Cleared through, Knowlington proceeded to the operational headquarters, a collection of sandbags, filing cabinets, and desks in an area that had once housed the car collection of a minor prince. Skull got about as far as the former parking spot of a yellow MG roadster when one of the general’s aides accosted him.
“Colonel, General’s not available, sir,” said the lieutenant, who despite the hour and locale could have cut himself on the creases in his uniform.
“Shit-yeah he is.” Skull made sure his gravelly voice carried well through the complex. “I talked to him a half-hour ago. He’s either on the cot over there or sitting at his desk.”
“God, Mikey, what the hell is it now?” growled the general from beyond the makeshift walls.
The lieutenant stepped back apologetically. Skull gave him a smirk, then passed into the operations room, where the general was indeed sacked out on his cot. The general had come over to the joint Special Operations command from the Air Force; he and Knowlington went back far enough for Skull not to wince when he called him “Mikey.”
Which he did again, adding in a few more succinct Anglo-Saxon words.
“Sorry to disturb you,” said Skull, standing near the table.
“Fuck you, you are. What’s up? You still pissed about your girl Rosen going north?”
“My technical sergeant is a woman,” said Knowlington, emphasizing each syllable because he was, indeed, still pissed. “But we’ve gone over that.”
“I shipped Klee out. Bang, he’s gone. He should have come to me and he didn’t. That problem is taken care of.”
Klee was the colonel who was responsible for sending the Devil Squadron’s top electronics whiz north into Iraq. Rosen had returned a few hours before to Al Jouf, a forward operating area in western Iraq where she had been overseeing maintenance on a pair of Devil Squadron A-10As. Needless to say, Rosen had volunteered for the duty north in the combat zone, a direct violation of all sorts of laws, policies, and orders, not to mention common sense. Which merely proved Devil Squadron enlisted personnel were as crazy as the officers.
“Rosen’s not why I’m here,” said Skull.
“Okay. Shit, Mikey. I don’t think I’ve had ten minutes of sleep since I came to this stinkin’ country.” The general sighed and sat up. He glanced at Skull, then followed his gaze over toward the sandbags that marked the entrance to the room. “Lieutenant, make yourself scarce.”
“Sir, yes sir,” snapped the lieutenant.
“Love ‘em when they’re still wet, don’t you?” said the general as the nugget lieutenant’s steps echoed smartly across the smooth concrete. Skull, for all his love of the service — and he truly did love the Air Force — had never really cared for the snap and starch, nor did he like hazing new officers, so he didn’t answer. He stood stoically as the general hauled himself off the cot and went to the desk, where he turned on a small lamp and sat. He’d been sleeping in his fatigue uniform. He reached under the desk for his shoes. “What’s up?”
“The intelligence officer who went north with your D boys has a theory.”
“Wong?”
“Yes, Captain Wong. There was a special unit of Iraqis in the village where the Scuds were hidden. They weren’t part of the Republican Guard. They weren’t Muslim either. Which he thinks means they were part of an elite unit, probably all related to each other. Those sorts of units typically have very special missions.”
“I’m not catching the drift here, Mike.” The general stretched his shoulders backwards; his body was so stiff the cracks echoed loudly. “Schwartzkopf is on my butt — on everybody’s butt — about the Scuds. One hit Tel Aviv last night. We have to nail those suckers.”
“This is bigger than Scuds.”
“How?”
“Wong thinks Saddam’s going to be in that village twenty-four hours from now. I want to put together a team to get him.”
CHAPTER 2
At roughly the same time Colonel Knowlington was making his way to the Spec Ops Bat Cave, the man whose report had sent him there was setting out on a perilous journey to the dark side of the international army’s “occupation” of Saudi Arabia.
Captain Bristol Wong, late of the Pentagon, most recently assigned as an “observer” to assist Scud hunting operations, knew that time would be of essence if Saddam was to be targeted. He had therefore decided to hunt down the one Westerner who, in his considered opinion, knew everything worth knowing about the Iraqi leader. This was itself a mission wracked by difficulties and fraught with dangers and a thousand contingencies, not the least of which was commandeering a helicopter that could deliver him to Riyadh at this ungodly hour.
A short if expensive private limo ride took Wong from the relative safety of the sophisticated Islamic capital to a fiery wasteland some miles to the south, where he was dutifully deposited in front of a ten-million dollar suburban castle replete with neon flamingos and female car hops tastefully clad from the waist down, and from the top not at all. Wong administered the customary bribes to the Pakistani doorman and his hulking assistant, withstood a rather physical and inefficient weapons check, and passed into the lobby of the club. There he was met by two women whose mid-sections had recently been graced by staples in major men’s publications; their present attire revealed no evidence of fasteners, though their smiles suggested they were ready to bend any metal Wong offered. He made the tactical mistake of telling them that he was simply here on business; they cooed and clucked, and he had almost to force his way past to the short, marble staircase that led down to the gaming room.
The man he had come to see, Sir Peter Paddington, was surrounded by a phalanx of women and gamblers as he held court at the thousand-dollar minimum craps table. Paddington worked officially for British MI-5, was attached to at least one other ministry, and did contract work for unspecified “exterior interests.” He held his right hand high over his head, rattling the dice like a wary cobra shaking its tail. With a flick of his wrist he struck, the crisply tailored cuff of his white shirt flashing from his blazer sleeve as his hand jerked above the table, unleashing a pair of threes.
“Six the hard way,” said the croupier from the side of the table. A salsa band added a flourish in the background.
Wong snaked through the crowd as the bets were placed. Before he managed to draw alongside Sir Peter, nearly a hundred thousand dollars had been laid out on the table, covering his next throw.
“Bristol, you have returned,” said Paddington, sipping his martini. He had not re-thrown the dice, believing that the karma of the moment had to specially chosen.
He also wanted to make sure all of the betting was complete, as the establishment paid him a discreet commission on the house take.
“I have a business matter to discuss with you,” said Wong.
Paddington frowned ever so slightly, then turned back to the table. His hand flashed, the ivory cubes rolled.
“Seven,” said the croupier, honestly surprised.
Despite the bust, there was audible disappointment as Paddington put down the dice and led Wong toward a side room. Four of the young women who’d swarmed around accompanied him, their nipples highlighted by the taut silk of their dresses.
“You want?” Paddington asked Wong, pausing at the draped doorway and gesturing toward the women.
Wong rolled his eyes.
“Sorry girls,” said Sir Peter, waving his hand. “I’ll be with you presently.”
Wong followed Paddington through the thick brown drapes into a room made up like a private London club. Dark leather chairs sat in small clusters in front of Hunter green walls lit by soft lamps and barrister’s bookcases stacked with hunting guides and royal lineages. But the most impressive element of decor was the smelclass="underline" a kind of tweedy dankness surely imported direct from Cambridge. A man stood before a portable bar at the far end of the room, looking at them expectantly. Behind him stood a pair of imposing portraits of unimposing kings.