The Green Beret and Lynche looked at each other, as if sharing a telepathic secret.
“Maybe your kinda air show and mine are different,” the father suggested.
Lynche raised his eyebrows with a grin that garnered the old man’s approval.
“You need anything, Mr. Jones, you just ask.”
The son wanted to retreat into the house and let the thin old guy alone with his strange airplane.
“Thank you, Sir,” Lynche said. “My partner will be here soon with some parts, then we’ll be on our way.”
“No bother, Mr. Jones. If you need to come back here for any reason, please feel free to drop in. You made an old man’s day. Thank you, Sir.”
“Much obliged, Sir.”
*
Nazy Cunningham checked in near the time that Duncan arrived at the grass strip. She was safe at Greg Lynche's house. Taking a circuitous route to Annapolis, she wasn’t followed.
Connie and Nazy had a long girl talk about their men, their work, and what was in the black backpack. Connie was highly skeptical of Nazy’s analysis of the documents bound under the hardcover and dust jackets until she reviewed them herself.
Nazy was enthralled at the dozens of cardinals and sparrows on several hanging bird feeders suspended from trees in the Lynche's back yard. Connie sat in stony silence at the kitchen table, reviewing page after page of the scanned material. She and Greg voted for Republicans and Conservatives for the past thirty-odd years, but they voted for the Democratic candidate during the recent election, believing he might do an OK job. Connie hoped change was finally in the air. It was more a vote against the weak Republican candidate and his squeaky-voiced vice presidential nominee.
Connie was the more-vocal supporter of the president when Duncan visited. He knew how to get her politics cranked up by throwing barbs at the man and his administration. Over time, Duncan was convinced he was a flaming communist and a charlatan.
Suddenly, Connie found herself reading classified documents that exquisitely demonstrated that the man in the White House was someone other than whom he and the media portrayed. One item of interest came through several documents. Dispatches from the UK and Israeli intelligence services, some dated fifteen years earlier, proved that the man holding the highest office in the land had been a British national for almost thirty years; not American. The rumors from the political right wing, that the president and his friends were spending millions of dollars to keep the range of scholastic, passport, and birth records from public view, were laid bare before her eyes in the CIA files.
Provided by both MI5 and MI6, the files contained copies of college applications, transcripts highlighting non-residency and poor academic performance, bank records, and a British passport that demonstrated several dozen visas and significant foreign travel, primarily to the Middle East. The British Secret Intelligence Service Foreign Section provided several transcripts of conversations with reputed or known terrorists in Pakistan and Afghanistan involving the young man while attending US colleges, including two meetings with Osama bin Laden and several members of the al-Qaeda hierarchy in the late 1980s and early 1990s.
Forty pages into one book, Connie couldn’t contain her embarrassment and pain any longer and collapsed, sobbing. Thirty minutes later, she and Nazy deposited the two books in Lynche's safe in the basement, knowing the information could be life-threatening to whomever carried them.
They put Nazy’s Mercedes into the garage, out of sight, and Connie drove them to the Annapolis Yacht Club for dinner. They hoped men in black helicopters and black uniforms with black guns wouldn’t come for them.
Hunter transferred weapons and body armor from 007 to his rental car. He and Lynche playfully synchronized watches before starting out for Rhode Island.
In a couple hours, the Wraith would be airborne again with Lynche at the controls and using FLIR to spot the shooter.
*
When three deer bolted from the copse, McGee was shocked but not surprised. He knew a killer would come to the woods, and he finally arrived. He brought his laptop close and typed a brief message.
He’s here. Right on time.
CHAPTER FORTY
2030 June 11, 2011
7445 Polo Court Drive Newport, Rhode Island
Hunter felt a touch of nostalgia while crossing the apex of the bridge leading into Newport. The Naval War College brought a smile to his face, and warm memories flooded his thoughts. He wondered if the two mothballed aircraft carriers that had been his turnaround point when he jogged were still tied up to the north. He barely saw them between bridge parts flashing by. He tried unsuccessfully to locate Building 7 in the distance, his home away from home for a year and the place where he taught Nazy how to make love to the Moody Blue's The Other Side of Life.
Hunter relived certain salacious events when he realized the vehicle ahead was braking, and he almost rear-ended the pickup. He still had a young man’s reflexes and crushed the brake. Though he over-steered, he mercifully avoided a collision.
The spike of adrenalin made his skin tingle and shot his heart rate up, making his face flush. Everything from the passenger seat shot out of it and now lay on the floor.
“That would have been bad,” he muttered. “That woman will be the death of me, but I’ll die with a smile.”
He powered around the truck that trundled ahead of him, the driver not realizing he almost had a Camaro impaled on his bumper hitch.
The GPS gave directions to where McGee felt Hunter should make his approach to the wooded area. Traffic was light once Duncan got through town and headed north and east of Newport. Winding his way through the Rhode Island countryside, one minute after turning from the smooth roadbed onto a poorly maintained road, the husky GPS female voice announced, “Destination on the left.”
Hunter saw a long strip of tall trees in the distance to his right. As the bumpy road swept left, his headlights illuminated a line of evergreens and a small, low-level sign that read, Wet Socks Curve.
A minute later, his headlights marked the rear of a van with old, black California tags and a pair of extension ladders on the roof.
“And no external markings,” he said softly, creeping along until he parked in a cutout 100 yards from the other vehicle. The dusty white van looked out of place on a deserted lover’s lane near the ocean frontage.
Hunter sat for a second, then slid down in the bucket seat, anxiously reached behind him and retrieved helmet bags, one after the other, and his body armor vest. He wiggled out of his sweatshirt, flipped the vest over his head, and snugly fastened the Velcro strips.
From one bag, he extracted earphones and an AN/PRQ-7 handheld radio; stuffing the ear buds into his ears and the jack into the radio, and turning on the volume. As the radio hissed in his ears, running through its algorithms, Hunter replaced his arms and head in the sweatshirt.
He keyed the microphone. “Ramrod, Maverick.”
“Go, Mav,” Lynche replied.
“Where you at?”
“I should be there in three or four mikes. Give me a vector?”
Hunter rolled down the window and fished out an IR beacon from the helmet bag. He turned it on and placed it on the car roof. Only someone with NVGs would be able to see the pulsed IR focused upward in a cone.
“Tally ho, Sir. Be there soon.”
“Ramrod, there’s a van parked just south of me. Can you see if anyone is in it or in the area?”
“Ten-four, Mav. Anything for you.”
Hunter rummaged through the bags and extracted a Taser and spare clip, a handful of thick plastic restraining strips, his helmet and NVGs, and a medium-sized zipper pouch containing a six-inch .357 Magnum Colt Python.
“I have you, Mav. No one’s in the van. It’s fairly cool. I don’t see anyone in the immediate area, just some deer. Shut that beacon off.”
Hunter retrieved and extinguished the beacon before rolling up his window.
“Are you ready?”
“As ready a
s I can be. Bullfrog says he’s right where he should be, and you just said there’s no one in the area. The shithead has to be hidden pretty good in the woods if he isn’t popping up on the FLIR. I’ll let Bill know we’re on the scene.”
Hunter stepped from the car, clipped the radio to his hip, and placed the Colt in the holster at the small of his back. He energized his BlackBerry and sent a message to McGee.
2 here n on offense. Cover me.
*
The brush in New England was unlike anything he ever encountered. Thick brambles made crawling in a ghillie suit impossible. Every bit of loose material became snagged on thorns or fallen branches. He walked, hunched over to clear a way, slicing through vines and branches with garden clippers. Every twelve feet, he extracted, crushed, and dropped a chemlite to mark the path.
Ingress was more difficult than anticipated. He should have gotten into position sooner. He might have to spend the night if the current opportunity was missed.
The underbrush was damp and quiet underfoot. Annoyed and aggravated, he slowly stood, Russian NVGs strapped to his head. His height helped him look over the brush and fallen branches. The man cleared the area 180° to the right and 180° to the left. All was clear in the spit of woods and in the distance. Off to the west, he saw both farmhouses identified by overhead satellite photographs.
He was anxious to finish, because big money lay ahead. He felt he could be a little reckless and plow through the brush without alerting any humans. There was no one within 700 yards, and the target was completely exposed at 1200 meters and would receive visitors in a few hours.
No one knew he was there—the ultimate ambush predator. The Brotherhood provided the necessary intel, but they probably just walked out there with binoculars to watch the man and his family to note what he did and when.
It was the last of the SEALs. Then he faced the long drive to Texas. First, he had another fifty feet to go before reaching the forward edge of the battlefield.
He bent, snapped, shook, and dropped another six-inch IR chemlite to mark his trail.
*
Duncan, wearing his helmet with the ANVIS-9s suspended in front of his eyes and battery pack on his back as a counterweight, found that walking with NVGs was a bigger challenge than flying with them. His AN/PRQ-7 radio was connected to the helmet pigtail, adding to the over-balancing problem.
As he walked toward the copse on the distance, the image in front of his eyes wobbled back and forth, and his brain immediately tried to overcompensate for the movement, making him dizzy.
He stopped, flipped up the NVGs, and the disorientation ceased immediately. “You can’t walk and wear NVGs simultaneously, dummy,” he muttered to himself.
Lynche provided a running commentary in Duncan’s headset. With no other human activity between the vehicles and the woods, Duncan moved quickly to the edge of the wood, the expected point of intercept.
“Nobody?” he whispered. “Is the guy from the van over the side shrimp fishing?”
“Nobody,” Lynche replied. “I have horses, cows, deer, and rabbits but no people. Well, you’re people, but I don’t see anyone else.”
“Bullfrog texted he has him. He should be visible on the other side of this wood.”
“I didn’t see anything on that side. I’ve been focused on your approach to the back side of the wood. I think you’re OK to the edge and move to the south. I’ll work the opposite side to see if he’s dug in or something.”
“Good plan. Out.” Light from the last-quarter moon came from a waning crescent above broken skies. Hunter put one hand on the helmet for stability and jogged the remaining distance to the copse. It was momentarily amusing to think he ran like Forrest Gump, but, as he decelerated, he became suddenly serious.
The trees seemed to suck all light from the area, and it was very dark. The moon was no help. He began to think it wasn’t a good idea after all. He surveyed the area and flipped the NVGs over his eyes, then he almost jumped out of his skin when he saw an IR chemlite in the wood, illuminating a path into the copse of trees.
He froze, his mind racing. Of course he has NVGs! And standing here makes you a target! Do something, big dummy!
He scanned the area slowly for a human, gun barrel— anything. Finding nothing, he stepped away from the animal trail with the chemlite, reached to his side, unclipped the PRQ-7, and hit the transmit button twice to get Lynche's attention.
“Yes, Mav?”
He typed a message on the keyboard and read on the LCD. IR chemlites at entry. Where is he?
Lynche responded, “No joy as of yet. Bullfrog’s mail says he is in position. Copy?”
Hunter pressed the transmit button twice in reply. “Copy chemlites. Mav, the wood’s 100 feet across. I say continue south and come up the face slowly. I’ll drop down and see if he’s dug in or is under a thermal blanket.”
Hunter, pressed the button twice again, and moved slowly to his left. With his left hand on the helmet, he patted the Taser in his pocket.
*
The McGee house was well illuminated. Porch lights flooded the landing with a yellow bulb to chase away bugs. The picture window was curtained with enough backlight to discern movement from outside if someone passed in front of a lamp. Miller, in position, studied his surroundings. He had a clear path to the front of the house.
Checking his digital watch, he said softly, “Thirty-five minutes to go, give or take.”
*
McGee double-checked his NV scope through the crack in the door. He couldn’t see the shooter or the barrel of his rifle, but he was convinced he was staring straight down the barrel of death with an eight-inch-wide silencer.
He turned and typed a message.
*
Lynche's BlackBerry flashed red in the cockpit, but he didn’t notice the message: Check rifle barrel with silencer the size of a two-liter soda bottle.
*
Lynche had the YO-3A on autopilot with altitude hold in a 15° angle of bank. He scanned the instrument panel for trouble and found none, so he resumed looking at the FLIR screen for large variations in thermal signature. There weren’t any. The edge of the wood was filled with fallen trees and bushes and trash from years of farming and plowing. Some people tossed their refuse into the woods after climbing the cliffs and rocks near the ocean. The thermal signatures showed a hodgepodge of hots, colds, and irregular shapes, but nothing that looked like a human in a firing position—or any humans at all. Lynche felt increasingly frustrated, as he couldn’t differentiate any semblance of a man hiding in the trees and trash. He saw Hunter clearly stalking the killer, but he couldn’t find the shooter.
Greg Lynche's frustration spilled over into his radio. “Mav, hold your position. I can’t find anything. You’re coming up on an area that’s hot with detritus, but I can’t see anything that might be human. I’ve got trash, downed trees, and metal poles that might be fence posts. If I were trying to hide, that’s where I’d be.”
*
Hunter keyed the transmit button twice. He saw the area ahead. In the green shades of the NVGs, he vaguely saw what was bothering Lynche, but he couldn’t make out anything human, either.
*
Lynche disengaged the autopilot and rolled the aircraft away from the wood, scanning his instruments and finally noticing the slow red flash of his BlackBerry reflecting off the standby attitude indicator.
The Wraith’s wings wobbled, as he tried to fly with his left hand and manipulate the BlackBerry with his right. He pressed the track button to open the application and read, Check rifle barrel with silencer the size of a two-liter soda bottle.
Awareness hit him. “I saw that!” Lynche shouted angrily. “Fuck!”
Tossing the device into his shirt pocket, he rolled the aircraft over, back to parallel the treeline.
*
A small dirty pickup truck, with an illuminated Pizza Hut Delivery sign on top, slowed as it approached the entrance of the access road, turned off Polo Court, and headed t
oward the farmhouse, kicking up a rooster tail of dust. It was right on time.
Miller jammed the sniper rifle deep into his shoulder socket and calmed his breathing. Pressing the Russian NV scope to his eye, he watched the reticule stabilize on the door with a minor rise and fall of the crosshairs in syncopation with his soft breathing and heartbeat. He panned to the truck, bright triangle of light atop, then placed the crosshairs back on the front door.
*
The headlights filled the night-vision scope, saturating the electronics, and the internal safety software shut down the image in the scope. McGee instantly understood what his adversary had planned. He created an innocuous diversion to bring him to the door. He cursed at himself as he should’ve anticipated that.
The sniper counted on the resident confronting the driver at the door. McGee would walk into the telescope’s crosshairs, fully exposed for the critical seconds of the bullet’s flight, as the sniper squeezed off his shot.
When the truck stopped in front of the house, McGee had a decision to make.
*
Lynche engaged the autopilot, took his hands off the controller, and was back on the FLIR. He rolled the thumbwheel on the joystick controller to zoom in on Hunter with the bottle-looking device, also in view. In shades of white and black, Lynche was immediately aware of the significance of the thing at the end of the long rod, and it took on a hideous, lethal quality.
He shouted into the microphone, “Mav, stop! You’re almost on top of him. One o’clock, inside the treeline. He’s under something, maybe a big tree. The big round thing is a silencer.”
*
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