True Believer

by Carr, Jack

  “That’s thorough,” Reece remarked, “but here you don’t have that information on foreign-trained snipers.”

  “The database is fairly robust thanks to the folks at the NSA, but you’re right, nothing’s a hundred percent. We have good intel on U.S., Canadian, and European-trained snipers, who are the ones that coincidentally have the best shot at taking out the president. According to our assessment, other countries just don’t have the training or equipment required to make a shot past two thousand yards. That’s stretching it even for us.”

  Reece nodded and looked out to sea. “The Shishani is here, Kim. I know it. He’s in place. He’s waiting. That sniper is here.”

  • • •

  Oliver Grey recognized James Reece from the media coverage following his attacks on various civilian and military individuals across the United States the previous year.

  He looks a lot like his father did.

  Reece and his two colleagues had taken no interest in him as they walked past in front of the Bootlegger, a gangster-themed pub that sat on the ground floor of a taller building near the colonnade. Grey was sitting at a table on the sidewalk, reading the local Russian-language newspaper and drinking coffee like just another local going about his day. Since the pub sat well below the high ground where the presidents would speak, the street where it was located would remain open until just before the event began.

  The fact that Reece was walking with another Westerner and what looked to be a female Secret Service agent meant that he had worked his way back into the good graces of the U.S. government. This explained why Jules Landry had fallen off the radar, which meant that this operation had been compromised. Still, it was too late to call it off now. They would never get another opportunity like it. Grey had long since passed the point of no return, and the operation had reached a similar point. There was no going back.

  CHAPTER 80

  “TELL ME ABOUT YOUR countersniper setup,” Reece said.

  The three Americans were standing on the roof of a large apartment building in the midst of renovation that overlooked the colonnade. A Secret Service sharpshooter, dressed from head to toe in black BDUs, was setting up what looked like an AR-10 on the roof parapet. A giant pair of well-worn 1980s-vintage Steiner binoculars sat nearby. Next to the American was another black-clad sniper wearing a matching beret with a colorful badge. His rifle, a black chassis-style bolt-action with a Nightforce scope, was cradled in a tripod mount alongside a separate tripod that held both a Leica spotting scope and a pair of rangefinding binoculars. It wasn’t lost on Reece or Strain that the Russians seemed to have superior equipment to the Americans’, at least when it came to optics.

  “Well, it depends on where we are but, in this case, we have our guys paired up with Russian counterparts from the FSO, one U.S. shooter and one Russian,” Kim explained. “In some countries, our folks aren’t permitted to carry weapons, but they always at least shadow the local shooters so they can coordinate with the PPD.”

  “Don’t your people usually work in pairs?” asked Freddy.

  “Generally, yes, but not on this trip. This arrangement was a negotiated deal between the Russians and the Ukrainians. Besides, budget cuts hit us hard. We’re low on agents as it is. This allows us to spread our people over a wider radius.”

  “Sounds like a recipe for disaster,” Freddy commented.

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “What rifle is that, Freddy?” asked Reece.

  “I think it’s called a Tochnost. It’s Russia’s new sniper rifle. Supposedly a great gun, but I don’t have any experience with it.”

  “What about assaulters? What assets do we have on the ground?” Reece asked, beginning to pace.

  “CAT, that’s our Counter-Assault Team, will be near the stage. Their job is to cover the PPD while they get Umbrella to safety. The Russians have their own team with a similar role. Neither is going to divert away from their principal. If there’s a threat somewhere that we need to move on, the Ukrainian Alphas will be the ones to do it.”

  “Forgive me for bringing up the elephant in the room, Kim, but don’t the Russians and Ukrainians hate each other? Russia is occupying Crimea, for Christ’s sake,” Freddy pointed out.

  “Our threat assessment teams analyze all that. Us agents, we leave the politics to the politicians.”

  “That reminds me to check in with Andy.” Freddy stepped away from the countersnipers and made a call. Reece and Kim followed and leaned in to hear the conversation.

  “This is Andy.”

  “It’s Strain, anything new?”

  “I was actually about to call you. I just heard from a contact at State. During his speech today, President Zubarev is going to announce that they’re giving back Crimea. In exchange, the United States will drop its sanctions against Moscow, and the EU will buy a bunch of Russian natural gas. Our president praises Russia, and everyone shakes hands and sings ‘Kumbaya.’ ”

  “That doesn’t sound like it’s in line with Andrenov’s vision,” Reece chimed in.

  “Not at all. This is the kind of move that would make him want to take out a president. And if I know Andrenov, he’ll find a way to spin it to his advantage.”

  “How so?”

  “If President Zubarev goes down, the new president will have the support he needs to retaliate. That means he’s going to blame it either on the Ukrainians, Azerbaijanis, or someone within their own borders that they want to take out, probably Muslims in the Caucasus. When Russian tanks start rolling farther into Ukraine or Turkey on another land grab, they’ll be able to wave around a photo of their dead president as justification. Like I told you when you were here, this is the last gasp of a dying empire. Desperate people do desperate things. Hell, if our president was hit as well, we might even support them! And I’m just giving you my best guess as to what’s going on. We’re not perfect; we thought Iraq had WMDs, remember?”

  “That rings a bell,” Reece said. “Keep working it. I’m going to see if Agent Scheer can get you a list of the local security forces. Maybe we’re overlooking someone there.”

  “I’ll have PID send them a full list,” she confirmed.

  “Okay, thanks all, out here.” Freddy ended the call.

  “I think we just checked the motive block,” Reece observed.

  Agent Scheer looked at her watch. “I’ll pass all this along but we’re going to need more. Umbrella lands in less than an hour.”

  CHAPTER 81

  “UMBRELLA IS EN ROUTE, five miles out. He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  Strain had kitted up with a low-vis mag carrier. His carbine was slung to his left side. Reece had both 9mm pistols courtesy of his new employer. They were on their own radios, which were not compatible with the ones used by the Secret Service. That meant that Reece stayed close to Agent Scheer so she could relay any relevant information from her feed. It was the best that they could muster on such short notice.

  The former SEALs had placed themselves on opposing ends of the Tioschin pedestrian bridge, an elevated structure that gave them a good vantage point and reasonable mobility. Reece and Scheer were closest to the colonnade where the presidents would be speaking while Freddy was positioned on the west end. He had given Reece the sat phone since he was in a better position to coordinate assets and intelligence should that become necessary.

  The streets had been closed, and the route had been cleared. A crowd of several hundred people, all having been frisked physically and electronically by uniformed Secret Service agents, filled the space in front of the colonnade. No backpacks, satchels, or briefcases were allowed inside the perimeter. A brass band was set up at stage left, facing the direction of the pedestrian bridge. Television cameras were ready to film the event with the agreement that the live feed would be sequestered until the respective leaders were on-site.

  A team of Ukrainian police had searched the pier that had concerned the Americans and found nothing out of the ordinary. Reece peered into every pr
obable hide site that he could find using his binoculars. The tough part was that this area had virtually no middle ground; the shooter was either very close or extremely distant.

  I know you’re here. Where are you hiding?

  “Umbrella is five minutes out.”

  “You see anything, Freddy?”

  “Negative, Reece,” his friend responded over the radio.

  • • •

  The shipping container sat at the top of the large stack of identical boxes riding on the deck of the freighter, giving them a commanding view of the harbor. They had no communications devices in the container, so everything depended on the clock. Cell phones, satellite phones, and radios all gave off electronic signatures that could be detected remotely and would give away their location. If there was anything the Americans were good at, it was locating and targeting communications equipment, specifically cell phones. Lessons learned the hard way.

  The ventilation system had been shut off twelve hours earlier to prevent heat signatures from escaping, and though the oxygen tanks that had been fitted inside allowed them to breathe through medical masks, the heavily insulated container had become incredibly hot, humid, and stagnant. Nizar closed his eyes and tried to remain calm. Finally, after what seemed like days, Tasho nodded to Nizar that it was time to open the doors. Both men donned dark sunglasses.

  They each turned a crank that raised a metal panel inward, much the same way that residential windows functioned. A red cloth mesh that matched the outside paint of the container remained in place, allowing them to see out while limiting their exposure to all but the closest visual inspection. The air that rushed into the space felt like heaven but, even darkened by their sunglasses and the cloth screen, the light was blinding. The rifles were already positioned behind the openings, resting on their bipods and beanbag-like sandbags at the rear. Tasho and Nizar easily found the distinctive architecture of the colonnade in their scopes and made adjustments to their bodies and to the rifles until they found what was called a natural point of aim. Heat and moisture emanating from Nizar’s breath and sweat-soaked forehead quickly fogged the rear lens of his scope. He wiped it hastily to clear the image.

  They had already dialed for elevation, the exact distance from their hide site to the target had been calculated and sent to them before they’d entered the container. They knew the precise width of the ship and its position against the pier. The wind was another story. It was blowing from the southwest, which made it almost full value. At this extreme distance, knowing the wind at the muzzle wasn’t enough, as it could change multiple times between rifle and target. Fortunately, coastal winds such as these were fairly consistent and there were few terrain features in their path to cause disturbances in the air.

  Tasho studied the visual mirage, the movement of the water below, the sway of the tall trees near the target, and even the flags mounted atop the pier’s numerous cranes through his Swarovski spotting scope. As he studied each indicator, he began to build a picture of the wind call that would determine the success or failure of their mission.

  • • •

  “I’ve got something here, Andy.”

  It was Fabian, the computer expert who was supporting their frantic search for some shred of evidence that could assist the team on the ground in Odessa.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve been searching known associates of Andrenov and bumping them against every database that we have. Yuri Vatutin is Andrenov’s head of security and, like most of them, he’s a former FSB commando. One of the men under his command in Chechnya was Grigoriy Isaev. There’s a very similar name, Gregory Isay, on the Russian Federal Protective Service roster the Secret Service just emailed us. Isaev means ‘son of Isay’ in Russian. I think it might be the same person. The computer didn’t match the names because it wasn’t an exact match. We run into this problem constantly with Muslim names, so it’s something I think about. I’ve just never had to do it with Russians.”

  Danreb snatched the list from the analyst’s hands. “Get Strain on the phone! Now!”

  CHAPTER 82

  “UMBRELLA IS ONE MINUTE out.”

  “One minute, Freddy, it’s game time.”

  “Roger that.”

  The Agency sat phone vibrated just as the band fired up, playing whatever the Russian equivalent was to “Hail to the Chief” as President Zubarev took to the stage. Reece held his hand over the radio earpiece on his left ear and put the phone up to his right. “Donovan.”

  “It’s Andy. We think one of the FSO agents served with Andrenov’s head of security. His name is Gregory Isay.”

  “Say it again, Andy, it’s really loud here.”

  “FSO agent Gregory Isay may be your shooter!”

  Fuck!

  Reece communicated the name to Scheer, who made a radio call of her own. He then hit the transmit button on his radio.

  “Freddy, FSO Agent Gregory Isay could be our shooter. Scheer is finding out where he is.”

  Reece and Freddy began frantically searching the rooftops as they waited for information from Scheer. On nearly every high building they saw a pair of figures staring through either binoculars or spotting scopes, scanning their assigned areas for threats.

  On the nearby roof of a pink and white corner building, Strain saw a Russian sniper with no sign of an American counterpart. He looked around for a path to the building from his high perch on the pedestrian bridge. The street below was too far to drop. He would break both his legs if he were lucky. Running farther to the west, Freddy found what he was looking for and swung his slung HK416 behind his back and out of the way. He climbed over the bridge’s six-foot chain-link railing. I’m too old for this. He took a deep breath and dropped onto the tiled roof of a two-story apartment building below. He half-slid, half-ran down the roof before dropping another floor down to the flat roof next door, twisting his ankle as he landed. Limping across the flat roof, he swung his legs over the side, finding the stone wall with the toe of his boot, and dropped six feet onto the roof of a Volvo sedan parked on the sidewalk. Hobbling across the intersection as fast as his tender ankle allowed him with his weapon trained on the roofline, Freddy moved toward his new objective.

  Out of breath from the exertion, he keyed the mic button attached to his armor: “Reece, I’m headed to a building northwest of your position. I think that’s where the shooter is.”

  “Roger that! I’m having Scheer send people there now to support.”

  Freddy took the three doorway steps as fast as he could with his injured ankle and jerked on the wood-framed glass door. Locked. Without hesitation, he smashed through the glass with the suppressor and raked away the standing panes before stepping inside. The ground floor of the three-story building was a clothing boutique that was dark except for the sunlight filtering through the canopied windows. Using the light mounted on his weapon’s rail, he located the unlocked back door and made entry. An old wooden stairway began at the end of the narrow hallway behind the door and he moved as quickly as he could while searching the area above for potential threats. Don’t rush to your death.

  Freddy had made his way up four flights of stairs and was turning the corner to approach the third floor. It was dead quiet inside the building but for the creaks of the stairs below his feet. It actually startled him when the radio came alive in his ear.

  “Freddy, the countersniper at your location is not answering his radio call. Alpha Group is moving toward your location, but I doubt they’re going to get there in time to help.”

  Freddy keyed his mic twice in understanding.

  CHAPTER 83

  THE LONE FIGURE STANDING on the rooftop was the sign that President Zubarev had taken the stage. The snipers couldn’t distinguish facial features at such a distance, so everything depended on time, place, and the signal from inside the perimeter. It was time to take their shots. Tasho moved from the spotting scope to his rifle. He took a final look at the wind and decided to bracket the shot. Calling wind wa
s as much an art as a science, especially at this distance. He would make one wind hold himself and give Nizar a slightly different hold, statistically increasing the chances that one of their shots would find its mark. Winds were tricky.

  “Confirm twelve-point-nine MILS of elevation.”

  Nizar looked at the dial on top of the optic. “Twelve-point-nine MILS confirmed.”

  “Hold two-point-nine MILS right.”

  “Two-point-nine MILS right,” Nizar repeated.

  “Ready.”

  “Ready.”

  “Three . . . two . . . one.”

  Boom! The sound inside the container was deafening, the overpressure event of their shots reverberating through the enclosed space. The propellant gases from the muzzle blew the cloth screens off the openings before the bullets left the barrels, the copper projectiles exiting the muzzles at just under three thousand feet per second. The bullets’ arc took them high above the physical obstacles that lay beneath the container and the colonnade during their 3.171-second flight. Their total drop was over 970 inches from the muzzle to the target, accounted for by the 1,000-yard zero and elevation adjustments made in the scope. The 13-mph west wind pushed the bullets 221 inches laterally as they flew.

  Tasho had called the wind perfectly for his own shot, which meant that Nizar’s 350-grain bullet smashed into one of the colonnade’s pillars, showering the area with a puff of white dust that many onlookers mistook for an explosion.

  The Shishani’s bullet created a different, grislier shower as it passed through President Zubarev’s abdomen, sending blood, bone, bowel tissue, and digested matter across the stage. The bullet severed the Russian president’s vertebrae, and gravity sent his body crashing downward before anyone knew what had happened.