by Scott Blade
Widow stayed quiet.
“They also formed a sniper team. Very elite, Widow. Apparently, they spent a fortune to build it up. And the intel that we’ve gathered was that the applicants were only given so many chances before things got bloody.”
“Bloody?”
“First, the government would threaten members of the sniper’s family. Cutting off the fingers and limbs of their children. Things like that. If that didn’t work, then they just killed the sniper.”
Widow nodded.
“They made quite the incentive to be the best of the best.”
“Why would anyone join this group?”
“They weren’t volunteers. They were volunteered. The military tested soldiers for aptitude and…”
Widow said, “If you could shoot, then you were automatically a volunteer?”
“Right. North Korea’s whole goal for getting nukes is to be taken seriously and to instill fear among the rest of us. The fear that they could strike at any time.”
Tiller said, “Anywhere.”
“That’s why they formed the Rainmakers. Possibly, the world’s most elite snipers. Imagine it. The Rainmakers were meant for covert assassinations.”
Sutherland paused for a moment, took a breath. Then, he said, “Did you see on the news, last year, the assassination of one of the North Korean dictator’s brothers?”
Widow nodded, and said, “I remember. He was poisoned. Some kind of nerve agent or something very high-grade.”
“That’s right.”
“They caught the assassin.”
Sutherland nodded, said, “They did. But what you didn’t see on the news was she killed herself. Right in the police jail. Cyanide pill in her tooth. After she was caught. She had been trained to kill, and then trained to kill herself when caught.”
“Cyanide tooth? That’s a real thing?”
Tiller said, “It’s real.”
Sutherland said, “Imagine it. The Rainmakers are sent abroad. Trained to kill from ungodly distances. They’d never even be caught. If they played their cards right. Imagine the terror around the world.”
Widow nodded. It sounded like a terrifying scenario.
“Anyway, they never deployed the Rainmakers. Not before now. They’ve been stationing them along the borders. Often, they wait for defectors to cross over a mile of frozen river and terrain, and then they shoot them. Each time, trying to get better. Each time trying to shoot farther.”
Tiller said, “There’s only been one encounter—that we know of—that they’ve ever shot over two miles and killed with deadly accuracy.”
“It was your op.”
Widow said, “That sniper killed five people in that encounter. I’d say he’s proven he can shoot ridiculous distances.”
Sutherland and Tiller both nodded at the same time.
“Now you want me to catch him?”
Everyone paused a beat.
Sutherland spoke first. He said, “You’re not in the Navy anymore, Commander. But we’d sure like your help.”
“With what, exactly?”
Sutherland said, “Twelve years ago, you went on a mission. An op that was so covert only two SEALs were spared to take it. You and Lieutenant Lyn.”
Sutherland did not have to say his name. Widow knew it. Concussion or not.
Sutherland clicked the trackpad again, and the photo changed. It was an aerial view photo of Lenny’s corpse, taken by a small drone, Widow figured.
Sutherland clicked it again, and the photo changed again. The next one was of the target area that Lenny was aiming at. There was a tall, wooden stake stabbing into a green watermelon.
“Interesting target,” Widow said.
Sutherland nodded, clicked the trackpad again and another photo from the drone came up. This one was farther back and above where the target had been. It was a higher elevation. Which made sense. Lenny would’ve been firing in a downward slope. Part because of the range. And part because he didn’t want to accidently shoot someone on the other side of the target.
Sutherland stopped on the photo.
Widow studied it. There wasn’t much to see. There was heavy grass, collapsed and bowed over.
He said, “That’s where the sniper who killed him was.”
“The Rainmaker. We believe.”
“What is it I’m supposed to see here?”
Tiller said, “Widow, we know that you were really an undercover investigator with NCIS.”
Widow shrugged, said, “You’re CIA. And you’re Pentagon. I know you know. So what?”
“We need you to investigate.”
“Secretly,” Sutherland added.
Widow took another pull from the coffee, stood up, kept it in hand, and walked over to the screen. He looked, hard.
“Nothing to see here that’s not obvious.”
“Indulge us.”
Widow looked again. He switched the coffee over to his left hand, set it down, bottom in his palm like a space shuttle landing, and held it there. His left hand hurt from the effort, but he knew that broken limbs fell under the principle of “use it or lose it.”
He pointed at the screen with his right hand, traced over the outline of the crushed grass.
“This is where the sniper lay prone and killed Lenny. He used a sniper mat. That’s why it’s shaped like a rectangle.”
Sutherland and Tiller nodded. Of course, they knew that part.
Widow said, “Can you zoom? Make this section bigger?”
He pointed at the top corner of where the mat would’ve been laid.
“Yep,” Sutherland said, and pinched and clicked his fingers on the trackpad. The whole process took a long second.
The screen was filled with grass.
Widow looked hard. He saw broken and crushed and destroyed blades of grass. It started at the center, where it was completely destroyed, then moved up, in a direction that Widow guessed to be east, because of shadows on the ground.
Widow traced the variations of grass with his index and middle fingers. He said, “Yeah.”
“Yeah what?”
“Nothing.”
“What is it?”
Tiller said, “Anything is better than what we got.”
Widow said, “I’d guess you got two killers here.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The grass. It’s not just pushed down. It’s crushed. It’s destroyed here, and here,” he said and pointed.
Swan interjected for the first time. A natural, involuntary act like being sucked into a story by a stranger, involving a monkey, and saying, “What happened to the monkey?”
She said, “And there too.”
She pointed at a third section of grass, destroyed. Not pushed down. Destroyed.
Widow looked at it and nodded.
Tiller said, “A single person could’ve done that.”
“Not likely.”
“Why not?”
“First, the guy would have to be more than two hundred pounds. Probably, two twenty or more.”
“Plenty of guys are two hundred twenty pounds.”
“Sure, but not snipers.”
Sutherland said, “I’ve seen guys out at the range that heavy.”
“Maybe at a civilian range. Maybe retired snipers. But not an elite sniper. Not a North Korean on top of that.”
“ ‘Cause Koreans are smaller?”
Widow said, “On a general level, sure, they tend to be smaller than us. But that’s not what I mean. They are underfed. North Korea doesn’t provide for its people. I’d be surprised if the military gets three squares a day. Elite snipers or not.”
“What’s the second thing?”
“The second thing is that this guy would’ve had to have been rocking around to make three different destroyed grass patterns.”
Tiller said, “So?”
“Snipers don’t move. Not a sniper who got this good. He’d be silent and still. Very. This guy would have to be like a Shaolin monk. I’d be s
hocked if his breath would even register in freezing temperatures. To be that good.”
They all nodded, staring at Widow.
“Two snipers? You’re sure?”
“There’s another thing.”
They waited. No one spoke.
Widow said, “I don’t think it’s two snipers. I think it’s one sniper and one spotter. Snipers, in the military, use spotters. I’m impressed that Lenny was able to shoot that far on his own. Must’ve taken him a long time to set up the shot and zero his aim that close to target.”
“Then we’re looking for two Koreans. Both light. Both well-trained.”
“That’d be my guess. If they really are Rainmakers.”
Sutherland nodded. He stared at Tiller, who nodded back.
“Widow, before we go any further, we’d like for you to work with us on this.”
Widow stayed quiet.
“We need you. We have to stop these guys before they do irreparable damage in the world.”
Tiller said, “Next they might shoot someone who matters. You know? On the world stage.”
Widow stared down at his coffee.
“What do you say?”
“What exactly are my parameters?”
“You’ll answer to Tiller. Who will report to me.”
Tiller added, “Our goal is to find and capture—if possible.”
“And if not?”
“Then we dispatch the targets.”
Widow took a deep breath.
He said, “If this is the sniper team from twelve years ago, I’m not interested in capture.”
They said nothing to that.
Widow said, “If I do this, catch these two for you, I don’t answer to Tiller.”
“Sorry, that’s non-negotiable.”
Tiller said, “We won’t have to have much contact. I’m assigning you a field operator to work alongside.”
Widow said, “A babysitter?”
Silence.
Tiller said, “Partially.”
Widow nodded. At least, Tiller was being honest. More honest than he remembered.
“I’ll do it. But know that for me it’s not about putting to bed any fears that some politicians might have. For me, it’s about a thirteen-year-old girl.”
Tiller nodded. He knew exactly what Widow was talking about. Sutherland nodded, eventually. He caught on. Swan didn’t know what he meant by that.
CHAPTER 10
THE STEWARD FROM THE C-20B, who had flown with an unlogged, un-manifested, unkempt, giant of a passenger from Minneapolis–Saint Paul Air Reserve Station all the way to Andrews Air Force Base just ninety-eight minutes ago, finished up his daily checks on the interior of the plane. Then he gathered his paperwork and flight check-ins and collected the little trash that had been produced from the two flights—one empty paper cup of coffee from the recent one—and he stowed everything away and rechecked that it was all in its place. A place for everything. Everything in its place. One of the Air Force credos.
After he finished, he stepped off the plane and out of the hangar. He pulled his carry-on suitcase along the pavement as the hard, plastic tires jerked across the tarmac.
He looked at his watch. The time was fifteen minutes past four in the afternoon.
He walked past flight crews readying to board a nearby C130 and stepped into the crew center. He walked past more crewmembers. Only one recognized him. He nodded at her and moved on.
He passed one officer who outranked him and he stopped and saluted. Then he continued until he was in front of the crew center. He waited at the sidewalk for a base shuttle to take him to his car.
He stared at his watch again and looked at a posted sign with shuttle times and routes. According to the posted schedule, he was going to be waiting for ten more minutes before the shuttle arrived. He figured this probably meant twenty minutes. It was the late part of the afternoon, which meant that the military day shift would be looking at the clock, waiting for five o’clock so they could scramble to their cars and fight Maryland traffic for thirty-plus minutes before they could get to their homes and kick off their shoes.
He had just flown from Minneapolis to Andrews, not a long flight, but before that he had already been on a six-hour, twenty-five-minute flight from Andrews out to Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson. Right at landing, they were informed to fly to Minneapolis–Saint Paul to pick up some VIP, another three-hour, fifteen-minute flight.
All things considered, he was in a pretty good mood, but dog tired. He was ready to go home and get some sleep.
To kill the time and to earn a couple of bucks, he decided that it was time to call a journalist friend he had at the Washington Post. No one special, just a low-level researcher. Which was her official title but it did not mean that all she did was write briefs and summaries by reading articles on Wikipedia or by interviewing willing witnesses. Some of the people she interviewed, called sources, were people that she had to pay to buy information.
The more valuable the information, the greater the risk. The greater the risk, the higher the price tag.
The steward pulled out his cell phone and dialed her number.
It rang once, twice, and on the third ring, she answered.
She said his name and a hello. He said her name and hello back. Then he asked her how much she wanted a tip about a top-secret VIP transport package.
She said, “Depends. What are we talking here?”
“Something very valuable.”
“How valuable?”
“Plenty.”
“Specifics?”
He said, “I want to get paid first.”
“I’ll send money by PayPal. Per usual. Tell me the info first.”
“No way. You send the money. And if it’s high enough. I’ll tell you the intel.”
Silence.
The researcher said, “Give me a minute.”
She put him on hold. No warning.
A minute and ten seconds later she came back on the line.
“Check your account.”
The steward said, “Okay.”
He took the phone out of his ear and clicked the screen and swiped and opened an app to his PayPal account.
You received a payment.
He smiled and saw the number and smiled bigger.
“Is that enough?”
He heard her ask, even with the phone away from his ear.
“It is. That works.”
“Give me the intel.”
He told her all he knew. He told her about the urgent turnaround from Davis-Monthan to Minneapolis–Saint Paul Air Force Reserve Station, and waiting, and how the pilots told him that they were not logging the flight in with the tower, nor reporting the secret passenger who had gotten on the jet.
She said, “Is that all?”
“We took him to Andrews. Some kind of top-secret thing.”
“What else?”
The steward was quiet.
“Who was he?”
“I don’t have a name.”
“This isn’t enough. What’s so strange about this guy? The unlogged flight is unusual, but no one here is going to be interested in a phantom flight.”
“I can tell you what he looked like.”
She was quiet.
“He was a big guy. Like Terminator. And he wasn’t military.”
“What was he?”
“I don’t know. But important. They sent a Navy MP to escort him and we dropped him off at Andrews. An MP picked him up. My guess is he’s some kind of secret agent or a CIA assassin. Maybe. He wasn’t a normal guy we pick up.”
Secret agent, she thought.
“Is that all?”
“That’s what I got.”
“Okay. Thanks. If you think of anything else, call me.”
And they disconnected.
The researcher at the Washington Post was good at her job. She had worked there for three years, right out of college. A lot of competition went into securing a job there. Once she had gotten a fo
ot in the door, she taught herself the ropes. And the thing about the ropes was learning that the news business was cutthroat. In order to maintain her position in the ranks, she had to be cutthroat. When she couldn’t dig up a story, sometimes she had to take extreme measures. She had to stir up the pot and see what came to the surface.
And sometimes, she just liked to make a little of money on the side herself.
She couldn’t do much with the intel she had paid for. But she could make a little money off it herself. She could always use it if more to the story ever developed.
She ignored the landline on her desk, pulled out her cell phone and dialed a number that she had written down in her notes, not logged as a contact.
She waited and listened to the number dial.
A voice with a Chinese accent answered the phone. A man. He said, “Chinese Consulate. This is Lu Er.”
The man on the line wasn’t a secretary or even a desk jockey at the Chinese Consulate, but he was there. Probably. He was a mid-level official. She didn’t know his job title, but did know that it was just a generic title like “agent.” It could mean many things.
His real name wasn’t Lu Er, as no one in China was really named that.
In America, John Doe was the standard name for a man unidentified. The Chinese put a common name together with a number, like John Four or Joe Two.
The man on the phone’s name was Lu Er, which just meant Lu Two. Nothing too clever, but Americans never caught on. Neither did almost any other person from any other continent.
She said, “It’s me.”
Lu said, “Hello.”
“I’ve got a story for you.”
And she told it. What she knew. She told him about the man flown in all top secret. The jet. The covert nature of it all. She told him about all she had so far. She had no idea what it meant or if it was even applicable to the Chinese government. Random chance that it was.
Technically, what the Air Force steward had done wasn’t illegal, not in the civilian world. It may be a court martial offense in the military world. She had no idea. Not her problem.
But what she was doing, selling military secrets to a foreign government, might be a breach of federal law, but only if she was selling privileged knowledge to a foreign government, like spying. Theoretically, she wasn’t telling him anything that she was privileged to. She did not work for the US government. She wasn’t in the military. She wasn’t the Air Force steward. If he had sold the information directly to Lu, that would constitute a felony.