Kyle dug into his bag and lifted out a pair of gray hand grenades with yellow markings. “These are Willie Petes — white phosphorus — and they are absolutely brutal. When you start the attack, I will pop them into the armored vehicles, and I can guarantee destruction. These babies destroy and burn everything flammable, and that armored skin will keep most of the power inside the vehicle. You’ll see big white clouds, and an explosion that will rock the town.” He put them down. “Plus, I plan to shoot whoever is inside, particularly the guys on the machine guns.”
Abdel nodded and got up to leave. “I hope I can do this.”
Kyle just gave him an easy smile. “You’ve got the guts and the smarts to do this, Abdel. Remember that you are the leader and the others will take their strength from what you do. Now let’s go save those hostages and kill the bastards who took them captive.”
Abdel’s eyes grew hard, and he pulled his cloak around to cover the AK-47 that rode on his hip. “The Iranians should never have come here,” he said and disappeared into the thickening darkness.
Swanson snapped off the light and sat alone in the house for another ten minutes, readying his head for what was to come, letting his tactical mind take over. He had done all he could to prepare the team, and now it was his turn. Although he had indicated to Abdel that taking out the armored personnel carriers would be no big deal, it actually was. On a battlefield against a comparable force, the AICs were insignificant relics, but sitting in an open park with no visible opposition, these variants of the old Russian BMPs would be lethal if given a chance. Kyle would not give them that chance.
He guessed that the troops who would become the firing squad and perimeter guards had been brought to the square in the Boraghs, the Iranian name for their modified version of the vehicles. So the soldiers would be dismounted and outside, their attention turned away from the tracked vehicles, and the sharp sloping sides of welded rolled steel armor would be no protection for them.
Still inside might be the drivers, on the left front position, and they also would be idle, watching the show; probably they would have been pressed into service outside with their mates. The commanders who sat right behind the drivers might stay with the vehicles, but as officers, they would more likely be outside, on the ground, to run the operation. That would leave the gunners in place behind the DShK 12.7mm heavy machine gun in the rotatable turret. All of the armor and weaponry were just piles of metal if not properly employed. Men were needed to operate the Boraghs, and Kyle planned to kill both the machines and the men.
He checked his weapons and casually opened the door, settling into the act that he belonged there, that he was just another man on the street. He left his black special ops beanie in a pocket for the time being. Do nothing to raise suspicion, don’t stare at anyone, be totally unremarkable and stick to the shadows. Be invisible. Hide, blend, and deceive. It was a unique talent that was a vital part of who he was, something a sniper did almost unconsciously, and he fell smoothly into the rhythm of walking through the streets in a tangled route that would lead to the park, where he would come out right behind the two parked Boraghs.
Kyle soon realized that he need not have worried about being spotted. The streets of Sharm el-Sheik, almost empty and silent during the day, had become busy pedestrian thoroughfares as small groups of people, and many individuals who looked just like he did, walked with solemnity toward the execution site. Everywhere he looked, there was movement, and he worked his way into the moving throng. The city was awake and fearful and stunned; twenty of its leading citizens were to be shot to death in public by the Iranians, and there was nothing to stop it.
Swanson believed that the Iranian officers in the park eventually would notice the growing size of the crowd of spectators and alert their central command at the airbase to prepare a quick reaction force should things get out of hand. If worse came to worst, the on-site commander could have his soldiers get inside the armored vehicles, button up, and wait for help. Meanwhile, they would be able to shoot out through firing ports in the sides while the machine gunners raked the attackers. Reinforcements, Kyle reasoned, were not anticipated, and if called they would not move out with a sense of urgency.
Ahead, just around the corner, there was an aurora of light, and the crowd spilled into the park.
At 8:30 P.M., beneath a scatter of stars, the prisoners were marched up the street from Government House to the park, flanked by Iranian soldiers and led by a captain. Instead of the formal uniforms of the previous night, the soldiers were all helmeted and in combat gear. The prisoners were battered — black eyes, split lips, swollen faces, cuts and bruises on arms and legs, and blood splotched on their clothing. They had endured a rough ordeal in prison as the guards tried to get information about the partisan forces in the city, and now they lurched more than walked, some having to assist others. The crowd howled with cries of despair as familiar faces were seen. Even the old police chief had been taken prisoner, under the reasoning that his officers might have helped the unknown resistance force. All of the uniformed cops on crowd control duty, Kyle noticed, had been disarmed and were unsmiling. Step by step, the cowed prisoners were herded into the bright lights that glowed at the execution site.
Swanson slid to the rear of the crowd and took position in a doorway about ten feet behind the armored vehicles. These were parked at an angle, ass to ass, and the gunners had swiveled their big weapons toward the growing throng of onlookers. He spotted Abdel in the front rank of spectators on the right side of the wall of sandbags, and when the Egyptian saw him, they exchanged silent nods. The kid was doing OK, learning fast on the job, just like any new lieutenant getting lessons from a veteran gunny on determination, leadership, and discipline. Abdel seemed confident, which indicated his men were in place, and Swanson could only hope they would all hold their fire and not open up too early to revenge the obvious outrageous treatment of their people. Each man on the team had a specific target, and everything depended on that opening burst. Shooting too soon would be a disaster.
The Iranian captain leading the awful parade of prisoners was a strutting little martinet who had been second in command to Major Shakuri at the first executions. He was proud that General Khasrodad had put him in charge of this one. He would tolerate no mistakes by his troops, or any intervention by the civilians. The invisible partisan fighters hiding in Sharm el-Sheikh had to watch now as innocent friends and neighbors paid a blood price for the attacks on Iranian forces. The captain had also lost friends to the ruthless and cowardly actions of the rebels during the past few days, and there was no pity in him as he straightened his crisp olive green uniform. These people needed to feel his whip.
You’re mine, thought Kyle as he studied the commander of the execution group. Then he switched his attention back to the Boraghs. The pair of back doors on each of the big APCs hung open, and each of those thick hatch covers served double duty as an auxiliary fuel tank. Inside, he saw the padded bench on which eight soldiers would sit in each vehicle, two rows of four leaning against a common backrest that was also the main gas tank. At the front, below the gunner’s hatch, was ammunition storage. The Boraghs were universally hated by the troops who had to ride in them, because battlefield experience had proven that a land mine, an armor-piercing incendiary bullet, or a rocket-propelled grenade through the rear would utterly destroy the beast. A soldier’s best chance was riding outside, where he might risk being hit by bullets but would have a better chance by being thrown away from the blast rather than cooking trapped inside. Swanson hoped the captain had been efficient enough to top off with fuel and ammo before coming to the park.