Seal Team Seven by Keith Douglass

the Hercules and onto the tarmac. In single file, the UN inspectors trotted after them, shepherded along by Roselli and Ellsworth. There’d been no further gunfire from the nearby airport buildings for several minutes now, and the other SEALs stood or crouched at various points encircling the C-130, their attention focused on the flame-shot darkness around them.
    â€œAre you in charge here?”
    Cotter turned. A slight, bearded man in civilian clothes, khaki slacks and a safari jacket, stood behind him, a briefcase clutched incongruously in one hand.
    â€œWhat the hell?”
    â€œI gotta talk to you,” the civilian said. The roar from the grounded Sea Stallion was deafening, and he had to shout to make himself heard. “I’m Arkin! I imagine you have special orders concerning me!”
    Cotter sighed. This must be the spook from the CIA—the intelligence organization the SEALs derisively called Christians In Action. He didn’t have time to screw with this shit now.
    â€œEverything is under control, Mr. Arkin,” he said. “If you’ll go back with the others and—”
    Arkin hefted the briefcase. “I’ve got important intel here, fella, and it’s got to get out right away. I can’t wait for the rest of that shit to be loaded on the helicopters.”
    â€œYou’ll go out with the others on the second helo, Mr. Arkin. You’ll go faster if you help your friends load number one.”
    â€œNo! I can’t wait! I want—”
    Cotter reached out and closed his left hand on the front of Arkin’s collar, pulling him up on his toes and bringing his face to within inches of his own. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, mister! Get your ass back with the others, and I mean now !”
    He released the man with a shove that nearly sent him sprawling. Arkin gaped at Cotter, looked as though he was about to say something more, then apparently thought better of it, shrugged, and turned away. . . .

0250 hours (Zulu +3) Shuaba control tower, Iraq
    From his vantage point fifteen meters above the ground, Sergeant Jasim could see the bustle of activity on the runway below. The two Land Rovers were approaching the big helicopter transport, which was squatting now on the runway with its rotors still turning. The UN spies with their blue armbands were trotting along behind their vehicles, as the black-suited commandos in their weird, bug-faced masks stood at the ready, their weapons probing the encircling night. Could they see him? Apparently not. At least they were not shooting at him, but appeared to be simply standing guard, watchful and deadly.
    Jasim would get only one good burst from his rifle. He knew and accepted that. But at which target? There were so many.
    Visibility was poor with the airport’s lights shot out, but there was enough illumination from the burning hangars to reveal two men off to one side of the UN aircraft, obviously engaged in a heated conference. One was dressed like the other commandos in black, anonymous. The other, in light-colored civilian slacks and jacket and a blue armband, was an easy target, and the briefcase he was holding suggested that he might be a man of some importance.
    The circling helicopter gunships were farther away now, searching for Jasim’s comrades in the surrounding hills. Breathing a final prayer to Allah, Riad Jasim aimed his AKM carefully, taking his time to align the sights as he’d been taught, hold his breath, and slowly squeeze the trigger. . . .

0250 hours (Zulu +3) Shuaba Airport, Iraq
    Cotter watched the Agency spook stalk back toward the line of UN people still emerging from the Hercules. The self-important little bastard would probably file a report back at Langley, contending that he’d not received the necessary cooperation from the SEAL platoon tasked with extracting him.
    Screw him. Cotter had gone rounds with the Agency’s Christians before, and the exchange