American Sniper

by Ian Patterson

  From Ezekiel Bohannon, the world had moved on.

  Encouraged by sister Allison, after Mexico, Tara returned to the home in Carmel-by-the-Sea giving Mathias no set date for a return, if at all.

  “I need to recover away from you, Mathias,” she said, by way of explanation. “At the ranch, you’ll always be the man who rescued me. Time away may convince me otherwise; that you’re the man responsible in the first place. I’m angry, but more than that, I’m just so, so, disappointed.”

  Anger from Tara, Mathias could withstand. Disappointment gutted him completely.

  With Tara gone, life on the ranch in Antimony returned to normal. Or near enough to normal. Days mucking out stalls, hauling feed, training, delivering horses to buyers, bidding for replacements at auction. Inevitably, days turned to weeks. When after two months Tara did not return, Mathias settled for speaking to her by phone. Ultimately, Tara’s thoughts about the affair turned to suspicions. She voiced these suspicions to Mathias. Mathias, ever the loyal servant conditioned to reject conspiracy theories outright, refused to indulge. He imagined Tara channeling her sister Allie.

  Eventually, Mathias considered Tara might not be wrong after all.

  ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FIVE

  Georgetown, Washington DC

  THREE MONTHS AFTER Mexico, winter settled in, Mathias traveled from Provo, Utah, to Washington DC via commercial jetliner. Traveling light, he carried little in the way of luggage. Mathias rented a vehicle. He booked an extended-stay motel room off the Beltway charging five-hundred-dollars a week. For however long it took, Mathias could wait.

  ◊◊◊

  The home was a magnificent Georgian befitting the owner’s stature and style. A neighborhood of legal professionals, lobbyists, and high-level government employees. Always quiet, the street was deserted.

  A street free of crime, let alone murder.

  Well, thought Mathias, there’s a first time for everything. After three weeks, that time arrived.

  ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX

  Georgetown, Washington DC

  DABNEY BERKSHIRE SIPPED Macallan scotch whiskey from a cut-glass crystal tumbler, an eighteen-year-old, two-hundred-dollar a bottle full-bodied Speyside single malt. Well-sherried with a medium finish, it was sweet with notes of winter spice and Demerara, hints of rum, sherried sultanas, and vanilla with cooked apples.

  Berkshire sighed, the heat from the single-malt and a crackling fire in the hearth warming his bones.

  Seated in his most comfortable armchair, stocking feet resting on a matching ottoman, Berkshire studied a recent Agency report outlining the rise of the opium trade in Lebanon’s Beqaa Valley.

  Though drugs were long a tradition in the Valley dating to the days of the Roman Empire, the trade collapsed during the worldwide crackdown on narcotics led by the United States in the early nineties. (Berkshire marveled at the power of the Stars and Stripes to alter two thousand years of world history in a mere generation or two.)

  Under pressure from the U.S. State Department, the occupying Syrian Army plowed up the Beqaa's cannabis fields and sprayed them with poison. Once important opium cultivation became marginal. From a multi-billion dollar industry, the region’s drug-trade became negligible.

  Owing to political unrest that weakened the central Lebanese government during the two-thousand-six Lebanon War, the oh-seven Opposition boycott of the government, and the promise of United Nations irrigation projects and alternative crop subsidies that never materialized, drug cultivation and production had significantly increased.

  Though still a fraction of civil war era production and limited north of the town of Baalbek where the rule of tribal law protecting armed families was still active, the upward trend in drug-related activity was worrisome.

  Agency analysts believed proceeds of the trade were being directed to terror organizations including ISIS and al-Qaeda, facilitated by the President’s recent draw-down of troops from Syria and Afghanistan.

  A more in-depth analysis revealed the acquisition by these groups of high power, military grade sniper rifles, and state-of-the-art machine pistols and personal IEDs, weapons capable of inflicting one-off casualties from long range or mass casualties up close and personal. These days, such weapons could be purchased in America; no need to cross borders with arms concealed in the wheel-well of a car.

  If nothing else, Berkshire had proved a lone gunman could terrorize the country by randomly potting innocent civilians, going so far as to target and assassinate prominent government officials and politicians. A platoon of a dozen or more terrorists acting together would send shockwaves throughout the nation.

  Outside, the wind had risen, rattling through the eaves. The house was old. Berkshire considered selling, purchasing a condo overlooking the Potomac. But condos with views of the river were hard to find, commanding substantial price tags.

  Pulling himself from the comfort of his favorite chair, Berkshire moved to the sideboard for a refill. Tipping the bottle, he sensed a change in the room’s atmosphere; as if the barometer had dropped and the temperature fell.

  Feeling the cold, hard press of metal at the base of his skull, Berkshire said, “Mathias? What took you so long?”

  Behind him, a familiar voice replied, “Guess again.”

  ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SEVEN

  Georgetown, Washington, DC

  EZEKIEL BOHANNON SPORTED a well-trimmed beard. Wearing skinny jeans, a plaid shirt, Nike trainers, and with his long hair tied-off in a man-bun, he resembled a Georgetown hipster.

  Turning to face Bohannon and showing no surprise, Berkshire said, “It was a toss-up who got here first; Mathias or you.”

  “Yippee, I win.”

  “It’s stupid for you to come here, Bohannon.”

  “I shan’t tarry long.”

  Berkshire laughed. “Unfinished business?”

  Holding his weapon steady, Bohannon said, “You tell me?”

  “You needn’t be looking over your shoulder if it’s what you’re asking me. We’re done.”

  “After Mexico and New York City? Convince me.”

  Waving away the accusation, Berkshire said, “Sit, let me pour you a drink. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

  “No; you sit.”

  “Very well.” Returning to his favorite armchair, Berkshire said, “If I wanted you dead, Bohannon, you’d be dead. If I wanted you in chains, you’d be shackled.”

  “You’re saying Mexico was for show?”

  “As far as anyone knows, you died in a shootout south of the border with the Federales. With no family to claim the body, you’re lying in a pauper’s grave outside Tampico. Good riddance, the good guys win, the world is safe for another day.”

  “And Mathias?”

  “Mathias is thankful to be back on the ranch playing house with Tara McDonald.”

  Bohannon frowned. “Except he isn’t, is he? Back home on the ranch.”

  Berkshire shrugged. “How much do you know?”

  “Enough to be concerned Mathias may be unwilling to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-EIGHT

  Georgetown, Washington, DC

  MATHIAS ENTERED THE ROOM to find Ezekiel Bohannon and Dabney Berkshire chatting. Not exactly collegial owing to the Magnum leveled by Bohannon at Berkshire’s chest.

  “You want to do him, sir, or shall I?” Mathias said, causing both Bohannon and Berkshire to jump.

  “Jesus, Mathias,” Bohannon said. “You scared the shit out of me. Ever the bloody chameleon, you.”

  Turning to Berkshire but keeping his weapon on Bohannon, Mathias said, “Me, then.”

  Berkshire downed his drink, raised his hands in self-defense. “Fine, children; daddy’s made you both angry. But before you gut me, hear me out.”

  ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-NINE

  Georgetown, Washington, DC

  SEATED OPPOSITE BERKSHIRE in matching leather armchairs, Mathias and Bohannon listened as the Assistant Deputy Director of the CIA’s Counter Te
rrorism Center tried to explain.

  “Iraq was a shit-storm; you don’t need me to tell you. The military miscalculated, misjudged, misplanned, missed everything. We couldn’t trust them to clean up a mess of their own making. It’s why the Veep relied so heavily on Blackwater because Clinton’s CIA butchered the intelligence. But to the press, the political and financial connection to Cheney was irresistible. The public wouldn’t have it. To them, it was all about Haliburton and money. Of course, it was about the money because for the libs criticism comes natural, but tough choices come hard. I—we—needed to make tough choices.”

  “The Agency?” Mathias said.

  Berkshire sipped whiskey from his tumbler. Having both refused Berkshire’s offer of the “finest of single malts,” Mathias and Bohannon went thirsty. Eying Mathias warily, Bohannon refused to lower his weapon. Equally wary, Mathias rested his Sig Sauer on his thigh.

  “After Fallujah redux, Director Goss instructed the Agency to devise an alternative, non-military intervention. A strategy that would spare soldiers lives. He hated that our boys were dying in a litterbox overseas earning a bus driver’s wage and a janitor’s pension.”

  “With the President’s blessing?” Mathias said.

  “The President had just received a mandate from the American public to do what needed to be done. He had four more years to get it right.”

  “The Secretary of Defense?”

  “Stick a fork in the bastard; Rummy was toast. Couldn’t order coffee from an intern.”

  “So, what was the plan?” Mathias wanted to know.

  Berkshire sipped, sounding like a man reminiscing.

  “Death squads.”

  “Death squads?”

  Berkshire chuckled. “We didn’t call them that. We called them Capture Or Kill Expeditions; COKE, for short.”

  Turning to Bohannon seated beside him, Mathias said, “You were a COKE?”

  “The first, the dry run. I recruited Chan and Hathaway to the operation, which was to seek out and destroy Rumsfeld’s dead-enders. We were remarkably efficient. Over a thousand kills.”

  “Collateral damage?”

  Bohannon snorted. “Only time we ever harmed an innocent was by mistake. The men we put down were hardcore believers, Mathias, enemies of our state. If you’d joined us, we’d have doubled our kill-count.” Mathias seemed skeptical. Bristling, Bohannon continued. “You know what it was like out there, Mathias. In Afghanistan and Iraq; Old Testament. The only thing the animals understood was Allāhu Akbar. Who knows how many of our boys would have died if not for my team and me?”

  In Bohannon’s defense, Berkshire said, “Chief Bohannon is no less a hero for what he did in Iraq than was Truman for dropping the bomb on Hiroshima, Mathias.”

  Attempting to square a round circle, Mathias said, “So why didn’t you return a hero, Chief?”

  Berkshire answered for Bohannon. “The Dems were threatening to win back Congress, both Houses. If they’d uncovered COKE, we’d have been doomed. Had to shut it down after Obama.” Berkshire grunted. “Democracy. The true enemy of the state. Bohannon understood the stakes.”

  “Why the rampage Stateside?” Mathias asked Bohannon.

  Bohannon shrugged. “Some records are meant to be broken, Mathias.”

  Mathias tensed. “To prove you were a better shot than Chris Kyle? I don’t believe you.”

  “Grow up, Mathias,” Berkshire said, his tone that of a father scolding a son. “To prove an Islamic extremist could terrorize the American public at will, for months, without ever being caught. But to say it doesn’t prove it. A psychopath with a bump-stock doesn’t create nation-wide panic and fear. An Islamist with a beard and a bandolier going door-to-door in the neighborhood does. A dozen Islamists with sniper rifles would be chaos.”

  “You sound like an advertisement for the NRA, Berk.” Mathias shook his head. “You’re both crazy.”

  “No, Mathias. Think what a dozen terrorists could do with a long-gun you can buy at Walmart for five hundred bucks. Think! The public needs to be convinced.” Mathias remained doubtful, prompting Berkshire to add, “You know, Mathias, there are still those who believe FDR engineered Pearl Harbor, Cheney 9/11.”

  Conceding the point, Mathias said, “Why me?”

  “You found him, didn’t you?” Berkshire said, indicating Bohannon. “You’re the proof. You’ve proved to the Agency, to the Oval Office, to the chuckleheads at the FBI, to Alexis Kim at Terrorism and Crime that a team of well-trained professional contract snipers deployed in America and overseas can keep the U.S. public safe from terrorists. Perhaps one day exterminate the terrorists altogether. No expensive standing army to recruit, train, deploy, and feed. No cumbersome assets to deploy. No Congressional or Executive approval. No trillion dollar intelligence failures. No flag draped coffins.

  “A nimble force of outsourced men and women located around the globe able to strike at a moment’s notice. Without terrorists, Mathias, terrorism ceases to exist.”

  Looking to Bohannon, Mathias said, “Except I didn’t put you down, did I?”

  “Would you like to?” Bohannon offered, Magnum twitching in his palm. “For Ms. McDonald?”

  Turning away, Mathias said, “What would be the point, sir? Ms. McDonald no longer figures in the equation; she’s a million miles away.”

  Standing, Mathias stretched his legs. Wandering to the French double door, he drew back the drape. “You have a beautiful home, Berkshire, a lovely garden.”

  “Do I sense a threat?” Berkshire said.

  “Just an observation, sir.” Mathias opened the double door. A gust of icy air entered the room depositing dead leaves and debris onto the forty-thousand-dollar Persian rug. Mathias raised his weapon. “You should go, now, Chief. If not, this won’t end well for any of us.”

  Turning, Bohannon said, “For Ms. McDonald? I thought she no longer figured.”

  “It wouldn’t be for Tara; it would be for me.”

  Standing slowly to his feet, his own weapon level, Bohannon said, “Fine, Mathias.” At the door, he turned. “What now, Berk? A bullet in the brain when I least expect it?” When Berkshire didn’t answer, Bohannon said to Mathias, “You going to kill him?”

  “Check the morning Post.”

  After which Bohannon slipped through the French doors like a shadow fading into a cold, dark night.

  ◊◊◊

  Watching until Bohannon disappeared, Mathias closed the doors.

  “What about him?”

  Berkshire shrugged. “Oh, I suppose he’ll take up with a foreign government, drug cartel, Russian oligarch, or Chinese kleptocrat.”

  “You won’t have him killed?”

  Berkshire smiled, a wistful lift of the lips. “He’ll return home one day, Mathias. When he does, we’ll make him useful. At heart, your Chief is an idealist.”

  Returning to his chair, Mathias said, “And me? A bullet in the brain when I least expect it?”

  To make himself perfectly clear, Berkshire leaned forward on his elbows. “No, young man. I’d like to offer you work.”

  “Brookbank? Not interested.”

  Berkshire laughed. “No, Mathias; with me. You take the lead on operation COKE. Recruit, train, and deploy a team of operatives responsible only to you and to me; no Executive Branch, no Congressional oversight. No political interference or considerations in the targets we choose, the countries where we operate; we take out Putin and Kim Jong-il if it serves the National interest. Each man operates independently of the other behind a Chinese Wall. No leaks, no backlash. These men don’t need to know they’re being paid by the Agency.”

  “A team of outsourced assassins?”

  Berkshire shrugged. “The game has changed, Mathias. These days it’s how things get done. I’m offering you a chance to change the world for your children.”

  Thinking, Mathias said, “Who decides what’s in the National interest? You?”

  “If only. But, alas, no. I’ve developed an algorithm that
can predict threats to national security in advance. Everything from local troop buildups and movements, global small arms and military weapons production, deployment and deliveries, the public—and private—pronouncements of world leaders, jihadis, rebel groups, drug dealers and cartels, human traffickers, high school students. Every financial transaction including cash, credit, debit, and cryptocurrencies, web search, keyword, phone call, Tweet, Facebook post, Instagram photo, Snapchat message analyzed for malicious intent. A million drones flying overhead. The intelligence we collect tells us what the bad guys are planning to do before they know it themselves.”

  The actualization of George Orwell’s dreaded nightmare, Mathias thought.

  “And the good guys?” he said.

  “The good guys have nothing to worry about.”

  “Again, why me?” Mathias asked. “Why not Bohannon?”

  Berkshire smiled. “Bohannon was a trial. His actions these past six months were entirely predictable. Considering his ingenuity and improvisation in the field, I’m amazed at the accuracy of our analysis.”

  Taking a moment to digest the implication, Mathias said, “You knew all along he would go after Tara?”

  “Don’t be angry, Mathias. You and Bohannon have history; for the algorithm, it wasn’t a leap. But Tara’s safety was never in doubt,” Berkshire added quickly.