“Yes, Colonel.” He had a map of Egypt on the wall of his office, and it was kept up to date according to intelligence reports from a variety of sources. No breakthroughs were shown, no columns moving south, no true advancement. Things were stymied, and Naqdi had not pointed out exactly where the so-called victories had been achieved. “Yes.” He changed the subject. “If something has befallen Major Shakuri, should we continue with these executions tonight? I personally think they accomplish nothing other than driving more people into the arms of the resistance. We didn’t come here to kill the locals, did we? I don’t like the idea of creating a guerrilla movement where none existed.”
The colonel was adamant. “Of course we must continue the punishment for what they have done. Without enough soldiers to really establish martial law in the city, we must instead make them fear our wrath and thus ensure cooperation. Twenty have been chosen to be shot tonight, is that correct?”
“Yes. In the park at nine o’clock tonight. All is ready, and I have posted two armored personnel carriers there to support the operation. Should I choose another officer to command the firing squad in the absence of the major?”
The colonel paced a few steps, deep in thought, then turned and walked to the desk and leaned on it with his fingertips. “Better yet. Let us demonstrate how serious we are about controlling the situation here. You, the commanding general, will take personal charge of the firing squad.”
The general crossed his muscular arms and rocked back on his heels. “With all respect, Colonel, I do not think that is a good idea. Are you making that a direct order?”
“Yes. It is.”
Marine Major General Brad Middleton, commander of Task Force Trident, broke into a smile as he listened on the scrambled telephone link that spanned the short distance across the Potomac River to the White House. He raised his beefy hand, curled it into a fist, and pumped it up and down.
His operations officer, Lieutenant Colonel Sybelle Summers, was watching with her hands folded in her lap. Navy Commander Benton Freedman, the communications chief, was in another chair, scrolling through a highly classified dump of material that had just been delivered on his laptop. Master Gunnery Sergeant O. O. Dawkins was pouring still another cup of coffee, his inner combat antennae twitching. He looked over at Sybelle, who shrugged her shoulders, her face blank. The general was rarely this happy, particularly during an ongoing operation.
“No, we haven’t heard much from him at all,” Middleton told the White House chief of staff. “His instructions were to call if he needed us, but he has chosen to go silent.” He listened to a final response, said good-bye, and hung up the telephone with a flourish.
The general made a show of getting some coffee of his own, keeping his staff in suspense. After a first sip, he checked to make sure no drops had splashed his tie, then turned to them. “Kyle is raising hell in Egypt, and his MI6 partner has come out with a gold mine of intelligence. A fuckin’ gold mine!”
Back at his desk, he unrolled a synopsis: a couple of big airplanes, an ammo dump that had closed the airport to anything larger than a biplane, an entire motor pool, a goddam ship in the harbor, dead Iranian soldiers all over the place, a high-value prisoner, and Gunny Swanson still healthy and on the loose as of a few hours ago. He had refused to leave when offered the chance. Dawkins gave a low whistle of Marine-to-Marine appreciation.
Middleton added the firsthand observations from the MI6 agent and her local contact, plus the delivery of an accumulation of computer data that contained thousands of pages of internal reports about the current government, military capabilities, and financial infrastructure, along with detailed intelligence on the operations and personnel of the Muslim Brotherhood and its leaders. The international banks and companies that were the main money funnels were identified, as were specific financiers who were laundering Iranian money transfers, including specific accounts that could be frozen, and some ranking political figures who were being bribed around the world. The Lizard started a rapid-fire read of the documents that had been downloaded to him from the White House and muttered, “Wow. This impacts a lot more than that little adventure in Egypt. We’re talking about their nuclear program and covert activities in Africa and the Middle East. The Egyptians are giving away the store.”
“Iran pissed off the wrong people,” Dawkins growled.
“The president and the British prime minister have both been briefed,” Middleton said. “The Egyptian ambassador to the United Nations will openly condemn the invasion, deny that the elected government ever asked them to intervene, and demand that they leave.”
“What about on the military side?” Dawkins asked.
“We are positioning naval strength forward, in the Red Sea and the Med, to isolate the battlefield. The Egyptian sources are urging restraint and insist that the roots of the Brotherhood uprising are weak. The army has been repositioning its forces, cleaning out the disloyal officers, and says that they are ready to commit their main battle forces and handle it on their own. They felt they could stymie the Brotherhood with minimum units, and by God they fought them to a standstill.”
“So will there be any more attempts by us to insert special ops teams?” asked Summers.
“No. No American or British or NATO combat boots on the ground. Except for Gunny Swanson, and he’s just a tourist.”
“So even if the Egyptian military and the elected government are really stronger than they appear, do they have the support of the people?”
“Looks as though at this point the people have not joined the Brotherhood’s calls for still more revolution. The regular Egyptians probably are tired of the turmoil of the past few years and just want peace,” Middleton mused. “Maybe they are just waiting for some kind of spark.”
29
A little more than an hour after the sun had set, cutting the daylight from another short winter’s day, the men who would comprise the ambush team knelt together in lines on mats and rugs to offer their evening prayers at 6:27 P.M. Kyle Swanson stood away from the group, positioned so he could watch the area outside while they were at worship, and hoped they were getting things straight with their faith. It was more than just ritual tonight. He expected that these would be the last prayers ever offered by some of them.
After the worship came a period of excitement and almost childlike exhilaration as the men hugged one another, made promises of brave acts, and shouted encouragement. They left the house at staggered intervals, one by one, with their weapons tucked into baggy clothing. carried in parcels over their shoulders, or rolled up in a prayer rug. Kyle still hung back; Abdel was the one sending them out the door.
“Did you do a count?”
“Yes. Just as you said, so I will know exactly how many we are. That seems strange. I know them all.”
“Trust the count, Abdel. You know a lot of people, and things are going to get confusing. After the action you will know exactly how many are missing, if any. The last thing you want is some outsider infiltrating your team.”
Abdel bit his lip in thought. “Will some of them die, Mr. Swanson?”
“I can’t answer that, but it’s likely. Look, my friend, there will be a lot of bullets flying out there tonight; in fact, it will be two minutes of hell. We are up against professionals, and we can’t allow them to recover from the surprise of our attack. We have to keep up our fire until they are all down.”
“What are you going to do about the tanks? They could massacre everybody.”