by Scott Blade
He smiled and nodded, a thank you for the coffee. He pulled it close and studied it.
“It’s not poisoned,” Sutherland said.
Widow took a fake sip, just in case.
“So, what do you want me to do in North Korea?”
“China.”
Widow stared over at Tiller.
“Technically, that’s China. Not North Korea.”
Widow pointed at the side of the map and said, “That part’s North Korea.”
“True.”
“I’m not going back there. If that’s why you brought me all the way out here, you’re wasting your time. You can fly me first class all the way there. Private jet and all. Even if it was on Air Force One. I’m not going.”
“It’s not why you’re here.”
Widow listened.
“Not precisely. It’s more like, proximate to why we brought you here.”
Sutherland clicked the trackpad on the Mac again. He stayed standing near the TV. A new photo came up on the screen like a slideshow, only on a TV monitor instead of from a film projector.
The photo was of a sniper in field gear. His face was weather-beaten and sandblasted. He had a serious tan going on. A combat helmet covered his head from the sun. He had shades on. But the rest of his face was visible. He was posing for the camera.
There was an L115A3 sniper rifle, a serious weapon, modeled across his chest, pinned there by one of his gloved hands. The folding stock and the handguard matched the desert brown bulletproof vest he wore underneath. Everything was desert camo only it wasn’t American camo. The patterns were slightly different. He was British Army.
Widow guessed he was a corporal of horse in the cavalry by his uniform and patches. The COH was the basic equivalent to a sergeant in any other armed forces in any other part of the world.
The guy was a sniper, obviously. Take out the big sniper rifle, and you were still left with a sniper stance, a sniper way of carrying himself that translated through the photographs.
Widow had seen his kind before. Many times. Take a trained soldier, throw him into intense sniper school training, and this was what you’d get. A guy who stood like him. Posed like him. Snipers held their rifles like an extension of themselves. Like a lover and a child all wrapped into one. They held their rifle like it was one of their severed limbs off a battlefield, and they clenched it close, desperate to reattach it.
No profession in the world had the kind of snug, poignant attachment to his work instruments like a sniper does to his rifle. The closest thing that Widow could think of was a child to its first teddy bear.
Widow was also sure about the terrain in the background. The guy was in Afghanistan. Widow knew the desert-like mountains in the background anywhere. He had been there. Not that exact location, but close enough.
“Do you know who this is?”
“A British sniper.”
Tiller asked, “How did you know that?”
“He’s holding a L115A3 rifle.”
Sutherland asked, “How do you know he’s British? His flag is covered.”
“His teeth.”
“Be serious, Widow.”
“Those aren’t US Army fatigues. He’s a sniper in Afghanistan. That’s obvious. Must be a ten-year-old photo. So, I’d guess Brit.”
“You’re right.”
“His name is James Lenny,” Tiller added, pushing the frozen steak harder into his cheek. He turned, and stood up from the table. Stepped away from Widow.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“Does it?” Sutherland asked.
“Never heard of him.”
“He used to hold the record for longest confirmed sniper kill in the world.”
“Used to?”
“He got that record back in 2009.”
Sutherland added, “About eight years later, his record was completely shattered.”
“What was it? His record?”
“Twenty-five hundred meters.”
Which was about twenty-seven hundred yards, or a hair over a mile and a half.
Widow stayed quiet, but his face registered his shock at the number.
“That’s a hell of a lot of yards,” Sutherland said.
Widow nodded.
“What’s the new record?”
Sutherland and Tiller looked at each other.
Sutherland said, “Thirty-five hundred forty meters.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true. Someone came along and shattered his record. Literally. A record that never existed before, and it was destroyed eight years later.”
Widow stayed quiet. He converted the meters in his head and then calculated the miles for a grand total of three thousand, eight hundred seventy-one yards or two and a quarter miles, almost a quarter mile.
He caught himself after the fact, but he still muttered it.
“Two miles.”
Tiller nodded, said, “Over two miles.”
“Who broke it?”
“That’s part of the mystery. We don’t know.”
Silence.
Sutherland continued, “It was a Canadian. Canadian forces have a great sniper team. They hold five out of the top ten longest confirmed kills.”
Tiller added, “They’re really one of a kind.”
“Why is there no name?”
“They claim that their sniper is still enlisted. Still in. They don’t want his name out there.”
“Protecting his safety?”
Sutherland nodded.
“That’s part of it. They’re worried about enemy forces taking steps to find him and eliminate him. Beating that record at a thousand more yards is like putting a target on his back for enemy snipers. All across the world. Some people see him as a trophy kill. Like a challenge. They’d love to take him out.”
Widow took a drink from his coffee, letting go of his fears of poisoning. Realizing it was stupid in the first place. The Army doesn’t poison. They use bullets and bombs. The CIA, however; that’s a different story. But they wouldn’t do it like this. He hoped.
He took his time, swallowed.
He said, “This is all fascinating, but why am I here?”
Sutherland clicked the trackpad again. Another photograph came up. This one was of a sniper, dead in the dirt. His head was blown apart. Blood was everywhere, covering everything. The soil. The long, overgrown blades of grass. The dead man’s clothes. Everything.
“Who is it?”
“It’s James Lenny.”
“He was killed in combat? So what? Part of the risk.”
“This isn’t combat, Widow. Lenny was discharged from the Army back in 2014. His file cites that he suffered from PTSD. Badly.”
“Where’s this?”
“This is from three days ago.”
Widow stayed quiet.
“This photo is from a patch of land in Ireland. Where Lenny is from. Apparently, he still shoots. This is a makeshift range out in the middle of nowhere. He’s been shooting out there for years.”
“Someone shot him?”
“That’s the thing, Widow. Someone shot him from the other side of the range.”
Tiller added, “While he was target practicing.”
Widow stood up, slowly. He kept the coffee in his hand and walked over to the screen. He stared at it. Stared at the gaping hole in the back of Lenny’s head. Noticed that it was empty of blood. Noticed the huge exit wound, which meant that the entrance was Lenny’s right eye.
Widow looked closer.
“He was shot through the scope?”
“That’s right.”
Tiller said, “Straight through the scope.”
Sutherland said, “No damage was done to the windage, parallax, illumination, or magnification knobs. Only the focus was scratched up.”
Tiller added, “A bit.”
Widow stared back at the bloody mess on the screen.
Sutherland said, “The bullet traveled straight through the scope and barely tou
ched anything until it exploded out the back of Lenny’s head.”
“You said it was fired from the end of the range?”
“It was fired from over Lenny’s target.”
Tiller said, “He had it all set up to match his record. Twenty-seven hundred yards.”
Sutherland said, “He was trying to beat it. The sniper who murdered him shot from far behind it. Making him a much better shot than the second-best shot that ever lived.”
Widow’s jaw dropped. He turned, faced Sutherland, Swan, and Tiller, mouth opened wide.
Sutherland said, “We’re working with the Brits on this.”
“And the Koreans,” Tiller said.
“Technically, it’s a case for the Irish, but they’re hitting some walls. And they don’t want to implicate anyone outside their own jurisdiction. Not yet. Plus, there’s the obvious thing that the killer is very good. And that’s a terrifying prospect.”
Widow remained silent.
Sutherland continued, “Imagine a sniper out there with this capability. Imagine what he could do. Imagine how easy it would be for him to kill a head of state. He could simply wait for the US president to give a stump speech in a field in Iowa or on the back of a corn truck in Nebraska or on an outdoor stage at the state fair in Indiana. Hell, he could take out the president while the president was giving a speech to the troops on the runway onboard a docked battleship. And he could do any of it from two miles away. No one could stop him.”
Widow pictured it.
“This sniper just made the US Secret Service completely obsolete.”
Tiller squeezed the frozen steak harder again, took a deep breath, and just stared at Widow, like he was waiting for something to click.
Widow said, “Who did it? The Canadian?”
“That was everyone’s first thought.”
“But?”
“There’s some obvious implications to that, since the Canadians claim he still works for them.”
“Has the UK reached out to him?”
“Not the police. But MI6 has. They didn’t tell the local cops. Their priorities are not to solve a murder, but to spy for their government. They’ve reached out to us.”
“A joint effort? With the CIA? That’s not likely.”
Tiller said, “We’re playing nice these days. You’ve been out a while.”
Widow nodded, didn’t believe it. In his experience, you can always tell when a government spy is lying because his lips are moving.
“What do you need me for?”
“There’s another possibility,” Tiller said.
“What’s that?”
“It wasn’t the Canadian. It was someone else.”
Widow paused, stared at Tiller with cold eyes. Tiller had seen that look before.
Tiller nodded and said, “That’s right.”
“No one believed me twelve years ago. Now, you believe me?”
“Don’t be angry with Tiller. He told us about your ghost sniper. Back then. Back in China. And he’s the one who suggested we find you, now.”
Widow closed his eyes. He saw the nightmarish faces of ghosts, but not one of them was a ghost sniper. He saw something else. Five faces. All in a row, standing one by one over each other’s shoulder. They were aligned like they were posed by some unforeseen photographer who had one goal in mind—to haunt Widow for the rest of his life.
CHAPTER 9
IGNORING THE FACES OF THE DEAD, as best he could under the circumstances, concussion and all, Widow did not acknowledge them. He looked ahead, like they weren’t there. He closed his eyes, tight, but faced the direction of Sutherland and Tiller. He was reminded of the mathematician, John Nash, a guy who made significant contributions to game theory and modern economics, but was more famous because he saw imaginary people.
They talked to him every day. Like real people. Almost pushing him to the brink of insanity.
Widow opened his eyes, and said, “So what? Now you believe me?”
No one spoke.
“I told the truth all those years ago. I always did. Now someone else is dead. It’s on you!”
Tiller said, “It was the Pentagon who didn’t believe you. Not me.”
Widow paused, took a breath, and looked at Sutherland.
“Is that true?”
Sutherland said, “It’s true, Widow.”
He paused a beat, walked over to Tiller, placed his hand on the CIA agent’s right shoulder like he was defending a nephew.
He said, “Tiller fought for your side of the truth. He went to bat for you. Don’t put the blame on him. I’m sad to say that it was my office who let you down. It was my call to ignore your story.”
“You?”
“Yes. I oversaw the op. I gave the okay. I approved it. Not Tiller. The CIA can’t conduct military actions without the military part. You know that.”
Widow asked, “Why was a green desk plant giving orders involving Navy SEALs in the first place?”
Silence.
“General? You guys got your own snake eaters for that.”
Widow threw out SEAL slang that he hadn’t meant to. Snake eater is a generic term for USSF operators such as SEALs, Berets, Rangers, etc.
Sutherland didn’t seem to notice. He ignored the quip, and said, “I was leading a committee overseeing ops on the Korean Peninsula. We had an admiral in the loop. As well as the Air Force and the Marines. My authority over you was tethered to the admiral.”
“Why isn’t he here instead of you?”
“Back then that would’ve been Admiral Holland. He’s long retired by now. I believe.”
“No he’s not. He’s dead,” Widow said.
Tiller said, “Dead?”
Sutherland asked, “You knew him?”
“Yeah, I knew him. He died. Natural causes. Years ago, now.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. He was a tool.”
Sutherland said, “You don’t show much respect for the military, do you, Widow?”
“Is that a joke? I respect the military more than you’ll ever know. But when it comes to the politicians, not so much.”
“Holland wasn’t a politician.”
“Course he was. He wore a uniform, sure, but he began his career the son of a politician. Went to college on the Navy’s dime. Started playing politics with the lives of his men. Found how easy it was for him to move up. He was no sailor. He was a bureaucrat at best.”
“Why did he stay in the Navy? Takes decades to reach the rank of admiral.”
“Guess he got so good at playing the game with the higher-ups that he saw a better future for him inside over the one he’d have in the private sector. Why give up the huge paychecks the higher-ups make? He was never going to see an actual battle.”
“You were an officer. Are you lumping us all in together?”
Widow shook his head.
“I’m not like Holland. The only time that man ever fired a service weapon was in boot camp. Far as I know. I’m just calling it like I saw it, General.”
Sutherland nodded, and said, “That’s pretty much how I remember him. That’s why he didn’t say no to sending in a couple of SEALs instead of my guys. Not to defend him, but we really did think that two would be enough.”
Silence.
Swan cleared her throat, quietly. Tiller lowered his hand and the frozen steak with it. He reached up with his free hand and touched his cheek. It hurt. He winced, returned the frozen meat, slowly.
Widow said, “Tiller made the call to leave the others behind. He was the one there. Not you. Or Holland.”
No one spoke.
“One of them was our guy. Since when does the US military leave a man behind?”
“He was dead,” Tiller said.
Widow didn’t respond to that.
Sutherland said, “Take deep breaths, Widow.”
Widow did as instruct. Breathing in. Breathing out.
Tiller said, “Don’t you think I regret that?”
Widow stayed quiet.
“I see a lot of dead faces, Widow. Just like you. I’m sure. More than my fair share. That’s counterintelligence life. Right there. That’s life in the field. Soldiers die.”
“He wasn’t a soldier.”
“Sailor, then. Whatever. I am still haunted by his face. Plus, a half dozen others. I’ve had a long career.”
Silence
“Ops go bad.”
Sutherland said, “You ever heard the saying, ‘What’s done is done?’”
“Of course.”
“It applies here. I’m a soldier and a commanding officer in the US Army. I’ve sent a lot of people to their deaths. Mostly young boys. I can’t linger on it. It’s already done.”
Widow said nothing.
“Instead of being pissed off at me, or at Tiller, why don’t you redirect that anger at the men responsible? The Rainmakers.”
Widow stared at Sutherland, said, “The Rainmakers?”
“That’s what they’re called.”
“Who?”
“They’re snipers,” Tiller added.
Widow looked at Tiller and back at Sutherland. Apparently, they did believe him, after all, after it was all too late.
Tiller said, “After what happened twelve years ago, the DOD took note of the possibility of your ghost sniper being real. They buried it. But they didn’t ignore it. Not completely.”
Sutherland said, “There’s a file in Fort Bragg.”
Fort Bragg meant that the file on the Rainmakers, or whatever they were, was deeply classified.
Tiller said, “The Rainmakers is a name they got from locals. There’s a Korean word for it. Basically, it translates as ‘men who make rain for fire fall from the sky.’ ”
“Catchy, right?”
“Who are they?” Widow asked.
“As you know, we don’t know a lot about North Korea.”
Sutherland added, “All we know is what we get from the South. And their intel isn’t the best.”
Widow said, “And what you see on satellite and drones.”
Sutherland nodded, said, “For decades, the North’s had ambitions of nuclear proliferation.”
“That’s why we were there, twelve years ago.”
Sutherland nodded, said, “But building nuclear weapons is only one aspect of their military ambitions.”