of bed. He was a brilliant computer geek, engineer, and master of all things technical. At the Naval Academy, he was given the nickname of “Wizard” because he seemed to perform witchcraft with electronics and possessed an astonishing memory. Middleton yanked the Navy guy into what was essentially a Marine operation when Trident began, where his nickname became “the Lizard.”
The other member of the team, Swanson, the Dead Guy, was missing, starting an R-and-R.
Middleton pointed at Freedman, whose busy brain had been sucking information from the folder in front of him. “Lizard, summarize it, with anything you have picked up from other sources.”
“Yes, sir,” Freedman said, not looking up. “An Iraqi physicist who we thought had disappeared in 1992 showed up two weeks ago in Baghdad. He arranged a surrender to an Army intel officer and claimed to have vital information about a new weapon of mass destruction at a place he called the Palace of Death.”
Sybelle, studying her red fingernails, interrupted. “A WMD? I thought we killed that old horse and buried it a long time ago. Everybody looked everywhere and nobody found anything.”
“Save the questions and comments,” said Middleton. “Go ahead, Lizard.”
“Other than saying it was a chemical-biological agent, he was reluctant to give much real information until he was formally given immunity from prosecution and protection for himself and his family. He was kept under wraps until yesterday, when a meeting was set up at Coalition Headquarters for the first formal interrogation, and he was being delivered by an armed escort of four soldiers. A sniper picked him off before he got there and also killed the officer in charge of the escort detail.”
“Talk to me, Double-Oh,” said Middleton.
“A good piece of shooting,” said Master Gunny Dawkins as he went through the photographs of the corpses. “The first bullet hit the officer by going through the unarmored point beneath the armpit of his vest and took out the internal organs right to left, including the heart. Then the Iraqi was hit in the jugular vein along the neck, just above the collar of his armored vest, left to right. Exit through his throat.” He closed the folder. “One of those might be a lucky shot. Not two. This sniper hit what he was aiming at, and both victims bled out on the spot. My conclusion is that this was another attack by Juba.”
The general closed the drawer with his foot and slid the chair forward so he could rest his arms on the desk. “What’s your take, Captain Summers?”
“I agree with Double-Oh. It’s got to be Juba, sir. Shoots, kills, and disappears. We don’t know whether he is just one man or several different snipers, whether he is even real or just some Arabian fairy tale to pump up the spirits of the jihadists. Whatever, he’s the best they’ve got, and pulling off an assassination like this in the Green Zone enhances his reputation.”
Freedman did some calculations in his head. “I figure the shooter had a target area of no more than an inch. The unprotected opening between the vest and the sleeve of the first victim was only about an inch wide, and the sniper squeezed a bullet in there. The second shot was exact enough to hit the vein, an even smaller target. I can work up the ballistics, angles, and all that if you want.”
“Not necessary,” said Middleton. “The people in Baghdad are doing that, and we will have their data when it comes in. What is interesting is that he knew exactly who to shoot and when the target was going to appear in a certain place at a certain time. Total inside information.”
“Liz, did the informant say anything else worthwhile before he got popped?” Double-Oh crossed his right leg over his left knee, taking up even more space. Sybelle pushed him.
“An intel report arrived just before we came in here for the meeting,” interjected Middleton. “The scientist said he had escaped from a laboratory in Iran, and he gave a general location near the Iraq border.”
“He used that particular word, sir? Escaped?”
“Right. So, people, that’s our mission. We are going to do a little snoop and poop and find that mysterious lab.”
Middleton stood and stretched, throwing his arms wide, then put his hands on his hips. “So we’re going in. Sybelle, you will stay here this time and oversee the operation. Spin up an infiltration team and get them over to Doha. Double-Oh, you will lead the team on the ground. On your way over, detour out to Sir Geoffrey’s boat and pick up Swanson. Give them a briefing, and then you two hustle down to Kuwait. Order anything you need through Lieutenant Commander Freedman.”
The Lizard blew out a short breath of relief. He did not like to travel far from his desk. “Sir, is it wise to use Gunny Swanson on this? According to Captain Summers, he really needs some down time.”
Double-Oh answered. “Liz, if there is any fucking chance at all that we might bump into Juba while we run this job, I want our best shooter along to cover my ass. I’ll put my money on Kyle, tired or not.”
“Then he can sleep on the plane to Kuwait,” said General Middleton. “Get to it, people. Go get me some pictures of this Palace of Death.”
4
EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
THE ROYAL WEDDING OF Prince William and the beautiful Barbara Seldingham, the future king and queen of England, was a plum for the press. A billion people would gather around television sets from Africa to Australia to watch the splendid event. A billion! Maybe more.
Television stations wanting to personalize the coverage could send a reporter and crew to London but could not transport their own mobile rigs overseas and had to lease the needed technical equipment. Every such company in the region had been booked for months in advance, and others were created just for that purpose.
Edinburgh All-Media Ltd., in Scotland, was one of the small companies founded to serve the huge demand. It had filed papers for a business permit, found a storefront office, then bought and reconfigured two vans especially for commercial television use, including external generators to power computers and editing gear inside the cargo areas. One was immediately rented by a television station in Little Rock, Arkansas, and the other was leased to a cable company in Italy. The two trucks were given distinctive purple and white paint schemes.
Juba wore a jumpsuit that matched those colors as he drove the lead van away from the city center and onto the City of Edinburgh Bypass, the A720. He slipped on dark sunglasses as he turned east, directly into the morning sun, and drove on until the A720 merged with the A1 at Old Craighall Junction. The second van followed, and they crossed the border at Lamberton.
They made the journey of a twisting 420 miles to London in a single day, entered the city, and maneuvered to the cordoned-off far end of Kensington Park that had been reserved for the regiment of production trucks that would support the television horde. There was a short line of trucks waiting to get in, and the two vans from Edinburgh All-Media slid into position at the rear. A policeman told them to stay with the vehicles until the security teams cleared them. For thirty minutes, they followed as the line grew shorter until Juba drove onto a special parking pad caked with detection sensors, where a four-man squad and their bomb-sniffing dog thoroughly combed the vehicle and found nothing. Once cleared to be inside the quarantine area, a van could not leave until after the wedding.