Sunrise: Wrath & Righteousness: Episode Ten (11 page)

With the U.S. Supreme Court having found against them and with President Marino having been sworn in as the president, the conspirators inside the compound had no choice. Unable to get a message out, cut off from any energy or power sources, including the ability to get fresh air, the residents of Raven Rock had very little option.

Once the leaders inside the compound understood the utter hopelessness of their situation, they would surrender.

Security forces were waiting to arrest the conspirators.

They didn’t have to wait very long.

The morning was calm and quiet, the only noise the muffled sound of the helicopter engines fifty feet behind the king. His pilot had pulled the helicopter’s engines back to idle and the helicopter vibrated softly in the mud as he waited for his king.

Al-Rahman grabbed the boy by the hair and dragged him toward the stone wall, the prince’s heels dragging through the slimy mud, leaving two light trenches instead of footsteps in his wake.

Throwing him against the wall, the king glared at the boy and sneered. “I hated your father,” he hissed as he pulled out a chromed 9 mm Glock pistol from the leather holster strapped around his waist. Holding it to the light, he examined the beautiful pistol, the highly polished metal glinting in the sun. “I hated him for as long as I can remember. In fact, my young prince, one of the earliest memories that I have is sitting at the evening table and wishing he would choke on his wad of meat. Yes, he was my older brother but I had no respect for him. I wouldn’t say that he abused me, quite the opposite, he was patronizing to the core. That is one of the things I hated, how he treated me so kindly. And I resented from my youth that
he
would be the king. He didn’t have to earn it. He didn’t have to prove himself. Like a finely wrapped birthday present, it was simply handed to him. Can you really call that justice?” He pulled the slide of the Glock, the clicking sound of metal jarring in the morning silence. “I do not call that justice. I do not call that right. I believe you earn what you get and you only get what you earn. That is the world I live in. That is the world as it should be.”

He turned and motioned to the pilot, twirling his finger in the air. In seconds, it would be over and he wanted the helicopter to be ready.

Even before the king had dropped his hands, the pilot engaged the rotors and the four long black blades started turning though the air.

Al-Rahman held the pistol in his hand, seeming to measure its weight, then focused on the young boy. “And now, my little prince, I’m going to give you a final choice—”

There was a sudden sound behind him. A cry of pain and mercy. The king quickly turned. A woman was being dragged toward him while frantically fighting the guards who held her arms. She flailed in desperation, her words unknowable cries, her legs wobbling underneath her. She was dressed in a black dress and a dark
niqab
covered her face below her eyes but the king had enough experience to see that she was young.

“
Sayid, sayid
,” she begged as the two soldiers shoved her between them as if she were a piece of meat. Pulling away from them, she reached out desperately for the young prince. “My son! My son!” she cried.

The king scowled with bitter anger. Who was this woman and why had the soldiers allowed her to get so close to him? He turned to the guards, members of the Saudi Twenty-First Special Forces. They didn’t look at him, afraid of making eye contact, their helmets low on their heads. He would string them up by their intestines for allowing her to get so near.

*******

The four American soldiers had positioned themselves strategically around the area. One was positioned in the dome of the tiny school. One of them was much closer, less than fifty feet from the king, hidden in an empty house. Two were positioned in the foothills, looking over the village. Dallas Houston, the team leader, was tasked with calling the targets out.

“Wow, baby,” Slapper muttered into his radio. “Look at that. She might have made it—”

“OK, OK,” Sergeant Dallas Houston cut him off as he talked into the microphone near his mouth. “You got the primary target, right team?”

“Roger that,” the second shooter shot back. “The king is in the western style business suit. He is very obvious.”

“OK, OK. Tally on the target. Tally on the woman. Is she in the line of fire?”

“Shooter two is clear!”

“Three!”

“Four!”

All of them called back concisely. The woman wasn’t in the way. They all had a clear shot at their targets.

Houston took a breath. Just like they had drawn it up. Still, his face was sweating and he wiped a sleeve across his brow, wiping the sting out of his eyes.

“OK, OK.” (He loved the word OK when he was under great stress.) “All of you call tally on the good guys. We don’t want to shoot our own men.”

He was talking about Sam and Bono now, who were very close to the king.

“Tally two.”

“Tally three.”

“Tally four.”

All of the good guys were clear.

“OK, OK. Shooter two and three, you’ve got the nearest targets. The RSF leader is at the helicopter’s twelve o’clock position. You take him and the four RSF guards to his right. Shooter three, you’ve got all of the RSF guards to the left.”

One by one, they confirmed the team leader’s orders.

Houston moved his assault rifle up to his cheek. “OK.” (Just one OK now. The set up was the hardest part and he was starting to relax.) “Three, you’ve got the units from the Twenty-First stationed near the stone wall. I’m the free shooter. Any targets of opportunity are mine.”

The team called back, confirming their last instructions.

“After the first barrage, it’s every man for himself. But shoot to make your bullets count. And always,
always
, keep an eye on the friendlies down there!”

The U.S. soldiers were silent.

“OK,” Houston muttered for the final time.

He stared through his scope and listened to his heart beating in his ears.

So far, so good.

He took another deep breath.

Everything going according to the plan.

Of course, no one had fired any bullets yet. All plans were good up until the shooting started. No plan was worth a wad of spit after that.

*******

“That boy is
not
the prince!” the woman cried in terror.

Al-Rahman turned and looked at her as if for the first time, his mind screaming.

How did she know about the prince?

He glared at her in amazement.

Why did she call the boy her son?

He lifted his hand toward the two guards who had brought her to him, commanding them back. Looking over his shoulder, he shot a glare of warning to the boy who had fallen against the stone wall, his eyes red and teary, his hands trembling in the mud. “STAY!” he commanded, then turned back to the girl. His guards were close around him now and he wanted to push them back. This woman was no threat to him. But what she knew might be.

One of the guards grabbed the woman’s arm and brought her forward. Stopping before the king, he bowed so deeply his head was parallel to the ground. “My king, my Master, may Allah forgive me for intruding and if it gives you pleasure, please take my life. But this woman says this boy is—”

“He’s not the prince,” the woman cut in, her voice shrill and frantic. “The one you seek is still hiding in the village. They have tricked you. They have taken him, but I know where he is.”

The king looked at her as if she had lost her mind, which she clearly had, for the boy before him was his nephew. He was certain of that.

But she knew about the prince, and he had to find out how she knew.

She bowed her head before him. “My son!” she cried again.

Al-Rahman reached out to her.

Azadeh lifted her eyes and looked at him then bowed her head in submission and fell upon her knees.

This was the signal they’d been waiting for.

She braced herself for the attack.

*******

The sound of the gunshot rang out from somewhere in the village, the
crack
echoing against the terraced hills. With a jerk, Azadeh fell back, a spot of red oozing at her chest. Then came another shot. Then too many shots to count. The gun blasts echoed off the terraces and sounded across the valley. The king’s guards started falling in their tracks, bullet wounds in their heads and chests. More shots echoed from the terraces.

The guards were being taking down by an entire marksman team.

*******

Dallas Houston watched the king’s men fall. Hissing into his radio headpiece, he called out to shooter three. “Lay it down! Give it to me NOW!”

Instantly he heard the
thuuuump
from the C4 charges the team had hidden against the stone wall. The explosions were spaced out at all four corners of the village. Even from this distance, he felt the percussion from the explosions and his ears rang from the overpressure. It looked like the entire village was under attack now, smoke rising in the sky, balls of fire inside the rolling smoke, pieces of shattered rock falling through the air. Four seconds later, he heard the chest-crushing
whomp
of the third-generation anti-personnel guided missile. Radar guided, the missile needed no further assistance during flight once the target had been identified. It honed in on the main body of enemy troops, leaving a trail of white smoke to mark its flight. The shaped warhead exploded into the village wall, sending stone and metal fragments in all directions.

Looking on the carnage, Houston almost smiled. Then he remembered his hesitation about the plan and felt a sudden pang of nerves.

*******

In seconds, a dozen guards went down. The king watched in horror, then fell to his knees. In a moment of sheer terror, he didn’t know what to do. His mind froze and his heart stopped. His throat was far too tight to breathe. His face was blank and expressionless.

He was certain he was dead.

Did his entire life race before him? Did he think about mortality or the world that was to come? Did he regret his many murders or all the people he had killed?

No, not for an instant. True to his core, the only question that ran through his mind was, “
Will I have time to kill these guards for their failure to protect me before the assassins kill me?
”

The king’s eyes darted all around. Chaos, blood, and smoke were all around him. Bodies falling into the mud. The roar of the helicopter’s engines. The massive helicopter blades turning through the smoky air. Return shots rang over his head now as his elite guards started to shoot back. Gunfire spouting in every direction. His guards didn’t even know what they were shooting at! A trail of bullets passing over him. He could feel their pressure. He could almost feel their heat. Three more members of his RDF team went down, leaving him alone. He rolled into the mud, pretending he’d been shot.

That was when it occurred to him.

All of his guards were dead around him.

But they hadn’t shot him yet.

Which meant they didn’t want to kill him.

He shook his head violently.

The two soldiers who’d brought the women to him moved suddenly to his side and pulled him up, ready to sacrifice their lives to protect him. One on each side of him, they crowded close, never allowing the shooters to get a clean shot. Everything around him seemed to slow. He saw the women. Dead upon the ground. Shot in the chest. He looked at the guards around him. One of them had light colored eyes!

A flutter of new fear ran through him.

Why were the guards so close?

Were they protecting him or keeping him from running!

He looked down at the weapons the soldiers had produced from their shoulder harnesses. U.S.-made MK46s.

The fear rose higher in his chest.

“
Sayid
,” the nearest guard called above the chaotic noise.

Al-Rahman turned to him.

“
Sayid! Sayid!
” the guard motioned frantically. “We’ve got to get you to the helicopter!” He grabbed his arm and started pulling. “To the helicopter,
Sayid
!”

The guard pulled frantically on his arm.

The king started leaning back.

It didn’t make any sense!

All his men dead around him?

The explosions from the brick wall. Expertly placed. The attack had been a work of brilliance. Snipers from the foothills. Snipers from the village. Some of them were very close. But none of them had killed him.

Which only left one answer.

They wanted him alive
.

The guard pulled him again toward the helicopter. Through the tinted glass, Al-Rahman could see the waiting pilots. The rotors were at full speed now, the helicopter light upon its wheels. The instant he was on board, it would spring into the air. He stared at the waiting helicopter. The largest target in the valley. Critical to his escape.

Why hadn’t they destroyed it?

His heart jumped up into his throat.

The guard kept dragging him toward the waiting helicopter. Al-Rahman jerked his arm away. Turning to him, he spoke in Sahrawi Arabic, his tribe’s ancient dialect.

The guard didn’t answer.

He spoke again in Sahrawi.

The guard didn’t understand.

All his guards spoke Sahrawi.

This man wasn’t one of his guards.

Al-Rahman reached up and yanked off the soldier’s helmet, looking into his eyes.

Captain Samuel Brighton stared back at him.

Dallas Houston had been right.

The plan was about to fall apart.

The plan Sergeant Houston had been so skeptical about was audacious to the point of lunacy, brave to the point of prideful, simple to the point of childishness and only a few seconds from actually working.