CHAPTER 5
He awoke as they descended into Kuwait City. Wade nudged him, he stirred and pulled his seat upright, and responded to his partner’s, “Look at the map,” with a grunt. He flipped the screen on and stared. Yes, that was interesting. He nodded.
Kuwait Airport’s main runway ran north-south. It was so close to Iraq that landing from the north was all but impossible, so all flights approached and departed from the south, contorting their routes along the border. That had to be a pain. That would probably change shortly, as Iraq was secured.
They landed and cleared the plane into a new terminal, all white and chrome and huge hanging billboards. The ads were similar, except that the American Express Card display bore the name Abdul Ali Muhammad, whoever that might be, and the gorgeous women staring back from the banners were covered to the necks. Still, their elegant arms and piercing eyes were sexy, and being used to push product. Some things never changed.
The security were Kuwaiti soldiers with rifles. If they weren’t oppressive, they weren’t smiling, either. Doors that led to secure areas had lights that blinked when they were unlatched. The customs and passports people were more soldiers, behind bulletproof glass. And they were too helpful.
A sign above the booth warned travelers in a dozen languages to have your passport and visa ready. Kyle slid his military ID card and orders under the window when he reached the front.
With only a moment’s glance, the moustached sergeant replied in rough English, “Ah, military. Gohead, gohead,” and waved him on. Kyle wanted to ask a question or two, but the man’s attention was already on Wade and saying, “Yes, yes, you, too. Gohead. Welcome.”
There was such a thing as too much courtesy, Kyle reflected. They’d been helped so thoroughly they didn’t know what to do next.
“Baggage claim,” Wade pointed, and Kyle followed him over that way. Yes, folks, we’re a tall white guy and a tall black guy with short hair and good muscle tone, picking up duffel bags and flight bags. Nothing suspicious here.
A hungry-looking porter eyed their bags and his cart, but Wade shook a negative and they shouldered their loads. “Got to be someone here who speaks English,” Kyle mused aloud.
“As long as we don’t use those other languages yet,” Wade joked in caution.
But the soldier at the door just smiled and waved them through. It was dark, and warm and dry, the air flowing over them as the door opened.
“Welcome to Kuwait, what the hell do we do now?” Kyle muttered. “Either someone’s waiting for us, or we call that number on a pay phone . . . where the hell is a pay phone?” He looked around the spotless pickup loop, but saw nothing resembling a phone. Would they have to make a scene just to be found?
Moments later, an olive-colored Chevy Suburban rolled up in front of them. An obvious American stood up from the driver’s step and said, “Al Jaber Air Base?”
In relief, Kyle replied, “Yes, that’s us.”
“Then please come around here,” the man waved. He was blond, in civilian clothes, and had a Midwest accent, and it was good to hear that accent.
“Tech Sergeant Henderson,” he introduced himself, holding out an ID card.
Kyle examined it, nodded, and carefully drew his own. “Sergeant First Class Monroe.”
As soon as Wade identified himself, Henderson nodded and said, “Sounds good. Load your gear in the back, and climb in. I’ll inspect the vehicle.” He popped the hatch.
Henderson walked around, eyeballed all the wheel wells and the bumpers for potential bombs, nodded, and got back in. It was a formality, as he’d not left the vehicle, but a necessary habit in the Middle East. Kyle and Wade slammed the back and climbed in, Wade riding shotgun. Kyle let him so he could stretch across the back.
The trip to al Jaber was at near eighty mph. Every so often, the vehicle would hit eighty-one and the dash would whine, a warning sound to indicate excessive speed. It didn’t stop, either. “Yeah, it’s annoying,” Henderson said. “But that’s how they cut down on speeding.” As he spoke, a Mercedes coupe whipped past them doing at least a hundred.
The freeway was as modern as anything else, and brilliantly lit. Signs warned in Arabic and English that cars may merge at any time by driving straight in off the desert, and that speeding causes death. The locals seemed unworried about either. A car merged from the sand, bouncing lightly straight onto the freeway, and Henderson slid over a half lane. “Sorry, but this is how they drive here.”
“No worse than L.A. or Chicago,” Wade assured him. “Hell, I’ll bet some of them even have AKs.” They all chuckled.
“What are those tents?” Wade asked. “Part of the oil facilities?”
“Those are houses,” Henderson said.
“Houses?”
“Yup.”
Kyle had wondered, too, and looked them over. Each was a compound of tents about the size of GP mediums, on concrete slabs with generators, air conditioners, and fluorescent lights. Chevys were preferred, and Suburbans abounded. Considering the temperature never got much below fifty degrees Fahrenheit, it was a cheap and practical way to live.
They turned off the freeway onto a well-paved road that had sand drifting across it like snow during a Great Plains winter. It was a familiar but strange sight. The road here was dark, but the windshield was clear as soon as Henderson turned on the wipers to clear dust. No crushed bugs, no water spots, just dust. It was pervasive. Arabian sand is in reality very fine clay, desiccated to powder.
They drove past a camel-racing club that took a few minutes and jokes to explain, then off the major road onto a narrower, potholed one, then through three perimeters of guards, the first merely a warning to civilians to stay away, the inner ones increasingly stiffer, until the inner-most was USAF Security Forces.
“No photos, no cameras out of your luggage,” Henderson warned them. He spoke to the sergeant at the gate, exchanging passwords buried in the talk, though not very hard to spot. The military was so predictable, Kyle thought. All their IDs and orders were checked, the vehicle exterior inspected. “Has the vehicle been out of your control?”
Henderson replied, “I haven’t left it at all.” Then they were waved through.
“So where are we taking you? Billeting office?” Henderson asked.
“That’s a hell of a good question. We’re supposed to board a C141 here.”
“So let’s call Ops and find out.”
Twenty minutes later, they were in a large Quonset type hut near the runway proper. It was one of the Air Force’s nifty modular things, with actual windows that were covered by solid panels against light leakage or bomb damage or both, air conditioning, and proper lights. Although there were lots of curious stares, no one asked who these guys were and what they were doing. They did collect a couple of sly, casual nods, though, after they changed into uniform. They’d change out again after leaving the base, but the idea was to appear nondescript to the U.S. forces en route. Apparently though, everyone had figured out they were doing something clandestine.
They were provided cots, and dossed out to nap for an hour. Better to rest here, under bright lights and with generators roaring in the background, occasional aircraft up close as A-10s, F-16s and Kuwaiti F-18s flew patrol over Iraq, than aboard a plane, vibrating them slowly insane.
Kyle was just getting comfortable, his mind a warm haze, when his shoulder was shaken. “Sergeant Monroe, Sergeant Curtis, flight’s here.”
“Roger,” Kyle groaned. He stretched, ignored the dead-mouse taste in his mouth and sat up. Well, he’d gotten fifteen minutes of snooze, which was better than nothing.
They wore their ID in pouches on the left arm. Everyone on base had to have visible ID, and the guards weren’t shy about asking for it. They were IDed again as they ascended the ramp. They were both very familiar with cargo aircraft and lashed themselves in on the troop benches, backs against the webbing. As it appeared there was plenty of room, they propped their feet up on their duffels and, after inserting earplugs, Kyle thought about sleeping further. Whether or not the thought became reality would depend on several factors.
The flight was for three pallets of unidentified gear and the two of them. The loadmaster was briefly friendly, then left them alone.
It was 900 miles to Kandahar Air Base, Afghanistan, as the crow flies. Detouring around Iran made it 1,200 miles. For more than two hours they tried to sleep, existing in a precarious fugue state between unconsciousness and awareness, joints stiffening and aching, ears ringing despite the hearing protection, from the engine noise and frame vibration. A trip to the latrine at the front that was basically a porta-potty and small sink were the only chance to stretch and unwind, though the loadmaster did let them walk a couple of laps once they were at altitude. It was cold even with their Goretex on, and even the bitter, rancid Air Force coffee was welcome against the chill.
Kyle remembered a brief stay at an Air Force training site when he’d first enlisted. The coffee came from a machine in paper cups emblazoned, thank you for using unleaded gasoline. The quality was what one might expect. It seemed some things didn’t change. Heck, this might be that same coffee, recycled.
They arrived near dawn, and there was no welcoming committee. They walked stiffly down the ramp and looked around in the gray half-light.
Kandahar Air Base was also Kandahar Airport, which had obviously been modern in the recent past. It had a huge, arching, terminal, all white concrete and broad, darkened glass. But a closer look showed it to be chipped and peeling. There was no real firefight damage, but it had clearly seen better days.
They were expected, sort of. They identified themselves and were greeted with “Oh, right,” and then shuffled off into a corner for the sin of violating “the process.” They were patient, and it was only fifteen minutes before a specialist with a Humvee arrived to take them into garrison proper.
Once outside the flight line and terminal area, literally thousands of troops were billeted in tent cities and transportable barracks. It was a logistical marvel, Kyle thought, that they’d moved so much stuff halfway around the world and set it all up in the middle of nowhere.
Ten minutes later they were reporting in to General Kratman. He didn’t look thrilled.
“So,” he said, swigging coffee as he spoke, “I’m supposed to extend support to you two gentlemen, to do something I can’t be told of, somewhere I can’t be told of. You aren’t in my chain of command, or even an attached unit, you’re just sort of tourists packing personal weapons, looking scruffy and with two crates I’m not supposed to look at. And they tell me you’re Army, not CIA.” He was lean, healthy, and had an I-take-no-crap presence.
Kyle didn’t need to be polite, but it seemed a good idea to not ruffle feathers. “We are Army, sir. And this is secret, but nothing to be ashamed of or illegal. It’s just low profile. If I could tell you, I would.”
“All well and good, Sergeant,” Kratman replied. “But I’ve got an orderly operation here, and I don’t like rumors. A squad of Delta came through here a couple of months back, and basically helped themselves to anything not nailed down. I don’t mind support, but I’ll be damned if it’s charged against my operation. My troops need that stuff, too, which is why we brought it. So tell me what I do need to know and make it quick.”
“Sir, we’re departing the post with the predeployed gear and some extraneous equipment such as MREs, in civilian clothes. We will accomplish our mission. There may be calls for support from above, if we run into trouble. After accomplishing said mission, we may depart through here or another route. We don’t intend to interrupt your operation. It’s just a staging area.”
After a few more minutes of talk, Kyle being the solid, reliable NCO, Kratman was mollified somewhat. “Fair enough. You do your mission, I’ll give you what I’m supposed to. Nothing more. I don’t need my command or my ass getting entangled in stuff I’m not authorized to do myself. So list what you need and I’ll see it’s delivered. You’ll be clearing post when?”
“Daylight tomorrow, sir.”
“Good. Hopefully this will all make sense in the end. Staff Sergeant Morrow at the end of the hall will get you bedded down and fed, and see to any gear you need. And gentlemen,” he ended with a pause.
“Yes, sir?” Kyle asked.
“Good hunting, whatever the hell it is.” An almost-grin appeared on his face.
“Thank you, sir.” Kyle grinned despite himself as they turned and left. He could understand a commander in this hole being a bastard about equipment, and the man was no-nonsense enough to make exceptions when needed. But he did need to see a reason.
Once they’d paid their respects, plugged into the chain of command, and grabbed a bite, they sought out their gear. If all went as planned, it was supposed to have been waiting for them. A couple of inquiries got them where they needed to go, and they approached a warehouse that was functional and solid if stark. As they were climbing the steps up to the door, a First Sergeant opened it briskly and exited. Flipping his hat on his head, he looked them up and down. “Gentlemen, is there some reason you aren’t shaved?” he asked.
“Mission orders, First Sergeant,” Kyle said at once. “We’ll be out of uniform very shortly and off post right afterwards.”
“Ah,” the grizzled old NCO replied. He smiled faintly. “Good luck, then.”
“Thanks, First Sergeant,” they chorused. His question had been professional and his response appreciated, but the sooner they stopped getting such interest, the happier Kyle would be. Once in civvies, everyone would just assume they were Delta or CIA—or manufacturer’s reps for some of the deployed equipment—and stop hassling them.
Inside, the blocky building was unpainted, as it had been outside, but not bleached by sunlight. The office area was neatly kept and all papers were stacked. The computers were tactical models and in use. Wade murmured, “At least they’re organized. Hopefully everything’s here.”
“It better be,” Kyle replied, “or we’re not going.”
A specialist arrived at a run. “Sorry, Sergeants, we’re short on manpower. Can I help you?”
“SFC Kyle Monroe,” he said as introduction. “Here to pick up transported equipment and some additional gear.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” the specialist nodded. “What are you needing, and do you already have the documents executed? Or do you need some?”
“You do have a crate for us, I hope?” Kyle asked. He felt queasy, and it wasn’t just over his personal weapons. That Barrett was his baby.
“Oh, yeah,” the specialist agreed. “Big, long thing. Heavy, too. Almost took Jacko’s toe off when we dropped it.”
Kyle was cringing, even if it didn’t show much on his face. Wade spoke up and said, “Well, Specialist, I hope it did land on his toe, because the contents are far more valuable than a soldier’s foot.”
“Oh, it wasn’t damaged,” the kid said hastily. “It had one of those shock cartridges on it that would break if it dropped more than three feet. It never did.”
“Good,” Kyle said. “Still, that’s a maximum allowable drop, not something to be attempted.” The specialist seemed to realize he’d better shut up and get to it before he admitted anything else. They were taken through tunnels of boxes at once, to where the crate lay near a receiving door. Wrecking bar in hand, he pried the top loose. “Here you go,” he said. He started reaching in before Wade said, “That’s good, soldier. We’ll take it from here if you don’t mind.”
“Sure thing, Sergeant,” he agreed with a nod. “But I have to observe the contents to ensure it’s all accounted for.”
“No problem,” Kyle grinned back. The kid was going to have an orgasm when he saw this haul.
Getting the stuff out was a bitch, though. The kid—Leo Darcy was his name—had to pry all four sides off. Then he helped them, carefully, under their direction, to cut away chunks of foam with a knife. He was warned that a scratch would cost him his testicles. “Doesn’t seem worth it,” he commented. “What’s in here, anyway?”
“You’ll find out,” Wade said. “Then you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
As the contours were revealed, the kid almost drooled. “Jesus H. Christ! What are you guys going to do? Bag the Taliban’s head goon?”
Well, thought Kyle as he gritted his teeth, it was rather obvious why two lone snipers were here in country with a crated .50-caliber sniper rifle. “That’s really something we and you aren’t going to discuss with anyone, okay?”
“Sorry, Sergeant,” Darcy admitted. “I’m cleared, and I won’t say anything. But whatever you’re shooting with that,” he said, pointing, “is going to be a shoe.”
“Shoe?” Wade asked, beating Kyle.
“S, H, U,” the kid said. “Severely Hurting Unit.”
Chuckling, Wade nodded, “That they will be. Now don’t mention it again.”
“Mention what? All I do is open boring old crates of crap all day.”
“Very good.”
Shortly, the gear was all uncrated, cleared of dust and staticky packing foam. Everything appeared to be in good shape.
It only took a few minutes to fill out the appropriate documents for the shipment. “We need a few other things, too, Specialist Darcy,” Kyle said. “Ammunition, grenades, claymores, batteries, usual stuff like that.”
“Not a problem,” Darcy replied. “Sergeant Korkowski’s the armorer, and he’s not here, but I can do the paperwork and he should be back at 1800. I’ll need to see orders authorizing you, though.”
“No problem,” Kyle said, pulling out a spare copy of his blanket letter. “Here.” He handed it over.
Darcy looked surprised, and a bit disturbed. “Holy crap, Sergeant, I’ve never seen one of these!” He gave the letter another quick read and said, “Okay, when do you want it by?”
“We can come back tonight, as long as the stuff is ready.”
“Okay,” Darcy agreed. “It’ll be waiting for you right after chow.”
“Thanks,” Kyle said.
In a few minutes, they were back outside, festooned with radios, GPS, sidearms, rifles, and loaded rucks. “We need a vehicle,” Kyle said. The load was staggering.
“I think we need to fire a few rounds in this terrain to help break us in,” Wade said.
Kyle thought for a moment and replied, “That’s a damned good idea. We’ve got a day, we’ve got the weapons, they need to be checked out anyway, so let’s find a mountain.”
It wasn’t quite as easy as that. The motor sergeant was reluctant to sign out a vehicle, especially to just two soldiers. He wanted to see orders for an operation first. “It’s not safe, gentlemen. And I can’t lose vehicles on someone’s word. I’d be paying for the damned thing.”
Kyle agreed, angry. He reassured himself that the motor sergeant likely hated paperwork as much as he did. Still, it was aggravating.
“What now?” Wade asked.
“I suppose we find a patrol and tag along,” Kyle offered.
That wasn’t easy, either, although patrols were leaving all the time. A number of them were aboard choppers. Those in vehicles were going a considerable distance for several days. Some were in tracks. None were suited to the task in question.
“I’ve got an idea,” Wade said. “Going to cost us some ammo. Regular, not the good stuff we brought.”
“Fair enough,” Kyle agreed. “Lead on.”
Nodding, Wade reached out and took the Barrett from Kyle. “Watch this,” he said. He led the way down a dusty street between tents. It was classic Army architecture and hadn’t changed in centuries, barring minor variations in tentage.
“All we’ve got to do,” Wade said, “is offer a bribe.”
In a few minutes, they found a platoon that had returned from a patrol and was cleaning weapons. It was obviously a day-after affair, and they were stripped to T-shirt or skin in the warm sun. Jokes flew as they scrubbed their encrusted weapons industriously. One or two noticed the Barrett’s blocky case and nudged each other. They had to be wondering what it was.
Wade’s target was the lieutenant. “Sir, we’ve got a problem. Perhaps you can help.”
“Perhaps I can,” the fresh-faced kid replied. “Who are you gentlemen?”
Introductions were made, the bare bones explained, and the bribe offered. “If you can find us a few guys to throw a patrol together, we’ll let you shoot a few.”
Suddenly, fatigue and aches were forgotten. To fire a monstrous M107 .50-caliber sniper’s rifle, the troops would forego sleep and eat another MRE or two. There was no shortage of volunteers.
The lieutenant snapped, “Quiet,” and was obeyed. He might have been young, but he was competent enough to be respected, and that said a lot. Turning back, grinning now, he said, “That sounds like a blast. I can get a squad or two together, but transport could be a problem.”
“I’ve got that,” Kyle said. The general wasn’t going to like it. In fact, Kyle was making a career of pissing off high-ranking officers here, but it was all legal and kinda fun.
An hour later, a squad of infantry, the lieutenant, and the two snipers rolled out the crude gate. The rest consoled themselves with smuggled beer and pictures of women.
“So where do you sergeants want to go?” the lieutenant, Daniels, asked.
Wade said, “Anywhere safe, with lots of room and a good clear field of fire for a thousand meters or so.”
Snickering, Daniels said, “Well, there’s nowhere really safe, but this is the least unsafe area. And we can just go south to a mined and abandoned village and shoot at the buildings.”
“Sounds good. Can one of your guys hold the target for us?” Wade suggested, holding up an apple he’d snagged at the chow hall. To the lieutenant’s look of confusion and consternation he said, “I’m joking.”
“Right. Sniper humor?”
“Dunno,” Wade said. “My humor.” Kyle snickered. It was good to be joking with a spotter again. The school had made him morose.
On a flat stretch of desert hardpan overlooking a collection of crumbling walls that could be called a town only by the most generous of definitions, Kyle and Wade set up as fast as they could, treating it as a timed range exercise. Behind a very slight lip, Kyle scraped a groove for the bipod, dropped the bipod down into the depression, flopped down behind the rifle and pulled off the scope caps. He drew a ten-round magazine, loaded two rounds, inserted it and worked the bolt. Wade already had his scope out, M4 laid aside in easy reach. As Kyle worked the action Wade called the target.
“Reference: tall building, large gray stone construction under peak at forty degrees left. Target, yellow protruding ledge, eight seven zero.”
Kyle wasn’t sure it was 870 meters, but he’d trust Wade. “Sighted,” he said, and squeezed the trigger.
The world exploded. The Barrett went Blam!, the stock shoved back against his shoulder, and dust blew up from the gale out the sides of the muzzle brake. There were exclamations of “Yes!” from some of the spectators. They loved their M16s, but the Barrett was a better hung weapon than most of them would ever handle.
“Up twenty,” Wade said.
“Correcting,” Kyle said, then fired again. Another kick to the guts came with the shot.
Wade studied the impact. “Looks good. Let’s try a closer one, then a farther one.”
“Right.” Kyle extracted the magazine and loaded two more rounds.
Wade located another target. “Reference: patch of green, right of peak and under overhang. Target: lone tree between two large rocks, four six zero.”
“Sighted.” Wham!
“Good shot. Reference: roof peak. Target: bare patch underneath and right, lone broken concrete chunk near right, one two seven zero.”
It took a moment, even with the resolving power of the scope, then he found it. “Sighted.” Kyle eased the muzzle a few hairs, let the reticle align, controlled his breathing and grip, and squeezed.
As soon as the trigger broke past the notch he knew it was a good shot. The shove and the bang and the face full of dust were just treats. “I got it,” he said. It was over a second later before dust kicked up at the rock, and three seconds later, while everyone was silent, before a faint, echoing, anticlimactic crack came back.
The troops were both eager and hesitant. None of them approached, but they all clearly craved to. Kyle cleared and safed the weapon, extracted the magazine and handed it with two rounds to Lieutenant Daniels. “Want to give it a try, sir?”
“Thanks, Sergeant,” he replied, looking like a Boy Scout at his first day on the range.
Daniels slipped easily down behind the Barrett. He still had a young man’s flexibility and eagerness. He had enough familiarity with weapons and had watched carefully, so he had no trouble sliding the magazine in, cycling the action, and preparing to fire. Wade read him off a target, he squeezed and Blam! “HOOooly Shit!” he grinned, looking up from the massive recoil.
“Give it another one,” Kyle encouraged.
After that, there was no hesitation. The entire squad lined up to take their two shots. Kyle noted one with particularly good technique. “You shoot expert, soldier?” he asked.
“Three years in a row, Sergeant,” he replied.
“Good. If you can learn good scouting and concealment, you could do this.”
“Really?” the young man asked. He looked positively elated.
“Really. Call the school and ask about class schedules. Tell them SFC Kyle Monroe referred you.”
“Will do, Sergeant Monroe, and thanks!”
“No problem, soldier. We always need more shooters.”
It wasn’t long before they were heading back in, jolting over the uneven ground. It seemed as if, thrills done, the drivers wanted back on post as fast as they could manage.
“Don’t bump my scope,” Kyle said.
“Sorry, Sergeant,” their driver, the same one who’d shot so well, said, and slowed. They were just taking a curve in the road and Kyle was shoved against the door. The cased rifle on the hump between the seats slammed into his shoulder, twisted and fell and banged his knee as the other end almost bashed Wade in the head.
“Oh, sonofabitch,” he said, exasperated.
The driver said, “Ah, hell, is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Wade said. “Everything’s cased and we’ll heal.” He untangled the rifle.
“Good,” was the reply, but he did slow a bit more.
“Are we expecting to get shot at?” Kyle asked.
“Er . . . no, just to not miss chow,” the young man replied.
“I’ll make sure we get fed,” Kyle promised.
“Okay. Understood, Sergeant.”