Termination Orders(25)

“Five minutes,” Conley said.

Fastia, who had been sitting in an office chair behind them, watching eagerly, got up and stood by the window, nervously. Meanwhile, Conley removed a radio transceiver from the pack and said into the mouthpiece, “This is Cougar. Come in, Eagle’s Nest.”

“This is Eagle’s Nest,” crackled a voice from the radio.

“We are in position; repeat, we are in position.”

Onstage, the band stopped, and a local dignitary began delivering an introduction that went mostly ignored. Morgan put an invisible bead on him, rehearsing the countdown in his mind.

“Two minutes,” said Conley. “Careful. Wind’s picking up.” Morgan shifted the crosshairs just to the right of the speaker’s heart. Sweat began to run down his face.

“One minute . . .”

The band struck up a patriotic march. After a few measures, the music was overtaken by sirens, and they saw the flashing lights of the motorcade approaching between the long lines of parallel barricades. A wild cheer erupted as Gaddafi’s black Mercedes and five security vehicles pulled up to the stand. The dictator’s private guard, officially called the Revolutionary Nuns, comprised exclusively of highly trained and beautiful young women, spread out and stood at attention.

Conley focused his binoculars on the darkened windows of Gaddafi’s Mercedes. “I wonder if he’s really in there. Might be a decoy or a look-alike.”

Morgan didn’t respond. It couldn’t be. Not today. At last, one of the security guards opened the car’s rear door. Two men wearing military uniforms, each with a chestful of medals, emerged from the vehicle.

“Come on. Come on.” Morgan placed his gloved finger on the trigger with just the lightest touch.

Finally, he emerged: Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, wearing a red and black patterned ceremonial Bedouin robe that reached the ground. His long, greasy dark hair spilled out from under a matching cap.

“That’s him,” said Conley, looking through his binoculars. “Positive ID. That’s the target.”

Gaddafi beamed and waved to the crowd, who cheered on cue as he made his way to the podium.

“Target acquired,” Cobra spoke into the radio. “Cobra requesting go-ahead.”

“Mission is go, Cobra.”

“Everything looks good,” Conley said to Morgan. “It’s up to you now.”

“Do not fail,” said Fastia, in a whisper.

Morgan released the safety as Gaddafi adjusted the microphone to his height. The bastard was right in his crosshairs. There was no escape for him now. Even at this range, Morgan would not miss. He never missed. Taking a deep breath, Morgan touched his finger to the trigger and began his countdown, out loud. “Five. Four.” He added pressure to his trigger finger. “Three. Two.”

“Abort mission!” came the voice on the radio. “Abort, Cobra! Abort! Do you copy?”

Morgan stopped the countdown but kept his finger on the trigger, the target in his scope.

“Do it,” demanded Fastia. “It is our only chance.”

All he had to do was squeeze the trigger.

“Confirm abort order, Cobra!”

Why should he abort? What reason could there be to let this mass murderer live? Morgan wondered. He could allege radio failure. A tragic miscommunication. They would throw the book at him, but what could they do? The bastard would be dead. He looked through his sight at Gaddafi, still talking at the podium.

“Cobra!” said Conley sharply. “They gave the order to abort. Let it go.”

Fastia crouched and snarled, “Shoot! Take the shot, Cobra! Do it now, before it is too late!”

Morgan tensed his trigger finger. The crosshairs remained on Gaddafi, who was talking boisterously to the crowd.

“Confirm abort order, Cobra!“

Conley put a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Morgan, exhaling, let go of the trigger.

“Abort order confirmed,” he said.

“No!” said Fastia, falling to his knees, his voice breaking. Morgan jumped to his feet.

“Let’s go, Kadir,” said Morgan. “It’s over.”

“No! It’s not over yet! Pick up your gun and shoot!”

“Let’s say I do that. What then? Do you think they’re just going to give you and your wife and daughter safe passage to the US if you disobey orders? Trust me, Kadir, we’re your only friends right now, and we’re telling you, it’s over.”

“Why would they stop us? Why?”

“We might never know,” said Morgan. “The suits always have their reasons. All we can do is hope that they made the right call.”

Conley was at the door. “Cobra, we gotta go.”