Free Termination Orders by Leo J. Maloney

mission. This was about more than just removing one piece of human scum from the face of the earth. Without Gaddafi, the Libyans had a chance for freedom. This could alter the course of history for millions of people. And who knew what sort of repercussions there could be after that? Who knew what other people, living under the yoke of oppression, would be emboldened if freedom happened in a place like Libya? It seemed ridiculous that everything should hinge on this rickety old hunk of junk. But if there was one thing he had learned so far, it was that everything depended on the smallest details. A penny on the tracks could derail an entire freight train.
    Those thoughts had been running in Morgan’s mind for nearly two hours when Conley announced, “That ought to do it.”
    “So it works?” asked Morgan. Conley exchanged a few words with Azibo, who turned the key again. The engine rumbled to life, and the three men cheered.
    “Now I just need to . . .” said Conley, trailing off, and he began forcing something in the engine with a screwdriver, putting his weight into it. The screwdriver slipped, and he jerked away suddenly, clutching his right hand. “Damn it!”
    “What is it?”
    “God damn it. Nothing, it’s nothing, just a cut.” Conley tried to wave it off, but Morgan saw that his hand was bleeding, small drops falling and congealing on the dusty ground. Morgan reached into the car for the first-aid kit. “Goddamn stupid thing to do,” said Conley.
    “I guess now we know who the shooter is going to be,” said Morgan. It had been a point of contention; both were crack shots, and each wanted to be the one to pull the trigger. Morgan was glad it had been decided for them.
    Conley held out his hand and winced when Morgan cleaned out the cut with rubbing alcohol. It was deep but not enough to do any permanent damage. Azibo watched curiously as Morgan sutured it over a sterilized plastic sheet and wrapped bandages around Conley’s hand.
    They crossed the border into Libya sometime after nightfall. Shortly beforehand, Azibo had left the road entirely, making the crossing in the open desert. It was bumpy, slow going. All Morgan could see was the dusty ground directly in front of the headlights, and the stars above, brighter than he had ever seen them. A fresh breeze began to blow, a blessing after the scorching heat of the day.
    When they came to a rise in the terrain, Conley told Azibo to stop. The driver cut the engine, plunging them into darkness. The absence of the motor also brought on an eerie quiet, with no sound except for the drifting sand hitting the side of the jeep.
    Morgan took the night-vision binoculars from his pack and leaned out the window. He swept the horizon, a barren, godforsaken wasteland, no more alien for being entirely green in the night-vision goggles. He didn’t spot what he was looking for, so he pulled out his flashlight and clicked it on and off in a sequence of longs and shorts, alternately pointing in several different directions.
    “There!” said Conley, pointing north. It took Morgan a moment to make out a faint flashing dot.
    “That’s got to be him.” Morgan clicked the flashlight on and off in its direction several times to acknowledge the signal, then sat back down. “Let’s go.”
    Five minutes later their headlights shone on a battered, oversize jeep not too different from their own, and a lone man standing next to it, wearing a traditional robe and a desert scarf, the kaffiyeh, on his head. Azibo stopped thirty feet away in a cloud of dust. Morgan opened the door and got out of the jeep, his MAC-10 machine pistol firmly in his hand, safety off. He approached the man with tense caution. Conley, flanking him, did the same.
    The man held out both of his hands, palms upward, in a gesture of friendship that also served to demonstrate that he was unarmed. He stared at the two men intently and said, after a moment: “One of you is Cobra. The other is Cougar.” The