Sword Of God Read Free Page A

“So, Payne, now that you’re in your jammies, are you ready to begin?”
    Payne gave him a mock salute. “I’m comfy and accounted for.”
    “Oh, goody.” Harrington opened the top folder and removed a single photograph. “Captain Trevor Schmidt, thirty-five, served as a MANIAC until three years ago. Based on your recommendation, he was selected to lead his own crew, one that did special projects in the Persian Gulf.”
    “Meaning what?” Jones asked.
    “Meaning they’re none of your goddamned business.”
    “Great! Thanks for clearing that up.”
    Harrington stared at him, unaccustomed to backtalk. “As I was saying, Schmidt kicked a lot of ass during his first year. No matter what we asked—and we asked a lot— he got it done. We were thrilled with his results and quickly increased his workload. That is, until the incident.”
    Payne arched an eyebrow. “The incident?”
    “You know how it goes. We got some piss-poor intel and dropped his crew into a zone that was much hotter than we expected. Of course, he kept his composure and handled himself brilliantly. I don’t know how he did it, but the bastard managed to fight his way out. Several injuries to his crew but no deaths.”
    Jones beamed. “That doesn’t sound like an incident. That sounds like a MANIAC .”
    “Actually, that
wasn’t
the incident. The incident came later.” Harrington opened one of his folders and slid it across the table. Neither Payne nor Jones looked at it. They knew that what Harrington was about to say was far more important than what was written in the report.
    Reports were written in black and white. They were more interested in color.
    “As you know, our military has a strong presence in the Persian Gulf. Iraq, Iran, Kuwait. Every Arab nation in that godforsaken desert. We’ve been there for years and we’ll be there for years—even places the president doesn’t know about. Unfortunately, when you’re talking about thousands of soldiers, you can’t keep everything a secret. Bases are sitting targets. Troop movements are constantly monitored. So are our warships in the gulf and the Red Sea. We do our best to protect our men, but let’s face it: war is war. There are going to be casualties.”
    Harrington tapped his folder for emphasis. “Your boy Schmidt did everything right. He protected his wounded, secured transportation, and got the hell out without announcing his position. He avoided the hostiles for several hours, waiting until he was far from the hot zone before calling in air support. Eventually, his crew was picked up, patched up, and taken to Taif.”
    Taif Air Base is in the foothills of Saudi Arabia, approximately an hour’s drive to Mecca and a two-hour drive to Jeddah, a historic Muslim city near the Red Sea. Taif is home to the U.S. Military Training Mission ( USMTM ), a joint training program between the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and U.S. Central Command from MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida. The goal is to provide military advisers to the Royal Saudi Air and Land Forces while providing protection to U.S. Department of Defense personnel stationed in Taif. More than three hundred Westerners, working for companies such as McDonnell Douglas and Pratt & Whitney, live in the Al-Gaim Compound, a modern community with an American feel. Al-Hada Hospital, a Saudi facility staffed mostly by Westerners, provides basic medical and dental care. But in emergencies, USAF flight surgeon support was available from Prince Sultan Hospital and other neighboring bases.
    “Obviously, we didn’t admit our fuckup. We rarely do. But we knew we couldn’t send Schmidt’s crew right back into action. Half his men were hospitalized; the other half were pissed. So we decided to give them some extended downtime in the plush confines of Al-Gaim.”
    Jones smirked. “Not exactly a trip to the Ritz. Yet better than Baghdad.”
    Payne ignored his partner, focusing on the missing details of Harrington’s explanation.