CHAPTER 4
The alarm jarred Kyle awake at 0330. Grumbling, he shut it off, got up and staggered to the bathroom. A hot shower helped him wake up, and as it might be his last for some time, he enjoyed it. He finished, left the door open to let humidity vent, and called for his ride. By the time he dressed, grabbed his bag and locked up, doing a final check on his list for anything he might have missed before tossing it in the trash and walking downstairs, the car was waiting for him. The driver, a cute female PFC, way too alert for such an early hour, opened the trunk for his bags and the door for him, then got in and waited for him to fasten his seatbelt. All by the book. Good. He wasn’t up for socializing much. Wade was already in back, sprawled across the seat and with a flat cap over his face.
“Airport, correct, Sergeants?” she asked to confirm.
“Correct, soldier. Mind if I take a nap?” His question, like hers, was rhetorical. He wasn’t going to nap, but he didn’t want to talk.
“Go ahead, Sergeant,” she agreed.
He lay back as far as the seat allowed and closed his eyes to think.
It was a good mission, and he’d agreed to it, so why was he so jittery? It wasn’t just Jeremy, he tried to reassure himself. It was also that this thing seemed so haphazard and last minute. Actually, it very well might be Jeremy. That, and being in a country where he didn’t know the language, alone with a spotter and no friendly fire support on the radio. Jitters did mean he was thinking and sane, he thought. If he wasn’t worried about this, he’d be a fool.
So much for fairytale heroes.
The first leg of the flight was from Columbus aboard a small Army transport plane. It was a twin turboprop job, and the swaying of the wings as it landed at Atlanta’s Hartsfield was disconcerting. They could see ahead through the cockpit, over the pilots’ shoulders, and the horizon swung up and down as the little craft bobbled in the drafts.
Military personnel traveled in civilian clothes to keep a low profile, and they were already a bit unkempt after not shaving. Still, their bearing made them soldiers, and they both knew they’d have to work on appearances and body language. The idea was to be nondescript. How a tall, white male and a tall, black male who didn’t speak the language were supposed to blend in in the Middle East and the ’stans was beyond Kyle, but he wasn’t going to question anything else. It was obviously going to be a screwed-up mission. Then he tried to recall a mission that hadn’t been screwed up. He couldn’t recall one.
All their gear had been checked through ahead on transports with official paperwork to clear it through the DOD Courier Service. It would arrive still crated and undisturbed, they hoped. The two of them were flying like any other civilians, except they were using their military IDs and orders as passports. The orders identified them as “surveyors” from the Army Corps of Engineers going to Kuwait to do a construction survey at Camp Doha.
Kyle hadn’t flown commercial since before the terrorist attacks. He knew security had been tightened, but had no idea how it was at the current time. He’d left everything except his keys in his checked bags, just to be sure.
“Final destination, sir?” the clerk at check-in asked him.
“Kuwait City,” he said, because it was true enough for airline purposes, and “The ass-end of Asia to kill someone,” just wouldn’t be politically correct. She was too young and cute to break out in that manner. Nor did Kyle need the probing that would certainly follow.
“Would you like to check your bags straight through?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” he said. He’d been cautioned to ask for that anyway. Otherwise, the bags would be held for customs in London first, which could take three days or more. Checked straight through, they’d only be inspected at destination.
That done, he took his small carry-on, which had a change of shirt, socks and underwear, toiletries, a notebook, and a garish sci-fi paperback with an exploding spaceship on the cover. What the heck, it looked like a good read. It was going to be a long flight.
He walked through the metal detector with no hassle. Considering that, he was a bit annoyed when some jackass came over with a wand and waved it over him. He remembered there’d been more threats, and an elevated security level.
“Raise your arms,” the “Security Officer” said, then poked and prodded his pockets and belt before patting him down. Amateurs pat when searching. Professionals slide their hands to catch things. Nor did this punk kid check the small of his back or the collar of his jacket.
He sighed slightly and dealt with it. Americans were now being treated like criminals in jail, in case they might be Muslim terrorists. Certainly, that mother might have a bomb in her diaper bag. Better check the diaper, too, pal. That baby poop might be rigged to explode.
The annoying part was that the hassle was all for show. Kyle had seen the reports of testers smuggling guns and knives past the security at many major airports. This farce wasn’t going to stop a determined terrorist, and was a pain for all concerned.
“May I check your bag, sir?” he was asked, as if he could say no. At least this guy looked competent. He was wiry and young, but had alert eyes.
“Sure,” he agreed.
It was simple enough. A chemical pad was run over his bag, looking for reactions that would indicate drugs or explosives, he assumed. It made him nervous. Not because he had anything that would trigger it, but the whole atmosphere was one to cause paranoia in the honest person. A trained terrorist, of course, would blithely bull his way through, unconcerned.
While doing this, the man spoke to the kid with the wand, “Moore,” he said, “don’t worry about the small children and the old folks. They don’t need to be kept standing around. And check ankles and wrists, too, okay?”
“Uh, yes, sir,” the kid replied.
Kyle’s bag was returned, and the man said, “Sorry for the hassle. I’ve got to check a quota per shift. It’s late.”
The sudden change in atmosphere was palpable. “No problem, sir,” Kyle said, meaning it.
“No need to call me ‘sir,’ Sergeant,” the supervisor said with a grin, as he handed Kyle’s wallet and keys back from the conveyor belt. His military ID was in the clear front. “I worked for a living. Semper Fi.”
The Marines. Marines had no trouble stomping on idiots. “Thanks, Marine. Rangers Lead the Way.”
They all chuckled as Kyle and Wade headed for the jetway, except Moore, who looked confused. Everything went back to what seemed to pass as normal these days. Kyle heaved a sigh as Wade joined him and whispered, “You know, I thought we were the good guys. Nice to have the government agree.”
“Yeah. Hell of a world, huh?”
There was still one more hassle. Along the jetway stood people in sports jackets and shirts with badges on neck cords. The badges read DEA and U.S. Customs. One of them waved at Kyle, the next at Wade. Sighing, Kyle went over.
“Can I see your passport, please, sir?” the man asked. Kyle handed over his ID card and orders. It took a moment for the man to track, then he smiled under his graying moustache as he asked, “Are you carrying more than ten thousand dollars in cash today?”
Kyle smiled back. “Yeah, right.”
“Have a good trip, sir,” the man said as he handed the card and sheet back.
Kyle waited until he was in the plane to sigh. He was carrying $25,000 in three currencies. So was Wade. But it wasn’t anyone’s business but theirs right now. Certainly they could have explained it with a phone call, but it wasn’t supposed to be an issue.
There were actually only about twenty people aboard the flight. Kyle didn’t know if that was due to the economy, the “enhanced security,” or the early hour of the flight. Maybe all. But it did mean that after takeoff he could loosen his collar, flop across six seats in the middle, and crash for a couple of hours. Wade did the same two rows back. The cloth seats were a bit rough, the gaps between them not comfortable, and a seat belt end jabbed Kyle in the kidney. Still, it was better than being stuck in tight quarters sitting upright.
The purser left them alone. The only noise intruding was the steady whining roar of the engines.
He woke much refreshed if a bit stiff over the Atlantic, and stretched as he sat up. The smells of food had woken him. He had the chicken, precut and cardboardy. Still, it was hot and it was lunch. He dug in. Wade moved up next to him and had the fish.
“Is there anything to drink?” Kyle asked as they were served. He wasn’t going to get drunk, but one to take the edge off wasn’t the same as drinking himself into depression.
“Certainly,” the flight attendant replied. She was likely near forty, well tanned and slim with a few faint lines just forming around her eyes. Nice-looking lady, he decided. “We have a very nice red wine, and Budweiser, Heineken, or Sapporo.”
“Better make it the Heineken,” he said. “And thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, plunking two iced and sweat-beaded bottles down in front of him. Wade took the red wine. Kyle hated most wine and wasn’t curious enough to try it to see if this was the exception. He expected to be charged for the beer; airlines always did. But nothing was said. Whatever had happened, it was a pleasant error or courtesy after—and before—many other less pleasant screwups.
Next to him, Wade said, “I’d offer to run through vocabulary, but they’d likely freak.”
“Yeah,” Kyle said. They’d think we were terrorists. He wasn’t going to even think that word where it might be heard. Someone would panic. “So tell me about your career,” he said. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get friendly with another spotter. There was a loyalty issue, which was silly, because Jeremy was gone, and because he needed to be familiar with the man he was going to be working with. They needed to talk. Besides, there was nothing else to do for the next twenty hours . . . or for the month after that.
“Not much to tell,” Wade admitted. “Grew up in the horrible ghettos of Bloomington, Illinois. My father’s a doctor. You can imagine how rough a life that was.”
Kyle laughed quietly. “Yeah, sounds rough. My old man’s an engineer. So how the hell did we wind up here?”
“I wanted adventure and money for college,” Wade said. “After I kept scoring expert, and went to a couple of unit competitions, they asked me if I wanted to crosstrain. So I did. Then I reenlisted and applied as an instructor. I figured it would be useful when I got to college.”
“Never got to college,” Kyle observed.
“Not yet,” Wade admitted. “But I still plan to, eventually. And this is all useful for a degree in sociology.”
“Sociology,” Kyle mused. “From shoo . . . dealing with bad guys.” The environment felt so hostile he didn’t even want to say “shooting.” What had America come to?
“Yeah,” Wade said. “Ain’t it a kicker? What about you?”
“Oh, I thought about college, but, really, I don’t have the mindset. I learn by doing. The Army treats me decently, I guess, even if 1 do bitch up a storm—”
Wade cut in, “‘A bitching GI is a happy GI.’”
“About right,” Kyle agreed. “So I’m still here. If I take retirement at a reasonable age, I guess I see if L.A. or some other city needs me for a special police team of some kind.”
“Or coach the Olympic team,” Wade suggested.
Kyle was silent for a moment. “You know, I hadn’t thought of that, but it actually makes sense. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
They got back to the business of sipping beer, reading trash, watching movies, and running through things in their minds. International flights could be very long and tiresome. Kyle figured they’d learn to hate them on this trip. If he didn’t already.
There was a four-hour layover in London, which was just long enough for a bite to eat and paperwork.
Heathrow was scary. Kyle hadn’t realized things were so bad in Britain. First, the plane had to park far back, as there wasn’t enough terminal space. They were picked up in a scissor-lifted mobile lounge that dropped as it rolled across the apron. From there, they shifted to a train at the terminal. Kyle couldn’t help but notice that they walked unescorted from one to the other, and that it would take only a moment for someone in a coverall and coat to run through the unlocked door marked authorised personnel only and ditch the coat.
That wasn’t the only risk. Once they left the train, they were crowded up an escalator through a passage with faded, yellowed, and cracking walls. It didn’t look like a modern, western airport. Then there was a delay at the top. There was only one metal detector. Nor did the staff have wands. Britain was proud of the fact that almost no one carried guns legally. But it meant that a dedicated terrorist could rush this point and be among crowds in seconds.
The delay was caused by a man who appeared to be Indian or Pakistani. He walked through the detector and beeped. Apparently, he wasn’t a regular flier, as he kept walking and had to be ushered back. The guards explained by pantomime that he should take off his watch and empty his pockets. Everyone else was made to wait.
Kyle thought at first that they were doing that for security reasons, to avoid distractions. But as it went on, he realized they were just incompetent. It took the man four passes through the machine, as he unloaded pounds of change, keys, a camera, a watch, some jewelry, and a handful of paper clips. He was still beeping, and they pulled him aside and had him spread his arms and legs. Then they gave him a cursory pat and let him go.
Kyle was very nervous as he approached, and their treatment didn’t help. Even with his pockets empty, he beeped, likely his belt buckle. But the attendant merely took the trench coat he was carrying, hung it over a rail, gave him a quick pat, and then handed his coat back, unsearched.
Wade was waiting, and Kyle followed. As soon as he was sure they weren’t being overheard, he said, “I could have hid a Beretta and two grenades in that and they wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Tell me about it.”
Then they had to stand in line for customs, even though they were passing through. That took only a few minutes, but was marked by the large Middle Eastern family in front of them.
The five kids ranged from ten down to two years, and the mother was obviously tired as she took a seat some distance away. Then one of the older kids ran toward the restrooms. The father wandered off to talk to an official about something, and then suddenly, both middle kids, who were playing, ran off. That left a large pile of luggage unattended.
Anywhere in Europe, that is not done, and the crowd at once started backing away from the bags. Wade loudly said, “Whose bags are these?” and the two kids came rushing back to stand by them, wide-eyed, followed at once by the father. Perfectly innocent, but it was that type of atmosphere. Trust nothing.
With two hours wasted, breakfast was the only real option, even though it was evening by their clocks. They found a shop that looked clean and modern, with the typical turned wooden railing and vinyl booths, and grabbed seats.
Thirteen bucks for breakfast, after conversion. Ouch. And a thick accent on the waitress, who asked, “Worr I git fuh ye genlmin?”
British bacon was meaty, with bits of bone. That was good. The toast was better than American restaurant toast. The fried egg was barely cooked. Kyle thought about sending it back but decided to skip it and just not eat it. He’d been through Britain once before and recalled that was how they did it unless told otherwise. And there was that grilled tomato he wasn’t sure if he liked or not. The potatoes were cold and greasy, so he left them.
At that, it might be the last civilized meal for some time, or ever. He left a fair tip as they departed.
“What now? Duty-free or departure lounge?” Wade asked.
“Lounge,” Kyle decided. “Better to be early.”
“Right.”
Kuwait Airlines, however, ran a tight operation. They had their own metal detectors, and wands, and staff searching people professionally. Wade said, “Excuse me,” and headed for the restroom, so Kyle held his place as the line advanced.
Wade returned in time to squeeze past the large family from earlier. They were scanned, their kit bags opened and inspected right down to Kyle’s paperbacks and Wade’s CD player. Then they were searched thoroughly enough. Kyle wondered about asking the guy for a date, just as a joke. But the procedure made him feel much more secure. If you were going to have a security point, then by God have a security point.
The KA desk staff were Aer Lingus contractors from Ireland. Kyle slid up to an attractive redheaded young lady in a green smock, who smiled and said, “Passport, please, sir?”
He extended his military ID card and the orders that would take him to Kuwait. “That’s fine, sir,” she agreed with a smile, and in moments he was waved through. He took a seat near the jetway, and leaned back.
Wade joined him, and as he lowered his bag said, “Well, that was close.”
“What?” Kyle asked.
Leaning in close, Wade whispered conspiratorially, “I had one of those Cold Steel nylon-bladed tantos. Just in case. But that checkpoint made me take a detour and drop it deeply in a trash can, wrapped in paper towels.”
“Jesus, man,” Kyle replied, grinning slightly. “All those searches and no one noticed?” He was bothered that Wade had brought it, and, bothered that no one had found it.
“Who checks a man’s tie?” Wade asked with a smile as he flipped the end of it.
He was right, Kyle thought. One could tuck a slim item in there and it would be unnoticed.
The lounge wasn’t crowded, but quickly became so. Based on their headdresses, many of the passengers could be Muslims or Sikhs, and Indian women in richly brocaded silk saris were numerous. Kyle wasn’t familiar enough with their caste marks to place them. Judging from some of the nomadic-looking bunch, they could expect camels, goats, and sheep in the back. Not really, perhaps, but there was a huge spectrum of culture and societal levels represented.
Shortly it was standing room only. “Where are they all coming from?” he asked quietly.
“Well,” Wade drawled, “it occurs to me that if you’re flying from Europe to the Far East, there’s only three main routes. Through Russia, through Iraq, which is almost impossible and inadvisable, or through the Emirates or Kuwait.”
Kyle nodded. That made sense. So this flight was going to be seven hours with their tall frames crammed into airline seats and elbow to elbow with other passengers. The flight from Atlanta seemed a wistful dream.
Shortly, they were boarding. “Well, this is nice,” he commented.
“Very,” Wade agreed. Kuwait Airlines was state owned, and like everything else with the Kuwaiti stamp, was brand new, gleaming, and perfectly maintained. The Boeing 777 still smelled of the factory. Every seat had its own personal LCD TV screen on the chairback in front, and pillows on the seatbacks. They were both nodding as they stowed their carry-on bags and sat. They couldn’t know that they’d shortly come to loathe those screens.
The standard preflight safety briefing started even as the last passengers were being helped to their seats, and moments later, a tug shoved the plane free. “That’s fast,” Wade muttered and Kyle nodded. Apparently, the pilot was in a hurry to keep his slot. The briefing was in English, Arabic, and some Indian dialect. Kyle didn’t hear anything resembling Farsi, Dari, or Pashto.
In short order they were airborne and winging southeast. The default on the screen in front of him showed the plane’s direction, velocity, and expected arrival time on a continental map, then on a regional map, then flashed to a screen with the direction of Mecca. He knew Mecca was important to Islam, but this drove it home with a dozer blade. It was vital to the devout Muslim to know where Mecca was five times a day for prayer, and at other times for reassurance. More so than Jerusalem or Rome, that one city was crucial to how a large number of people lived. It would be smart, he thought, to study more of Islam. He’d just exhausted most of his knowledge of the faith. He had a feeling it could be important knowledge in the future.
He was wiped out from the trip already. It was noon local time, 6:00 p.m. by his internal clock, and he’d been up since 0330. It was already a full day. It would be almost twenty-four hours by his clock by the time they arrived. Not wanting to watch prerecorded TV or a fluffy movie, he turned off his screen and reclined against the pillow, hoping to nap.
That’s when he started hating the screens. His neighbor was elbow to elbow with him, and his screen was still on. He couldn’t see the flatscreen well at an angle, but it was on and it was annoying. It flashed and moved against its dark background. Farther over was another. The other way, Wade’s was off, but the next one was on. He had four screens within ten feet of him. And he couldn’t shut them off.
Growling silently, he closed his eyes and pretended TV didn’t exist. But that left him with his own images. Those weren’t pleasant.