In the Crosshairs: A Sniper Novel

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  “Bring her home, boys. Good job. Ms. del Coda, the Reaper is exiting. Our MQ-1 will be on station in a few minutes.” The new arrival was an intelligence-reconnaissance bird with enhanced camera capabilities that could see in the dark and read the date on a dime from ten miles up.

  “Very well, Major Fox. We’ll link up again, then.” She went to the internal circuit and asked her chief analyst, “What do you think, Ryan?”

  “Probably woke everybody up. Damage will be insignificant, because the target was insignificant.”

  “And our boys?”

  “Brandt, Thompson, and Swanson are all grouped together, moving slowly to the north. We’ll be able to see and talk to them when the MQ-1 arrives. I’m taking a bathroom break.”

  Del Coda chewed on a fingernail.

  GIRDIWAL, AFGHANISTAN

  THE ROCKET AND THE bombs woke Luke Gibson and he stretched out before looking at his clock. Less than an hour since the Lion had knocked on his door. He hadn’t heard any gunshots, but the series of hard explosions left no doubt that things were getting serious.

  Since he had been the one to give up the airfield as an international smuggling site, it was logical for it to be attacked in any attempt the CIA made to extract him and Swanson. He got up and went to the bathroom to wash his face, then sat on the side of the bed, thinking, as he had breakfast—an apple, some raisins, thick slices of paneer cheese, some bread going stale, and tea. That done, he pulled on his clothes, laced his boots tight, checked his weapons, and called for another Lion to bring a truck around front.

  As he left the inn, the air carried the scent of smoke, and orange fingers of fire reached up beyond the ridge to the north. It had all happened too fast for the attack to be anything other than the Reaper guard drone Marguerite del Coda had put overhead. “Let’s get out to the airport,” he told his driver, and they sped away.

  The question, now, was what had happened to Kyle Swanson? He asked the driver if he had heard anything from his friends who had gone out earlier to the burning building. The answer was an indifferent shrug of the shoulders. He had planned to start his hunt at dawn, but that was no longer an option. Swanson had cost him a couple of hours of good sleep by escaping from the house so soon, and was already on the run. But Swanson had no contact with the agency, so the Reaper drone strike was likely a onetime attack to warn the locals that Uncle Sam was watching.

  Gibson wanted to make a quick check of the airport, and then make a round of the ambush sites before settling down to the business of the day. Swanson is toast, he thought.

  WASHINGTON, D.C

  WHITE HOUSE PRESS SECRETARY Sam Rausch had won the battle with his CIA counterpart, and, for a change, everyone agreed that the press might be of some help in the situation. Now all he had to do was find a qualified journalist in a hurry, someone who knew how to jump out of a plane.

  His argument had been simple: the TV talking heads were being brutal with the tip that a congressional hearing was brewing because of CIA drug shenanigans. The 24/7 news boulder was rolling downhill, gathering steam, and the CIA’s official denials were being portrayed as a cover-up. Rausch believed something must be done to stem the tide of bad news.

  “So let’s flip it,” he said. “We embed one good media type to go in with the first troops and even help with his communications. No censorship. He can go where he wants, ask what he wants. We have nothing to hide. Our talking points will say that we were all shocked by the unfounded allegations, which endangered ongoing operations and troop movements. Therefore, we moved on Girdiwal in force to close the drug-shipment point and rescue our undercover operatives. We do not believe Congresswoman Keenan’s allegations, but the House of Representatives can proceed any way it wishes on the matter, with our full cooperation.”

  He already had a reporter in mind. It wasn’t unusual for a military man to go into the media after his service, bringing his unique knowledge to the dicey job of being a war correspondent. One who had done so was a decorated Delta Force warrior who had gotten banged up by an IED and retired more than two year agos. Since then, John “Tilt” Foster had returned to the war and filed remarkable coverage, first as a freelancer and then as a writer of thoughtful magazine articles, with occasional appearances on TV. Yesterday he was on an evening news segment about the drawdown of American forces at Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan.

  Rausch had his secretary call the network’s news editor and describe the offer: If you want to be inside on tomorrow’s biggest story, get Tilt Foster out to Bagram right now. An escort will meet him at the gate. He’ll be the pool reporter on a sensitive and important mission. No, I won’t tell you what it is. Call me in fifteen minutes or I go to my second choice. The call came back in ten. The job was on. Foster was already at Bagram.

  Tilt was a lean fellow, almost stringy, who stood five feet ten and weighed about 175 pounds; he kept his brown hair short. A square jaw and an easy smile and a disdain for self-promotion had helped his transition to becoming a writer and reporter, and his Delta links kept him in touch with the military grapevine. He had that strut, that bored been-there attitude, and a reserved personality, but he was nobody’s pushover.

  “Where are we going?” he asked the lieutenant from the public-affairs office who showed up in a Humvee to collect him.

  “Hell if I know, Tilt. I’m just taking you out to the flight line.” The young officer liked the calm man. While other media types could be pests, Tilt was a laid-back dude, and his stuff was always good. When Foster wrote a piece, it left marks.

  Foster was ferried across the base to a giant C-17 cargo plane, where long lines of helmeted men in parachute gear were bumping their way inside. A captain greeted him when he unfolded from the vehicle. “Mr. Foster, I’m Jim Sanchez, Company B, Third Ranger Battalion. Glad you could join us. Heard a lot about you.”

  “Rangers, huh? Dropping in somewhere, are we?”

  “Yep,” said Sanchez. “You remember how?”

  “Sure. I cry like a baby until a jumpmaster throws me out?”

  “That’s about it,” the captain replied. “These guys will get you suited up. I’ll brief you once we’re airborne. Still sure you want to go?”

  “Always a privilege to be asked to jump with the Rangers. Let’s do it.” Two enlisted men approached, and Foster changed clothes on the runway, exchanging his jeans and T-shirt for a full-camo combat rig. He carried a camera, a notepad, and pens instead of a gun.

  26

  THE THREE SNIPERS ALL faced northeast, listening to the roar and rattle of the attack at the airfield. “I like that sound,” Thompson said. Bruce Brandt agreed. “Has a certain ring to it,” he conceded. They could see the glow of fire dancing in the distance. Swanson was on one knee, reloading and wondering what to do next. “Ingmar, you said we have a Blackhawk inbound to pick us up?”

  Thompson forced his eyes from the attack zone and back into the darkness, looming above Swanson like a big bear. “Yep. At least one of those stealth jobs—probably a backup, too. A couple of snakes will escort them.”

  “Can you communicate with them?”

  “Yep. It’s kind of scratchy and all, but the closer they get the more the comms will improve.”

  Swanson thought about this as he tore open an energy bar, falling silent as he chewed. The situation had changed dramatically in the past hour. He was no longer tied to a chair, listening to Luke Gibson brag. The man had actually left the house believing that he was the best shooter the world had ever seen, and had devised an elaborate scheme to bring down the CIA to prove his point. He also wanted to kill Swanson in some kind of Wild West shoot-out at a thousand meters or so, hunting and stalking. Gibson was nuts. However, at the time, he thought he held all the cards: more than enough firepower, extra men, and his enemy tied up in a little house in the middle of nowhere. Even if Swanson managed to escape, there was nowhere for him to go, nothing to stop Gibson from tracking him down and killing him like a helpless gazelle. Well, that had all changed. Sw
anson now had the winning hand, but Gibson didn’t know it yet. Although Swanson hadn’t acknowledged it even to himself, Gibson’s crowing about being the best had gotten under his skin, and a small candle of revenge had started burning in his stomach. “And a lot of other stuff is on the way, too, right?” Swanson dragged himself out of his thoughts.

  “Like I told you before, Kyle, it’s going to be a full package.”

  Blackhawks and AH-1Z attack helicopters were a potent and mobile asset, particularly following the noisy drone hit. “How about calling and getting them to hang back for a while. We’re not in danger now, and if a bigger strike is coming that will give us even more cover.”

  “I can’t do that, Kyle. Bruce and I were sent in to extract you, so you’re going to get your ass on that Blackhawk.”

  Brandt cut in. “Ignore him, Kyle. He just wants to go home and get a cold beer. What’s on your mind?”

  “The orders, as you explained, were to bring back me and Gibson and Nicky Marks. Well, Marks is dead, but Gibson is still out there. He’s the mastermind behind this mess, and calls himself the Prince out here. Let’s go get him, then leave.”

  Brandt looked around, then stared down at Kyle, waving his hand at the vast, dark expanse. “We don’t know where he is. There’s a whole galaxy out there.”

  “I got an idea,” Kyle said.

  “So instead of arresting your skinny butt for treason we disobey orders and work with you?” Thompson scanned the road back toward the ambush site.

  “You’re not a SEAL anymore, dumbshit. We specialists are supposed to wing a lot of this to meet changing circumstances. Otherwise some butter-bar lieutenant will be having you fetch his laundry.” Swanson smiled, knowing that Thompson never liked taking a hint, much less a direct order.

  “What’s your idea?”

  “It’s a good idea,” Swanson said, and told them.

  Bruce Brandt said, “That’s a good idea. I’ll see if our truck still runs.”

  Thompson got on the radio and in less than two minutes the quartet of inbound choppers settled into holding orbits, making gentle, lazy circles to the left some twenty miles out. While he stood guard, Swanson and Brandt dug the jack-and-tire changing kit out from behind the seats, lowered the spare tire, and put it all in the bed, then slammed the tailgate. Kyle said the tire should remain flat for the time being.

  * * *

  THE TOYOTA PICKUP HAD taken quite a bruising. The windows had been shot out and the body and bed were punctured by scatterings of bullet holes. Headlights were gone, paint ruined, and the right rear tire was flat. None of that was fatal for the little warhorse, though, and the engine turned over on the first try. Brandt drove it gently through a circle and pronounced it ready. The two other snipers piled into the back, and Thompson got the .50-caliber machinegun, still warm from the firefight, back in operation and fed in a fresh belt of ammunition. Swanson rested his elbows atop the cab, with his rifle pointed ahead. “Go,” he called down to the driver, and the truck limped away, retracing the way it had originally come.

  The fire at the house had settled down quite a bit while they were gone, and although it was outmatched by the carnage erupting at the airstrip, it was easy to find, glowing like a burned stack of hay. Thompson swung the mounted machinegun in various directions, but there was no opposition as Swanson jumped from the back and Brandt cut the sputtering engine and got out. They walked toward the smoldering ruin and found the two young Lions still bound and tied, right where they’d been left in the roadside ditch. Swanson put down his weapon and drew his knife.

  Brandt walked back to the truck, cursing the vehicle. He opened the hood and cursed at what he saw. He kicked the bumper, rammed a large shard of glass from the passenger door window, then pulled his pistol, took aim, and shot the rear tire twice. He walked to the front and put two more shots in the engine, still cursing the vehicle as if it were responsible for all the evils in the world. Thompson remained silent.

  Bruce went back to the ditch. “That useless sonofabitch is dead, Kyle,” he said in Arabic. To the captives, he added, “Next time get a Dodge Ram. Should I kill these dudes?”

  “Nah. They’re just kids.” He sliced through the bonds. “Get out of here, you little assholes, before my partners light you up. Go on home to Mommy.” Swanson slid the knife back into the scabbard and, ignoring the two boys, called to Thompson: “Come on down, big guy. We’re humping out of here.” Brandt had GPS with a bright little screen, and the commandos gathered around it, arguing among themselves about which way to go.

  Hamid and Mohammed muttered prayers of thanks to Allah as they skittered away from the soldiers. Hamid was almost naked, so his buddy lent him a heavy vest. He thought about getting into the truck, but the Americans were abandoning it because it was useless. The crazy one had pumped two bullets into the engine, which had already sounded wheezy when it came up, and the numerous bullet holes bespoke other internal damage. It could be reclaimed come morning, but for the moment it was best to escape before the crazy one changed his mind. They ran. Looking back, Mohammed saw only that the Americans had disappeared.

  “They’re gone,” said Brandt, who was watching the boys through high night-vision goggles. He began jogging quietly down the road to keep them in sight, his automatic weapon pointing the way.

  Thompson jumped out of the ditch and hustled to the truck, flinging out the spare tire and the changing tools. Swanson stomped on the pry bar to loosen the nuts while Thompson got the jack in place and started cranking it up. Swanson pocketed the nuts so they wouldn’t get lost. It was one of those take-your-time moments, because a mistake in such a routine chore could amplify a simple error into a gigantic problem, and that could kill time and them as well. It wasn’t the first time either of them had to change a flat in hostile territory, and they did it as smoothly and swiftly as a dirt-track pit team.

  Swanson rolled the flat into the ditch, closed the hood, took the wheel, and got the truck running again. Brandt’s two shots into the engine compartment had been aimed to miss everything and to convince the frightened Lions that the motor was dead. And the shots into the already flat rear tire reinforced that impression. Thompson resumed his position behind the gun, slapped the top of the cab, and Swanson eased forward, slowly and quietly, but steadily gaining a little speed. It had taken no more than five minutes to change the tire, which meant that the boys would have had to be world-class runners to run a mile in that time. More likely, they had tired and were walking fast, slowing down all the time, feeling that safety was straight ahead in the first outlying lights of Girdiwal.

  Brandt had been expecting the truck and was waiting a half mile down the road. He waved them down and climbed in. “Game on, guys. They’re straight ahead, no more than five hundred yards. Slow and quiet.”

  THE AIRFIELD

  GIBSON FOUND WHAT HE had expected: a minimal amount of actual damage to the small airfield but a lot of smoke and fire and borderline chaos. Rockets and bombs can do that to a place. It confirmed his suspicion that the attack was only a dump of munitions from the drone, which had then fled. The sky was empty.

  He toured the runway and found that it still serviceable, as long as there were markers identifying the few craters. There were no craters in the middle, because there was no middle line on a landing area made up of a square mile of dirt. Lithe small planes could approach from almost any direction. The control shed was ruined; again, no surprise, as it was the largest building there. One small Cessna was flipped over and wingless. A pen of donkeys had been savaged, and the smell of their seared flesh befouled the air. Over to one side of the airstrip, a jumbo pile of heroin and opium remained unharmed. On the other side, a fuel depot that was under camo shelter had also escaped harm. Gibson counted three other planes dispersed far from one another, all looking ready to fly. Bombing blind at night had negated much of the effect, although the shock and awe factor had been superb.

  Men were already on the field putting out the fires, and
Gibson figured the pilots were on their way to get the planes out of the danger zone. In other words, it was under control and, without further disruption, should be back in operation soon and they could clear out the product. He wasn’t needed at the field, so he swung to a side road that led uphill for more than a mile to a cavern set back from a broad, flat apron. One of the Lions stepped from the gloom with his AK-47 and the truck flashed its lights.

  Gibson identified himself and walked to the cavern. Barrels of aviation fuel were stacked to one side of the entrance. It was cooler inside, and dim light cast weak shadows. “Is he here?” he asked the boy.

  “Yes.” The youngster was jittery from the fury of the attack, and his finger lingered near the trigger of his gun.

  Gibson told him to stay calm, that everything was fine. The Americans had just sent in a drone, that was all, and he had come up to make sure nothing had been damaged. The Prince’s calm and reasonable tone cast a balm over the boy. Gibson patted him on the shoulder.

  “Tell the pilot to get ready, but to keep the bird in the cave until I come back,” Gibson said. He looked over at the vintage UH-1E helicopter that his dad had stolen back and stashed here after the Vietnam era. It wore the olive-drab paint job of the U.S. Army, complete with black numerals, and it was kept in flying condition with constant maintenance and a full-time throttle jockey on hand. The big rotor tilted down, idle. “This is the way out, Luke, if there is ever a true need for that sort of thing,” his father had explained. “Always plan at least one escape route when you move into a place.”

  Wise counsel from the old man. Gibson stroked the smooth skin of the old Huey helicopter and walked back to his truck. It was time to go hunting.