In the Crosshairs: A Sniper Novel

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  “So Gibson was not on the run. He is alive? He lied?”

  Winters fluttered his fingers again. “Time passing.” The clock rolled ahead. Suddenly the second tracking beacon pipped off the screen, leaving it blank. “That was Swanson.”

  Del Coda almost wilted. “All contact has been lost with both of them?”

  “That’s what I thought. That’s exactly what happened. Had to be.”

  “Gotta call Langley.”

  “Not yet. Watch.” He had let the screen unroll its mystery in actual time. In the blank grid, another dot suddenly appeared, blinking at odd intervals. “That is neither of the original devices.”

  “So what the hell is it?”

  “According to the databases, the serial number is listed as being part of a special-weapons development unit belonging to Excalibur Enterprises in the U.K. and is currently in the possession of Kyle Swanson.”

  “Swanson is alive, then?”

  “We don’t know. All we have is that the new beacon has been activated and the signal, while strong enough, is coming through intermittent microburst transmissions being read by the drone’s standard frequencies. My guess is that it’s battery-powered and whoever’s using it wants to conserve the energy source.”

  “Now can I call Langley?”

  “Sure. And tell them that whichever of them is transmitting is beginning to move.”

  GIRDIWAL, AFGHANISTAN

  SWANSON STASHED HIS GEAR near the courtyard gate and hurried over to the humming generator. Two five-gallon jerry cans of gasoline stood near it, and he lugged them to the house. After he’d closed the door to the kitchen, it took only a few minutes to saturate the rest of the place with one can, sloshing it over the rugs, the weapons cache, and in the corners. Luke Gibson had probably left behind a booby trap; Kyle intended to return the favor. The strong vapor irritated his nostrils and made his eyes water, and he placed the second full can in the front room, amid all the debris. The tricky part—not blowing himself up while arming the device—came next.

  In the kitchen, keeping the door closed, he dumped the remaining stew from the pot on the stove and dropped in a handful of rounds that he had taken from the AK-47’s magazine. Then he carefully lit the propane burner and set the heat on low. Taking a deep breath, Swanson threw open the kitchen door and ran for his life, grabbing his gear as he passed through the courtyard and dashing through the front gate.

  He covered about a quarter of a mile, roughly four football fields, before the fire roasting the bullets in the metal pot ignited them and gunfire rapped through the night air. An instant later, the fire and hot shrapnel and burning gunpowder ignited the heavy cloud of trapped gas fumes. The nightmarish whoosh of the gasoline was followed by the explosions of the propane tank in the kitchen and the jug of gasoline in the front room. A booming detonation shook the area, and Swanson felt the heat against his back but didn’t waste time looking behind him. Legs pumping, he headed for his chosen ground.

  The detonation rolled across the valley and shook the town of Girdiwal, and many residents rushed outside to see the roaring fire and the rising smoke. Luke Gibson slept through it, but one of his young followers, a fifteen-year-old boy, was soon pounding on his door at the little inn.

  “What is it?” he called out in Arabic.

  “Sir, your home has just blown up,” the boy said, almost beside himself with excitement. “It is on fire!”

  Gibson rolled over and checked his cell phone: 0300. Damn, Kyle, that was pretty quick. Leave that guy alone for an hour and all hell breaks loose. He laughed aloud. His personal hunt would start at dawn, but, in the meantime, he should keep Swanson guessing.

  The boy was startled by the laughter. He had expected Gibson to burst forth fully rigged for battle, but instead there was only the sound of amusement.

  “Okay, you Lions go get him,” came the order. “Be careful. This American is a prime enemy of the caliphate and there’s a reward for his head. May Allah guide your quest.”

  The boy turned and hurried downstairs to get his partner, another fiery teenager. Upstairs, Gibson rolled over and went back to sleep. Cannon fodder.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THEY COULD WAIT NO longer. Throughout the day, the pressure had been building on several fronts, and they had reached the point where the White House had to be brought into the loop. By six o’clock that afternoon, President Christopher Thompson was at the head of the long table in the Situation Room, flanked by almost every heavy hitter in Washington. He had been through many crises since assuming the job six years ago, and could smell the possibilities of this one. He had handled the others competently enough, and he would get through this, too. To ease the tensions, he slipped into his blue windbreaker with the presidential patch on the left breast and encouraged the others to shed their coats and ties and high heels and get comfortable. His paternal smile imbued his team with confidence. “Let’s get through this in time for dinner, huh, folks? Bring me up to speed.” Ignoring the images on the flat-screen monitors on the walls, the president thumbed through a two-page summary as his national-security adviser, retired marine Lieutenant General Bradley Middleton, went through an even shorter version.

  “Three CIA operators are missing—or maybe not—around the Afghan village called Girdiwal. One or more tried to kill the others at different points. Two more operators are on their way in. You’ve seen TV reports about a possible congressional investigation into accusations that the CIA is running drugs again—through an airstrip in the same place, Girdiwal.”

  “Deal with the operators first, General Middleton. Politics can come later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Middleton, CIA director Rick Burns, and Martin Atkins, the director of intelligence, took turns explaining the background, and the president peppered them with questions. “It all started with a tragic bombing in Mexico, but it goes deeper than that,” said the general. “We have stories and accusations, and little proof of which is correct.”

  The president rubbed his fingers together, as if he had glue on them. “I cannot believe Kyle Swanson has gone rogue. Impossible.”

  “Mr. President, until recently, I would have said the same about the other two guys, Luke Gibson and Nicky Marks. Solid, reliable pros. Now I’ve ordered a re-examination of everything concerning them.”

  “What’s the best guess right now?”

  The Situation Room watch officer took her cue from Middleton and put up the screen. A blue circle was immobile on the background. “That is an overhead satellite view, sir. We believe this transmitter belongs to Swanson, although both he and Gibson had other signals gear, but on different frequencies, when they went in. All of that was lost.”

  “The bright area nearby?”

  “Looks like a hot spot. Maybe a fire, sir. We’ll know for sure when the camera drone arrives, in about thirty minutes. All we have on station right now is a gunship and this satellite, which is going out of range.”

  Thompson paused in thought. “Bad stuff. Get to the politics now. Briefly, please.”

  Rick Burns, coat off and sleeves rolled up, took over. “A congresswoman from Nebraska has made the charge against the CIA. By the way, sir, we’re not running drugs—emphasize ‘not.’ One of her few pieces of evidence shows a CIA plane on the ground there at Girdiwal.” He put down his notes and took off his glasses. “That’s a lie.”

  President Thomson lifted a thick eyebrow. “A lie?”

  “That specific plane actually did belong to the agency at one time, and was utilized as a drug ferry now and then, under our predecessors in another day. We wrote it off after a crash and sent it to the junkyard, or so we thought. Someone bought and rehabilitated it and sold it back into service. That aircraft is now the property of a Russian Mafia outfit. Girdiwal seems to be a high-traffic zone for moving heroin. We have indeed used it ourselves to get supplies to our allies fighting the Taliban in that region.”

  “So this congresswoman is fanning the fires of an alr
eady bad situation with false information.” The president leaned forward, elbows on the table. He drummed his fingertips on the wood.

  “The bipartisan leaders of the House are already planning a come-to-Jesus meeting with her later tonight, sir. The last thing they want is a highly publicized hearing based on bad information. She’s being used. By whom we don’t know, but our friends in the FBI are going to find out.”

  “Most likely it’s going to lead right back to Girdiwal.” General Middleton’s voice was more of a growl.

  “What assets do we have in the area, General?”

  “Everything. It’s Afghanistan, sir. We’ve been there for quite a while.”

  Thompson put a palm on the briefing sheet and slid it aside. “Okay. Girdiwal is the source of the problem, somehow, and our missing operatives are there. Can we get that drone gunship over to the airstrip and work it over?”

  “Yes, sir.” Middleton looked around the room. “That won’t do much but put some holes in the ground.”

  “To be followed by a full air strike, ladies and gentlemen. And that is to be followed by an airborne assault to subdue and secure it until our people can sort all of this out. You folks take care of the tactical details, but as of right now I want Girdiwal closed for business. Get it rolling. Now, about the operators. Help is on the way for them?”

  Director Burns braced himself. “We’ve dispatched another two-man sniper team to bring them out, Mr. President. It was to be low-profile.”

  “Not anymore. Two men isn’t an option. Get them all the support they need. More than they might need, including additional boots on the ground.”

  Middleton raised his hand to his chin, rubbed it, and spoke. “Sir, I have to bring this up. We have to consider the possibility that this might be a trick just to sucker us in, a few men at a time, then start a major battle in mountainous terrain, ambush terrain.”

  “I understand that, General. I truly do. Given the circumstances, I see no other choice. If they choose to fight, the United States will wipe them out. I want our teams safely out of there, I want Girdiwal secured, and I want the head of a certain congresswoman. Are we clear?”

  Silence filled the room. “Good. I’m having a private dinner with my wife tonight, and I do not want to be disturbed. Thank you all.”

  There were murmurs around the Situation Room as they all stood, and General Middleton followed President Thompson out. “One last thing, sir,” he said privately when they’d passed the threshold.

  The president didn’t break stride. “What is it already, Brad?”

  “Your son is one of the CIA operatives on the way in to Girdiwal right now.”

  President Thompson fought the jolt to his thought process. What had been a purely logical decision was now a personal dilemma. Could he—would he—even tell his wife? It was always different when a politician had to send his own family members into harm’s way.

  “Thank you, General. Keep me posted, will you? The orders stand. Ingmar knows what he’s doing.”

  25

  GIRDIWAL, AFGHANISTAN

  THE LIONS OF THE Caliphate, two teenagers in a small, battered pickup truck, raced out of the village and down the road toward the burning building. Mohammed was driving and yipping like a puppy, while Hamid was standing in the bed, behind the mounted .50-caliber machinegun. For the pleasure of feeling the power, Hamid loosed a long burst of fire into the heavens and several gold tracers flew upward toward the stars. The roar made the light truck tremble, but Mohammed kept up the speed. The boys were warriors in their own minds, although the families wouldn’t let them join the Taliban, or ISIS, or anyone else, because they were needed in the poppy fields. The Prince, however, gave them weapons and created the Lions of the Caliphate so they could perhaps see some action after their chores were done.

  When they pulled to a stop, they saw that the place was an inferno. Both jumped from the truck with their AK-47s in hand and advanced side by side toward what had once been the gate, trying to see into the flames. That destroyed their night vision. They stepped over the roadside ditch and moved on, heat strong on their faces.

  “Let’s walk all the way around,” suggested Hamid. Kyle Swanson rose from the ditch behind them and swatted Hamid hard in the kidneys with the butt of the AK-47, then spun and kicked Mohammed’s feet out from under him. He knocked the guns away, and cracked the rising Mohammed on the nose, sending him back into the gravelly dirt. Swanson duct-taped the boy’s wrists and ankles and across his mouth and eyes, then dragged him over to the ditch and dumped him in.

  Young Hamid was still spasming in pain as Kyle stripped him of his long white tunic and baggy pants and took the wool pakol cap. He would be dressed like the locals now, plus he had the truck. He trussed up Hamid and tossed him beside the other boy.

  Gibson had sent a couple of kids to keep him busy, but hadn’t come himself. There was no time to waste thinking about that, though, so Swanson started changing clothes.

  He didn’t hear the flutter of the silk parachute as a large figure suddenly appeared right behind him, landing erect, and said, “Hey, Kyle. Got any beer?” Ingmar Thompson was peeling out of his straps, grinning like an idiot.

  “No, I don’t have any goddamn beer.”

  “Want some?” A second parachutist plopped down ten feet away. Bruce Brandt was busy collapsing his chute. “Ingmar, shouldn’t we point a damned gun at him or something?”

  “Why? We’re on the same side—as of a few minutes ago, I think. Besides, it’s Kyle.”

  “Well, there is that,” Brandt conceded as he unhooked his rifle. “Where are Gibson and Marks? We’ve come to bring you all out of this shithole.”

  Swanson was overjoyed to see his old friends and fellow snipers but kept in the moment. “Marks is dead. Gibson is over in the village. I’ll explain it all, guys, but let’s get out of here first. Into the truck. Ingmar, you take the .50 cal in back.”

  “Ah, that’s what it was.” Thompson laughed. “Whoever was on that gun almost got us coming down. Tough to hide up there when you’re hanging from a piece of cloth. Tracers went right between us.” He climbed into the bed, checked the belt of ammo, declared the gun filthy but usable.

  “Where we going?” asked Brandt, sliding into the passenger seat and adjusting his gear. “You need anything right now? Medical, water, whatever? I gotta tell you, this whole thing is a major pain.”

  “No, I’m good. I want to drive down the valley about ten miles, away from the village, toward the Mehtar Gap, as if we’re trying to get a road to Kabul. Hide the vehicle and double-back to get into the high country.”

  “Misdirection, got it. But listen up, pal, because things have changed mightily since you and Gibson came in. Ingmar and I were tasked early on, so we’re the first in, but now it seems that the whole damned cavalry is on the way to take that village and knock out an airstrip. Lots of political stuff going on.”

  Swanson was making decent speed on the twisting old road but slowed when he saw movement ahead, dark shadows against light shadow. He slammed the brakes as he yelled, “Ambush!” Automatic weapons fire erupted from a roadside barricade. Thompson immediately returned fire with the .50 cal as Brandt and Swanson jumped from the cab and joined the fight. With Thompson providing cover, Swanson ran about fifteen feet and dropped to the ground to provide cover for Brandt, who leapfrogged past him. It sounded as if a pair of automatics were hidden in the rocks, but the ambush was already collapsing under the heavy return fire. Brandt sprinted a final leg and tossed a grenade, and the firing sputtered to a halt.

  Swanson ran up and gave each enemy fighter a double tap just to be sure. He used Brandt’s flashlight to examine them. Two more kids. “That damned Gibson,” he said to his teammates. “He knows us. Thinks like us, so he counted on me coming down here and planted these two guys to block me. He probably has a few more stashed away up higher.”

  Brandt took the light back and stuffed it away. “He wouldn’t have been expecting Ingmar and me.”<
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  “He expected a rescue party of some sort. He told me that. So stay chill, boys. These are amateurs, but Gibson is the real deal, and he’ll be coming out to play soon.”

  Thompson said, “Then he’d better get his ass in gear.”

  KAISERSLAUTEN, GERMANY

  “OKAY, PEOPLE, LISTEN UP,” Marguerite del Coda barked into her headset. “This is real-time action, and lives depend on it, so keep your mind in the game.” She was at the rear of the drone central control room, standing on a pedestal that helped her survey her kingdom. “You ready here, Mr. Winters?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Two birds in the air.” Ryan Winters was hunched at a keyboard.

  “Major Fox, are you ready?” Jill Fox of the Forty-second Attack Squadron was overseeing the mission out of Creech Air Force Base, not far from Las Vegas, Nevada. She had a pilot and a sensor operator running each of the drones. Her targets were in Afghanistan. Her family home was an hour’s drive away from the base. “We’re ready,” she said.

  “Very well, Major. Roll on that airstrip. Dump your full ordnance load on targets of opportunity, then peel out of there to make room for new traffic.”

  “Roger that.” Fox nodded to the pilot of the MQ-9 Reaper, and the huge drone broke from circling over Girdiwal into an attack run. The sensor operator calmly worked the data controls, and the Reaper homed in on a dusty area in the surrounding hills, darkened by night but visible enough on the multiple computer-console screens. There was stuff down there, although visibility was poor and so late at night there was little movement

  “Do two runs, guys. Put the Hellfires on that boxy building with a flagpole on the first pass. It must be the control tower. Then come around and walk the bombs down the flat area that has to be the runway.”

  As everyone watched, the cameras tilted and reacquired, the exterior narrowed in its computer-game reality view, and the picture jerked as the Hellfire missiles tore away on streams of fire in the night. The drone whizzed by at a speed slow enough for everyone to see the rockets destroy the building in a sudden flash that banished the night. Nobody spoke. The pilot took it in a wide curve and brought it back. The sensor operator adjusted and dropped four Enhanced Paveway II smart bombs, each weighing five hundred pounds, and the Pamir Mountains trembled with the shock of the quadruple explosions.