He pulled to the side of the road, shut down the Toyota, and used his small flashlight to study the crude map that Omar and Tianha had made for him showing Iranian strongpoints, tracing a finger across the northeastern edge of the city to a place they had labeled MOTOR POOL. An old saying, Napoleon or Frederick the Great or somebody, proclaimed that an army marches on its stomach, but modern armies didn’t march much at all. Wheels, Kyle thought, remembering the hodgepodge convoy that had transported the first wave of invaders from the beach to the airport. He suspected that the Iranians did not bring any trucks with them on the airliners; it would have been a waste of space. A few small armored vehicles probably came in, but not plain vanilla trucks. Omar said they had officers all over town yesterday buying a small fleet of large-capacity vehicles from the locals. Those were all driven to a large garage that was being outfitted as a maintenance and fueling center for the military force.
His mind made up, he folded the map, cranked the SUV, and headed south along Al-Sheikh Zayed, splitting between the tranquil big hotels on his left and the burning airport ammo dump on his right.
A mile later, buildings became more numerous in a light industrial area, and Swanson was able to use less-traveled roads, dodging into lanes and nooks when he saw oncoming headlights. Steadily, he wound toward the big garage that hulked on one of the wider streets. An apron of light in the big parking area of sand and gravel was almost as good as a WELCOME sign. A number of buses and trucks were parked in the yard, side by side with military precision, while the noise of power tools and voices came from the open bay doors. Mechanics were at work inside. A single soldier lazily walked the yard with his rifle across his chest, guarding the wide front gate in a weather-scarred chain-link fence and watching the ammo dump go up at the airport. Several workers were taking a break in the yard, with their attention also glued to the dazzling show on the horizon, and one man in a stained mechanic’s overalls was in the wide bay door, wiping his hands on a rag. Kyle drove around back, into the shadows.
No one was there, as if any threat were expected to politely walk up and announce itself to the guy with the gun in the lighted front. There was absolutely no sense of panic, despite the rolling thunder from the airport still occasionally vibrating the ground and the buildings. The surprise of the initial blasts and shocks was over, and people with work to do were losing interest. He maneuvered the 4Runner until the mirror on the passenger door brushed the fence, and he left the motor running, got out and climbed atop of the SUV, then spider-dropped over the barrier. Moving in a crouch, he reached the first of three sets of fuel pumps and planted his last brick of C-4, with the timer set for thirty minutes. Since fences surrounding businesses are designed to keep people out, not in, Swanson found a wooden loading pallet leaning against the wire, stepped on it, grabbed the top rail, and pulled up, over, and out. He checked his watch and drove away. Total elapsed time inside, less than three minutes.
The 4Runner had been tricked out by Omar to provide tourists with comfort, but nothing had been given away that would make it any less reliable off-road, for some intrepid prima-donna adventure seekers would insist on heading out where no man or woman had ever been before, as if every square inch of Egypt had not been explored over the past few thousand years. Swanson engaged the rugged four-wheel drive and peeled away from the paved road and into the dirt, lights off and steering by the cold January moon. Mercury and Mars nearby hung like bright ornaments.
Ten minutes later, a halo glowed at a new checkpoint that had been established on the main highway, maybe a mile away. Slowing, he closed the gap to what he guessed was a half mile, beyond the reach of the light bubble, then stopped and switched off the engine so the exhaust vapors would not curl up like a smoke signal. Swanson dug out and assembled the rifle and put the laser range finder on the target. Just under half a mile: 2,640 feet or 880 yards. He could make that shot but wanted to be absolutely certain, which meant closer observation, so he walked forward carefully, letting his toe feel the way before planting his heel and shifting the weight. When he was almost on the edge of the lights, he went to his stomach and crawled until he found a small depression at the base of a sad old palm tree that would provide cover and concealment.
He settled in against the rock-strewn sand, brought up the stock of the rifle, and allowed the Leupold 10-power scope to carry him right inside the Iranian outpost. The laser range finder snapped the number right at six hundred yards. Just like at the motor pool, these guys still didn’t get it, even with the ammo dump still thudding like a jackhammer; they did not understand the danger zone they were in, because they were elite fighters and everyone was supposed to be afraid of them. One rifleman was on the road to wave down oncoming traffic, a second was ten yards behind him, and a third, apparently the noncom in charge, was standing beside a Jeep to make sure the others did what they were told. A .50 caliber machine gun was mounted on the Jeep, but it was unmanned, apparently there to show passing motorists the soldiers meant business. These guys were asking to die, standing there with their dicks in the wind staring stupidly down a corridor of dark road, talking loudly, even laughing, and pointing out particularly impressive fireworks over the airport. According to his watch, there were two minutes left before the motor pool provided still another light show.
Swanson’s fingers ran a final check of his weapon, a familiar task that was built into his brain. Then he slowed his breathing and ticked off the seconds in his head as he waited for the C-4 to blow. It did, and he went to work. His first shot took out the sergeant by the Jeep to keep him from getting the big gun going. By the time the middle man turned toward the motor pool explosion, Kyle’s semiautomatic rifle had cycled in a new round, and he moved the scope just a hair, then pulled the trigger again. The man’s arms flew wide, his AK-47 spun away in slow motion, and his knees buckled. The bullet tore through his chest.
The third soldier, the guy out front in the road, had reacted to the close gunshots but was running back toward the Jeep instead of into the darkness, or at least falling flat or charging toward the shooter. Kyle slid the rifle back to the original aiming point, and the guy ran right into the scope and caught a bullet through the spinal cord. Three shots, three dead targets, less than three seconds.
Swanson was up instantly, jogging back to the waiting 4Runner, breathing steadily and not looking back. The work at the outpost was done, and he still had more mail to deliver.
He went out into the desert, where there were fewer roads, and angled away from the main highway before looping around wide to the east to avoid the communities that were out that far. He parked again and used his cell phone to contact Bialy, who answered on the second buzz. “Are you and Omar in the Blue Neptune now?” he asked.
“Yes. We’re good. Where are you?”
“Out shopping. Anything happening that I should know about?”
She almost laughed. “I should be asking that question, Swanson. We keep hearing these explosions, and the Iranians are running all around. Did you hear about the firing squad?”
“No.” His blood chilled. They were executing civilians because of his actions. “Anyone significant among the victims?”
“The mayor of Sharm,” she replied, reading the list of names. “Mohammed El-Din. The people aren’t going to accept that one very easily.”
“Who was he? Anything might help.”
“The head of a prosperous local family. Omar says he has been mayor for many years and was well liked. Owned a good-sized business called the Gold Sun Water Equipment marina, which served the big hotels. The other victims seemed to be just a cross-section of citizens. El-Din was the example the Iranians wanted.”