Unmanned (9780385351263)

by Fesperman, Dan

  (LANCER) all i needed. thanx. tell him its all tight.

  “Uh, Lancer says it’s all tight, Duckhead. No further ID forthcoming, though.”

  (Laughter). “Got it, man. I know who it is. Keep it tight.”

  That was the last transmission from either Duckhead or Lancer.

  “I see what you mean,” Sharpe said, as the video played on in silence. “You get a decent look at any of the ops guys?”

  “Nothing up close. Once they started their raid we were too busy watching for squirters, and threats on the perimeter. Why?”

  “Those irregular units can look pretty unorthodox. Beards, nonregulation uniforms. Hats and bandanas when they’re supposed to wear helmets. Personal shit all over their flak vests.”

  “Bickell said there were a lot of those types, half official or completely unofficial. Green badgers, sheep-dipped, he had all kinds of names for ’em.”

  Sharpe shook his head.

  “So who were the guys you helped them whack?”

  “They were supposedly insurgency guys. Taliban types, I guess.”

  “Because if Lancer was willing to rub out an Overton source, and this time Wade Castle wasn’t even involved, then it might have been just about anyone, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose. Yeah.”

  “And with you guys providing an eye in the sky for them, with the full backing of your unit CO.”

  “And his CO.”

  “All the way up to Hagan and beyond. Pretty good taxpayer-financed backup to have in your hip pocket, especially if this turns out to be some little episode of private enterprise.”

  Silence, while they let that sink in.

  “Okay, then,” Sharpe said. “Nothing left but the final act. Let’s finish it.”

  Cole nodded, already bracing himself.

  “Ready when you are.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  WITHOUT ASKING, SHARPE MOVED the playline up to only a few minutes before the missile strike. It was an act of mercy. Cole wasn’t sure he would have been able to bear a long buildup. Even with only a few minutes to endure, he had to force himself to hold his gaze. Everything on the screen looked as fresh to him as if it had taken place the day before.

  And then there it was—the white Toyota truck—arriving on the dirt road that led into the village, the cue for all the action that followed.

  “Fuck. Freeze it!”

  “Why?”

  “Just fucking freeze it!”

  Sharpe obliged him.

  “Look at the markings. Mansur’s truck, the one we saw earlier. It was white with orange stripes down the hood. Two of them. Look at this one.”

  “One stripe.”

  “It’s not him.”

  “Then who is it?”

  “Could be anybody. An old man and his wife. More women and children, even. We couldn’t see them unload. One fucking stripe.”

  “Shouldn’t Castle have noticed that?”

  “Maybe, but I can see where he might have missed it. The last time he’d seen the truck, at least on one of our missions, was a full six weeks earlier. Besides, this was a beacon operation, or that’s what Bickell thought. One of the magic dimes had been activated.”

  “Then who was supposed to be in the house, waiting to meet him? Or who did Castle think was there?”

  “No idea, but it turned out to be mostly women and children. And whoever was in that truck, we know for sure it wasn’t Mansur.”

  “Then who placed the beacon, if there was one? Mansur wouldn’t have activated it inside his own damn house.”

  “Another excellent question.”

  The timeline was creeping ever closer to the moment of truth. Cole knew by his own words on the audio, plus the dialogue on chat, that the firing of the missile was only seconds away. Sharpe could probably tell as well. The tension in everyone’s voices was evident. Everything had the unmistakable feel of a lethal mission building to its climax.

  “You don’t have to watch the rest of this, you know,” Sharpe said.

  “I know.”

  But he watched anyway, and listened as the voice of Zach, his old friend and wingman, the very fellow who’d sent him these transcripts, spoke up in an excited tone.

  “The dart is away! Fifty-five seconds to impact.”

  Sharpe reached toward the laptop to click the video to a halt, but Cole placed a hand on Sharpe’s arm. Still leaning forward, they waited while fifty seconds passed. The black crosshairs quivered on the rooftop. Zach began his countdown.

  And then out the door they came.

  First the girl.

  Then the boys.

  “What the fuck! Can you—?”

  “Too late.”

  The house exploded. A flash of white turning to orange. Boiling smoke. Falling debris. Bodies on the ground. The two boys, limp and still. The girl trying to rise on her elbow, the severed arm only a foot or so away. Exactly as he’d seen it in his memory, hundreds of times before.

  The time signature read 3:50.

  “Okay,” Cole said. “Turn it off.”

  The screen went blank. Sharpe eased back on the couch with a long sigh and placed a comforting hand on Cole’s shoulder.

  “It wasn’t you.”

  “You’re right. It was all of us. You included. Might as well get used to that.”

  Sharpe nodded, either too tired to respond or unwilling to upset him further.

  “I should eat,” Sharpe said finally. “You should, too. Christ almighty, it’s practically dark out. I guess flying’s out of the question.”

  “My heart wouldn’t be in it, anyway. Not today.”

  Sharped stood, stretched with a groan, and walked to a window.

  “Here comes a car. Your woman’s back. In a damn hurry about something, too.”

  They heard a car door slam, then the door of the house, followed by an outburst of excited voices ending with a shout from Steve.

  “Guys! You need to get in here!”

  Cole rose to his feet and followed Sharpe to the kitchen, where Keira was taking glossy photos from her satchel.

  “The FBI’s taken over the case,” she said. “Or somebody at a federal level, not sure what they’re calling themselves. The local cops won’t let me anywhere near them, but I saw three vehicles with government tags pulling into the lot. The good news is that the state medical examiner’s office is so pissed off at the way Washington has horned in on everything that they were pretty chatty. Cause of death was two gunshot wounds. One to the chest from maybe twenty, thirty yards, another to the head from up close. Probably to make sure. Two hollow-point 175-grain rounds, most likely from an M24 sniper rifle, or something comparable.”

  “See?” Steve said.

  “What do you mean, ‘See’?” Barb said. “This was the killer’s gun, not Castle’s.”

  “Whatever.”

  Keira, ignoring them, continued.

  “Castle wasn’t carrying any identification—”

  “Typical,” Steve said. “For an Agency guy, I mean.”

  “Apparently they can’t even get the feds to cooperate on a positive ID, so when I told them that you”—she nodded at Cole—“had worked with him before, they gave me a couple of photos in hopes you could verify it.”

  “Sharpe knows him, too—or knew him, I mean. So, yeah, we could do that.”

  “Here you go.”

  She turned the photos around.

  A quick glance was all he needed before turning to Sharpe, who was already shaking his big bony head.

  “You want to tell them, Captain Cole?”

  “Tell us what?” Barb said. The room was silent.

  “It’s not Wade Castle. Not even close.”

  “Then who is it?”

  Cole looked back over at Sharpe, who again shook his head.

  “No idea.”

  “Me, neither,” Cole said. “Never seen him.”

  “What the hell?” Steve said, looking irritable and betrayed.

 
“Your goddamn source,” Barb said. “Good to the last drop.”

  “One other thing,” Keira said. “This Air Force guy, Riggleman. His weapon was all wrong for it, and none of the other forensics matched—footprints, fingerprints, none of it. They questioned him all night, but they’ve got nothing on him but maybe a trespassing rap, or an illegal weapons charge, so they’re letting him go. It’s probably going to end up as an Air Force matter.”

  “Meaning they still don’t know who did it?” Barb said.

  “Correct,” Keira said. “The shooter, whoever he is, is still at large.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “The county guys said they’d post a car at the head of the drive for us overnight.”

  “Andy and Barney,” Steve said. “That’ll make me feel safe.”

  “Maybe we should decamp to some other location for a while,” Barb said. “Somewhere a little less vulnerable.”

  “Not a chance,” Sharpe said. “Not for me, anyway. Or for you, either, Captain Cole. We’re flying tomorrow.”

  Cole nodded. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Besides, with the Air Force probably alerted by now to his whereabouts, he might not have long before another Riggleman came after him, and with two cops posted at the head of the driveway, inept or not, he might at least get a few minutes’ warning.

  “Then I guess I’m in, too,” Steve said.

  “Me, three.” Keira added.

  Barb shrugged.

  “Majority rules. But I’m moving my bed away from the window.”

  They stood there looking at one another, wondering what to do next.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  TRIP RIGGLEMAN’S SENSE OF relief lasted about five minutes. He walked into the amber sunlight of dusk, breathed in the fresh air of freedom, then slumped back into his worries. Did he still have a job, his rank, his status? And if General Hagan wouldn’t take his phone call last night, in his hour of greatest need, would he take one now, or ever?

  He was still hurt and disappointed by the way the Air Force had deserted him in the wake of his arrest, although he supposed he should have known better. Hagan had explicitly warned him that this would happen. It was like in the movies, the ones patterned after that old TV show Mission Impossible, where they ran the tape that said, “Should you be caught or killed, we will disavow any knowledge of your actions.” Or something like that. Which he supposed should make him feel like a big-time operative but instead made him feel like a chump, a fool in over his head—out in the woods on a cold night in December, miles from home, in completely unfamiliar territory. And stupid enough to be carrying a sidearm that he wasn’t even supposed to have.

  Damn idiot.

  The worst part was that the whole experience had scared the shit out of him, convincing him that he wasn’t cut out for any sort of work in covert ops. Do the digging? You bet. Man of action? Only if the action was online.

  But in the end maybe Hagan had somehow found a way to save him, because here he was back on the street, his bail paid by an unknown benefactor even though there were still a few charges pending. A weapons charge, that was the big one. Trespassing? A joke. Although the Talbot County cops had actually been pretty cooperative toward the end, and the desk officer who handed him his wallet upon release advised him that, bail or not, the smartest thing might be for him to get out of town for a few days, given all the federal interest in the case. They even brought his rental car up from the impoundment lot to help smooth his departure. Maybe now he should call a lawyer.

  He saw right away that the car hadn’t exactly been handled with kid gloves. It had been searched thoroughly, even roughly. The glove compartment was still open, and a door panel was loose. Muddy footprints covered the backseat, and someone had dusted the dash and the steering wheel for fingerprints. Hertz would probably charge extra for cleanup, and it now seemed unlikely that Hagan would let him expense this little adventure.

  But he was alive, and after what he’d seen the night before, that was no small accomplishment. As he started the car and headed back toward the motel—would he still have his room?—he replayed the events in his head, a dark memory that he figured would haunt him for quite a while.

  At first he’d enjoyed it. It was thrilling to climb out of the car in boots and camouflage, a holstered gun, a pair of binoculars. His senses were on full alert, just like when he was a kid roaming the suburbs after dark. Every noise made him flinch. The cold air prickled on his cheeks. So this was how the big boys felt after they’d been air-dropped into the wilderness of some hostile environment like Afghanistan. He walked slowly and carefully down the shoulder of the gravel driveway, poised to duck into the trees at the first sign of approaching traffic, the wind seeming to whisper his name.

  Finally the house came into view, windows dark, like a ghost ship afloat on a night sea. He moved behind a pine and used his binoculars, scanning slowly from end to end. That’s when he noticed the small pool house off to the side. It, too, was dark and silent. Okay, now what? He checked for cars. Three were parked by the house along with a plumber’s white panel van. The van was a surprise. Had Cole rented it, or did he and the journalists have another friend staying with them? The idea of some sort of antimilitary conspiracy seemed quite real to him at that moment. The make and model of the cars matched what he’d expected, although he wasn’t yet close enough to read the numbers on the tags. He decided to move closer, but just as he was about to step forward a stick snapped in the trees off to his left, and the blood rushed straight to his head. Someone, or something, was moving over in that direction. Too large for a fox or a possum, and not deliberate enough for a deer. Coming after him, perhaps? He sank into a crouch and slowly pulled the gun from its holster. The air was colder than ever. He strained his ears to listen.

  That’s when he belatedly remembered the night vision goggles, which were still in his shoulder bag. As quietly as possible he holstered the gun, opened the bag, and put on the goggles. The world took on an eerie glow. For the moment, all was silent. Nothing moved. Maybe he’d imagined the noise. Then a large, luminous green body moved out from behind a tree, no more than thirty yards to his left. Fuck! Coming toward him? No. Heading toward the house. Slowly, but in a slight crouch, and with a seeming sense of purpose.

  Riggleman was short of breath, his heart drumming. He sank to his knees but kept watching through the goggles. Then, to his alarm, a second person moved into his field of vision from the left. There were two of them! At first he thought it might be a team, some tactical unit preparing to take the sort of decisive action that he could only dream about. But then the second man stopped and raised a rifle into position, taking aim. Riggleman was on the verge of shouting a warning, but the cry caught in his throat as a gunshot banged sharply through the trees. The flash from the muzzle was almost blinding through the goggles. He turned and saw the first man crumple to the ground with a low moan. Riggleman sank to his knees, feeling weak and needing to pee. This wasn’t his game, his style. Why the fuck was he even there? He pulled out his cell phone, thinking maybe he should call 9-1-1, or Hagan—anybody—then worried that the light from the phone would attract attention, so he quickly put it away and tried to make himself as small as possible.

  When he looked up again the second man had reached the first and was pointing the barrel of the rifle down at his head from only a few feet away. A second shot cracked into the night. The first blob convulsed and then lay still, a horrible moment. Riggleman again grasped his sidearm, wondering how much noise it would make to unholster it. The shooter was back on the move again, but thank God he was retracing his steps, heading away from the house and away from him. It was all Riggleman could do to maintain his balance on his knees as he watched the man depart, even as his butt and his toes began to tingle. His entire lower body was going numb. He wondered if he would even be able to stand.

  The shooter gradually disappeared from sight. Riggleman then counted to thirty before painfully rising from his cr
ouch, gripping a tree to steady himself as blood rushed back into his legs with a prickly surge. When he looked back toward the dead man he was sickened to see that his green glow was already fading, as if his very life was draining from him. He had no interest in a closer inspection, and to call 9-1-1 now would be pure folly, given the manner in which he was armed and dressed. Better instead to get the hell out of there, because the shots had been damned loud. Fuck! A light was on in the house. Then another. To hell with stealth. Riggleman heaved a sigh of great effort and began lumbering back toward his rental car as fast as his numb legs would carry him.

  Hours later, after he finally drifted into a restless sleep back at his motel, the police burst into his room, guns drawn, shining a bright light into his face. Rough handling and humiliation, plus the sinking realization of his own laxness and stupidity as he saw the cluttered room the way they must have seen it—the camouflage uniform tossed on a chair, the holstered gun on the bedside table, the night vision goggles over by the television, and, worst of all, those reams of paper with their incriminating names and addresses. And him, caught red-handed, the homicidal paramilitary loon with a death wish.

  But now, back in the car and turning onto Route 50, Riggleman felt certain he had survived the worst of it. To his relief, the key card still worked in the door to his room. To his further relief, his suitcase was still on the floor. The housekeeper had even made the bed and left fresh towels. Maybe the police had phoned the manager to let him know that everything was okay. Yes, he was going to be fine, which called for a private celebration, courtesy of the minibar.

  Riggleman stooped to open the door of the small refrigerator and surveyed his choices. He was about to grab a cold beer when a forearm locked around his neck from behind and a gun barrel poked into his back.

  “Don’t make a move! Call out and I shoot.”

  “Okay.”

  “Drop your hands to your side and lay down on your stomach.”

  “Okay.” Meekly, sadly. Was this guy going to shoot him? Was it the guy from last night?

  “Hurry up!”

  “Okay.” It was the only word he felt capable of speaking.