Sword Of God (3 page)

Jones smiled. “That sounds like Trevor. He was a top-notch soldier but a better person.”

“Maybe back then. But after the incident, the Schmidt you knew ceased to exist.”

Friday, December 29

Taif, Saudi Arabia

(Forty-one miles southeast of Mecca)

A cloud of sand followed the car as it turned off the main highway and bounced across the rough road that led to the compound. Fred Nasir was a tanned middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses, and casual clothes. He grinned as he parked his Toyota Camry, the most popular car in Saudi Arabia, near the front gate. Thrilled to finally be there.

A team of American soldiers, wearing desert camouflage and carrying assault rifles, swarmed the car before Nasir had a chance to open his door. Some looked under his vehicle with mirrors attached to long poles, while others probed his trunk for explosives. The men moved in unison, like a
NASCAR
pit crew, doing their designated task without getting in each other’s way. Finally, after thirty seconds, an
all clear
was given.

But instead of returning to their posts, the soldiers took five steps back and aimed their weapons at the car. Suddenly Nasir was in their crosshairs, a split second away from death. Certainly not the greeting he was expecting.

His heart leaped into his throat.

The lead guard moved forward, raised his handgun, and aimed it at Nasir’s face. He held it there. Silent. Poised and ready to shoot. He did not smile. He did not blink. He simply waited for Nasir to do something stupid. A flinch. A twitch. Even a sneeze would have resulted in a nasty scene. But Nasir remained frozen. Calm. At least on the outside. Internally, he was having a far different reaction. His heart was racing, his stomach was churning, adrenaline was surging like a tsunami. Yet what could he do? At this moment he had to play by their rules.

Seconds ticked like minutes while the tension continued to mount. Finally the guard tilted the angle of his gun upward and used its muzzle to tap on the glass. The
click, click, click
was a welcome sound to the driver, who took a deep breath and slowly lowered his window. A rush of hot desert air surged into the car, returning the color to Nasir’s cheeks.

“Papers?” the guard asked. It was more of an order than a question.

Nasir obliged, careful not to move too quickly. Still conscious of the crosshairs.

“Nationality?”

“I’m an American.”

“Really? You look foreign to me.”

“Yet I’m an American. Look at my passport.”

The guard sneered and leaned closer. “Are you telling me what to do?”

“No! Of course not. I would never do that. I’m just—”

“You’re just
what?”

Nasir took a deep breath. He couldn’t believe he had been talked into this. It was going all wrong. “I’m just an American. That’s all I’m saying.”

The guard stared at Nasir’s face, then glanced at his passport. It looked valid. So did his travel visa and the rest of his paperwork. He lowered his weapon and signaled the on-duty officer in the security booth. “State your business.”

“I’m here to meet a friend in the main dining hall.”

He glanced at a list of visitors and noticed Nasir’s name. His visit had been preapproved. “Good choice. The delivery truck just rolled in from our commissary over in Riyadh. Those guys hook us up whenever they can. Rumor has it they brought in a case of Oreos today.”

Another security guard, who heard the tail end of the conversation, approached with Nasir’s parking pass.
“Double Stuf
Oreos. That means twice the cream.”

Nasir tried to look enthused but had more important things to worry about than cookies.

“Put this on your dash and park your car in the guest lot.” The guard pointed to a row of cars just inside the compound walls. Flashing his gun, he added, “And don’t worry about it being stolen. It’s the safest parking lot in the world.”

If not for the snipers and the barbed-wire fence, Al-Gaim would have felt like Main Street, U.S.A. Nasir was surrounded by dozens of American-style homes of all shapes and sizes, each of them furnished with televisions, dishwashers, microwaves, washers, and dryers. An Olympic-size swimming pool graced the community, as did racquetball, tennis, and basketball courts. Farther down, there was a movie theater and a four-lane bowling alley.

All in all, it wasn’t a bad place to live—as long as the first axiom of real estate was ignored. The one that stressed the importance of location, location, location. Despite having all the charms of suburbia, Al-Gaim was nestled in the volatile foothills of Saudi Arabia, deep in the heart of Islam. Where the average daytime temperature was pretty close to hell’s.

Thankfully, Nasir’s walk to the rendezvous point was a short one. He strolled quickly, trying to ignore all the snipers who were watching him. His only concern was getting to the dining hall, where he had to follow the strict orders he’d been given over the phone.

Take a seat. Pour a glass of water. Try to remain calm.

But the truth was, Nasir was petrified. If he were caught, he would be killed. It was as simple as that. There wouldn’t be a trial. There wouldn’t be a jury. There would simply be an execution, one where his body wouldn’t be found and his family wouldn’t be notified. He would simply disappear into the desert, a mystery that would never be solved.

Today’s number one goal was to prevent that from happening.

His contact walked across the dining hall like he had worked there for years. He certainly looked the part, wearing the same greasy white apron as the kitchen staff while doing all the things that a good worker should. He pushed in chairs. He rearranged condiments. He stacked dirty dishes in a plastic bin. All of this seemed ordinary—even to Nasir, who was looking for him. Yet none of his actions seemed out of place. Even his approach to his table was normal.

He pointed to the glass of water. “You done with that, or will you be eating something?”

It took a moment for the question to register. When it did, Nasir’s heart skipped a beat. It was the code they had agreed upon.
This
was his contact, for a moment, he forgot how he was supposed to respond. Then it came to him. “I don’t know. Is it safe eating here?”

“I eat here every clay and I’m still breathing.” A huge smile filled his face. “Our food ain’t fancy, but it’s better than eating camel.”

The man reached into his apron’s pouch and pulled out a take-out menu, which he casually handed to Nasir. At least that’s how it appeared to the guards who were monitoring the dining hall via security cameras. This was the twelfth menu he had handed out during his shift, so his action appeared innocuous. No reason for any alarm or concern.

Of course, the guards couldn’t see what was hidden inside. It was the reason Nasir had risked his life to visit Al-Gaim. The reason why all that money had been given to him and why this handoff was taking place in the middle of a U.S. military compound.

As amazing as it seemed, the menu was the key to everything.

U.S. Army Base, Kwajalein

Republic of the Marshall Islands

(2,136 miles southwest of Hawaii)

After being briefed by Colonel Harrington, Payne and Jones slept for an entire day—at least according to the calendar. In reality, they took a four-hour nap during their flight from Hawaii to the Marshall Islands but crossed the International Date Line (longitude 180°) in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, a spot halfway around the world from Greenwich, England.

So far their mission had gone as planned, flying from Pittsburgh to L.A. to Honolulu without any delays. They might have been a few years removed from the military, yet Payne and Jones were seasoned veterans when it came to long trips. They knew when to eat, when to sleep, and when to piss—all in order to hit the ground running. Most travelers would have bitched and moaned about spending so much time in the air, but not them. They were so accustomed to jumping out of planes in the dead of night, not knowing if they were ever going to see the sunrise again, that they viewed this trip as luxurious.

No parachutes or drop zones. Just pillows and playing cards.

Technically, the Marshall Islands is a sovereign nation that signed a Compact of Free Association with the United States in 1986. But that’s just fancy political talk. In simple terms, the United States has full authority and responsibility to protect the Marshall Islands. In return, the U.S. Department of Defense was given use of the Kwajalein Atoll, which consists of ninety islets and one of the largest lagoons in the world, and allowed to lease eleven nearby islands for the Ronald Reagan Ballistic Missile Defense Test Site—also known as the Reagan Test Site, or
RTS
. This Pacific weapons site is a vital cog in America’s defense system, not only because of its strategic location but also because of its sophisticated research technology.

Once the plane touched down, Jones grabbed one of his bags and headed for the front hatch. “How long do we have to kill?”

Payne shrugged, trailing his partner. “A few hours. They’re making final arrangements.”

The duo stepped into the warm night and glanced around the semideserted airfield. Bright lights shone in the distance, highlighting the periphery of the fence line. A tropical wind blew across the tarmac, kicking up the scent of jet fuel and burned tire. It was a smell they remembered well. Not quite as sexy as napalm in the morning, but memorable nonetheless.

A young woman with Asian features and dark hair stood at the bottom of the plane stairs. She wore a khaki skirt and an open-collared white blouse that danced around her petite frame in the gentle breeze. It was the middle of the night, yet she had a smile on her face and a gleam in her eyes that said she was honored to be there. “Welcome to the Marshall Islands.”

To Jones, this was a pleasant surprise. He wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee.

“Aloha!” he said as he kissed her on both cheeks, a common greeting in Hawaiian airports. “Or however you say hello in Marshallese.”

The woman’s cheeks flushed, an equal mixture of anger and embarrassment. The smile that was present a moment before was replaced with an angry growl. This was not the delicate lotus blossom that Jones had first perceived. She was a typhoon to be reckoned with.

“Why in the world did you kiss me?” she demanded while poking Jones in the chest. “Just because I have an island complexion you automatically assume I’m some kind of air tramp ready to give you a lei. Do you see any flowers in my hand? Do you hear any Don Ho music?”

“Ah, crap,” Payne mumbled, trying not to laugh.

“You’re in the middle of a U.S. Army base, not on some island tour. What is wrong with you?” It was a rhetorical question. “While you’re in my presence, I expect to be treated with the respect I deserve or else we will stop dealing with each other and I will file sanctions with the base commander. Have I made myself clear?”

Jones nodded, completely mortified. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m a soldier, not a tart.”

“Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to imply …” He stopped in the middle of his sentence. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I was
completely
out of line.”

She glared at him for a moment longer before nodding her head. “Fine. Apology accepted.”

Without delay, she brushed past Jones and stopped in front of Payne, giving him a quick salute. “Captain Payne, it is an honor to work with you. I know you weren’t used to working with women in the Special Forces, but I swear I’ll be of great assistance to you.”

A look of confusion filled Payne’s face. “In what way?”

“Wait,” she said. “You mean, you don’t know? I’ll be joining you on your mission.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll be joining—”

Payne signaled her to stop. “Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

Puzzled by the news, Payne glanced at Jones, who gave him a shrug from a very safe distance. No way he was going to reenter mis conversation. Besides, it was obvious he had no idea who she was either, or he wouldn’t have kissed her. At this point the only thing Jones knew was that she was a soldier, not a tart. And since Payne already possessed that intel, Jones did the smart thing and retreated to the safety of the hangar.

Payne growled to himself. “What did you say your name was?”

“Choi. Sergeant Kia Choi. U.S. Army.”

“And who assigned you to my team?”

“Colonel Harrington, sir.”

“Really? In what capacity?”

“Full capacity, sir.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. What’s your skill set? Your specialty?”

“Oh,” she said, embarrassed. “It’s linguistics. I’ll be serving as your translator.”

“My translator? Damn, Sergeant, why didn’t you say so?” He handed her one of his bags, letting her know that she was going to be treated like any other member of his squad. “I hope to hell you know a lot of swear words, because we cuss a lot.”

“Don’t worry, sir. I know them all.”

Payne dumped his gear inside the hangar,
then
followed Kia to an army jeep
that had
been
built
for
World War II.