In the Crosshairs: A Sniper Novel

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  * * *

  “FAST MOVERS NINETY SECONDS out,” Brandt called out from his position in the bed of the truck, hands pressed to his helmet to better hear the radio transmissions from an EA-6B Prowler electronic surveillance plane high up and far away, but assigned to control the battlefield traffic. “Pair of jarheads.”

  Swanson, on the machine gun, gave a thumbs-up. The truck was at the edge of the town, and his bet was that the boys were headed straight for Luke Gibson’s overnight lodging to report what had happened. Still wearing Hamid’s clothing to better blend in with the locals, he bounced out of the pickup to follow on foot in case they dodged down some alleyway.

  Thompson let his speed fall off even more and followed. Bruce moved up to the big gun. They both still wore the black jumpsuits, and in the poor light could easily be mistaken for Taliban troops, but it was best for them to stay out of sight before someone became too curious. Swanson was off the vehicle, trotting ahead, and saw the boys moving toward a multistory building with bright lights aglow on the lower floor, where a few people had gathered to discuss what all the explosions had been about. A hotel.

  The camera drone had arrived on station and fed an overhead view of the scene live and in color all the way back to Germany, and also to Washington. The signal was clear, but the visibility sucked.

  A pair of F/A-18 Hornets swirled into the opening at the lowland front of the Wakham Corridor, flying only five hundred feet off the deck and guided by the Prowler upstairs and the all-weather-terrain systems aboard each jet. The land rose higher on each side, but marine aviators train to fly low just for missions like this, in support of their guys on the ground. The lead pilot noticed a pair of headlights on the road as he rushed through the corridor, but ignored the vehicle. The planes were loaded for bear, having been off tending to business elsewhere in Afghanistan before they were recharted to compete the work on the airfield. There was no incoming anti-aircraft fire, no golden braids of tracers carving the obsidian darkness, and, as always, no enemy aircraft, so they lowered their altitude even more and received permission to go weapons-free. They would be in and out twice before any joker down there woke up and found a Stinger missile to shoot at them. The weapons-systems operator activated the bombs, missiles, and guns and looked for specific targets. In a few more seconds, it was going to be party time around Girdiwal.

  * * *

  LUKE GIBSON SAW THE wingtip lights suddenly appear out in front of the truck, coming fast from nowhere, then two jets thundered overhead. He couldn’t really see them, but the force of their exhausts shook the little Toyota like a puppy with a chew toy. He ordered the driver to park and turn off the lights, and when the Toyota halted he stepped out and looked back to watch the light show. No drones this time. Those were big boys. Well, that ain’t fair, he thought.

  27

  GIRDIWAL, AFGHANISTAN

  KYLE SWANSON BROKE INTO a gallop when the two boys scuttled into the hotel, brushing past a knot of people gathered outside in the street, whose attention had been drawn to the new attack on the airfield. Panic had gripped them, because the old warlord Mahfouz al-Rashidi and all his sons were dead, and his replacement hadn’t yet asserted control. They were without leadership among their own people, but they knew that the Prince was still around. Surely this esteemed man would stop the assault. The poppy fields were burning from rocket strikes. The airfield was being pulverized.

  The young Lions swung into a second-floor hallway as Swanson bounded up the stairs at their heels and heard them pounding on a door, calling out, “My prince! My prince!” Just as a five-hundred-pounder exploded on the approach road between the village and the air terminals, Swanson knocked them aside and kicked in the door. The boys were in shock. It was the same man who had captured them earlier and then released them. They rolled onto their bellies, then got up and headed back down the stairs.

  The cheap lock tore from the frame under the force from Swanson’s boot, and the door flew open and banged against the wall as he charged in with his AK-47 extended, sweeping the two small rooms, left to right, eyes following the barrel. A little cheap furniture and an empty bed, so he looked for possible hiding place as hell broke loose in the Wakham Corridor. Gibson had been there but was now gone.

  Keeping his finger on the trigger, Swanson pointed the Kalashnikov down along his side and leaned wearily against a wall. His head pounded, his neck ached, arrows of pain crept through his back. It was delicious to rest for a moment, but there was no time for that, so he forced himself to retreat. The boys might come upon a little bravery and raise the alarm if he stayed, and, with Gibson once again on the move, there was no point in hanging around. He made his way easily through the frightened crowd, didn’t see the kids, and walked back to the waiting truck. “Let’s get out of here,” he told Thompson, and the big commando put the vehicle in gear, made a U-turn, and took the road back toward the old, destroyed house. They could call for the extract helicopter from there.

  * * *

  THINGS WERE SLIDING SIDEWAYS and Gibson’s choices were narrowing. Where was Swanson? Were the strikes at the airfield a limited response, or was Washington going to throw more stuff into this nothing place? The people back in town would be looking for him, but he had no answers for them. Every minute that passed brought him that much closer to dawn, which would cost him the cover of darkness. It was time to get out of Dodge.

  The small truck careered down the road away from the safe house, and he told the driver to get back on the side track to the lair of his Huey helicopter. He would just have to give Swanson a pass on this one; live to fight another day. The game wasn’t over. It had just gotten more unpredictable and interesting. Gibson didn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on what had gone wrong, or how. Safety first, and gather the pieces later.

  Another truck was on the road, coming from town. Gibson used a night-vision monocular to get a better look, and the image changed from a dark shadow to a mounted machinegun with a man on it. Had to be Taliban, running around with no plan, looking to shoot down a chopper or just unleash ribbons of bright tracers toward the sounds of the passing planes, which were long gone. He didn’t need the Taliban tonight, and didn’t want them to know his destination, so he told his own driver to keep moving.

  When the vehicles were side by side, heading in opposite directions, Luke Gibson locked eyes with Kyle Swanson in the opposite truck, and they were both momentarily stunned. Gibson pounded his driver on the shoulder and yelled, “GO! GO! GO!” The Afghan driver stomped the accelerator.

  “It’s him!” roared Swanson, bracing against the dash as he turned in his seat. “Gibson is in that truck!”

  Thompson slammed the brakes hard and twisted the steering wheel sharply to the left, sending the vehicle into a hard skid. In back, Brandt hadn’t expected the sharp change of direction and was almost thrown overboard by the centrifugal force, saved only by his handhold on the .50-cal. Swanson was jammed against the door, and the truck stopped abruptly when the drift was done. The engine stalled and died.

  * * *

  Gibson stared back at the little truck Swanson was in, bewildered to discover that the man was not only still alive but apparently also had help. Whether they were Delta, SEALs, or CIA did not matter. Their very presence decided the issue. His original plan of hunting down Kyle Swanson, all by himself in a war zone, was in tatters.

  They were approaching the intersection at which the diagonal road from the chopper’s cave intersected with the main road. “Slow down, my friend,” Gibson said with an easy grin to buoy the man’s confidence. “Do not use the brakes, just slow down enough for me to jump out. I will go up the road on foot, while you go back into Girdiwal as fast as you can to bring back help.”

  “Yes, my prince,” the driver replied, and removed his sandaled foot from the accelerator to let the truck coast. Gibson waited a few seconds, picked a landing spot, and rolled out, his arms cradling his long gun. The grit scraped him like sandpaper as he bounced into the scree
before coming to a stop on his back, chewing dirt and rocks. When he looked up, the truck was just a tiny shape, although he could hear the engine straining with effort.

  Turning around, he could hear the second truck cough back to life. Swanson was coming, and would be at this spot in less than thirty seconds. Gibson got to his feet, wiped his face, and trotted up the diagonal road, hugging the side and crouching in the inky dark when the Toyota went tearing past. All three men in it were looking straight ahead for their target.

  * * *

  “OPEN FIRE IF HE’S in range,” Swanson yelled up to Brandt, who was hunched behind the powerful automatic mounted in the truck bed.

  “I don’t see him! I don’t see him!” Brandt called back. There was a faint dust cloud in the distance, but the target truck was on the other side, invisible.

  They drove onward, but it was too late. “Stop,” Swanson said about a minute later. “He’ll make it to the town before we can overtake him, and we can’t go back in there again.”

  Ingmar slowed and pulled to the side. Sweating heavily, he crossed his hands on the steering wheel and leaned forward to take a few deep breaths. His face remained impassive, but his forearms were burning: the strain of driving, staying on the road and not ending up in a tangled heap. “So now what?”

  “Let’s call in the birds and get the hell out of here,” suggested Brandt, who had hopped down out of the bed and was leaning in the window.

  Swanson slid out of the seat and walked around, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want to give up on him.”

  “As usual, we don’t know where he is,” Brandt retorted, his voice hardening. “We barely even know where we are! Let me call the Blackhawks, Kyle. Don’t make this a personal thing with this asshole. Stay professional. Luke Gibson is just another fugitive now, and every cop on the globe is going to be looking for him. He’ll turn up sooner or later.”

  “Bruce is right,” said Thompson, still breathing hard. “Luke can’t stay here in Girdiwal, because the Afghan Army will be searching it within a few hours. There are mountains all around, and we own the skies. Roadblocks will be strung out on every goat path. Cops everywhere will be looking for him, and the agency won’t rest until he’s bagged. Let’s go home, pal.”

  Swanson understood the logic. Everything they said was true. But giving up the hunt when he had the momentum grated on him; he wanted not only to be in on the Gibson kill but to be the man who nailed him. He tossed off the itchy pakol cap and ran his fingers along his scalp. “Yeah, you’re right. He made me look bad, and I hate that.”

  “Chill, bro,” said Brandt. “He made the entire intelligence community of the United States look bad. We’ll get him next time. Right now, I want to get you out of harm’s way for a thorough debriefing back at Langley. That’s the best chance of beating Luke. Now that we know he’s an outlaw, we’ll sic all the dogs on him.”

  With a deep sigh, Swanson gave in and turned toward the flaring sky above the airport. The bombing and strafing had stopped, leaving behind a field of embers. “Okay, let’s get on up to the airport and have the extract birds meet us there. I’ve got an idea.”

  “Of course you do,” Brandt chided.

  * * *

  GIBSON WAS ALMOST THERE, grinding along the uphill path with his heart beating fast and his breath hot and ragged, when he heard the sound. He stopped to listen more closely and catch his breath, thinking at first that it might be Swanson and his guys coming up behind him. But it wasn’t a four-cylinder Toyota engine; it was a multiengine heavy turboprop approaching from the east.

  The plane wasn’t at all stealthy, because a brute that large didn’t have to be quiet. There were probably escorts in the sky above and in front of it, looking down for possible threats, and the crew was highly trained in flying at night and in mountainous terrain. They were unafraid, and snapped on the blindingly bright landing lights that made Gibson feel that the lowering aircraft was heading straight for his nose. It passed overhead at about six hundred feet, and Gibson saw shapes falling from it in a long trail that blossomed into strings of paratroops dangling beneath canopies.

  Tilt Foster’s heart was pounding a tattoo in his chest, and his belly clinched when he stepped through the door and into the Afghan night to be greeted first by the shock of wind blowing sideways and again by the jolt when the rip cord pulled out the chute. He grabbed the toggles and looked around, seeing no one else, although he was surrounded by Rangers. It was impossible to relax when he knew the ground was down there somewhere, rushing up to crunch him like a peanut.

  Luke Gibson sprinted with what little energy he had left in the tank. Then he saw the opening in the hillside, where his pilot, Pavel Gagarin, was already running the checklist and his assistant, Ivan Nagurski, was aboard the little tractor that had pulled the Huey out to the flat pad. The Russians knew their jobs well, and had gotten the old helicopter ready without being given final instruction. By the time Gibson gasped to the pad, Nagurski had disconnected external support and jumped into the co-pilot’s seat to help Gagarin set the buttons and the dials. Gibson jumped in through the open door, strapped into a canvas seat, and fitted an intercom headset over his ears.

  “Where should we go?” asked Gagarin. The long rotor blades slowly began to move as the engine whined in sympathy with the effort of gears to chop the air.

  “Stay low and head north for a few valleys, then land at that abandoned geological survey station for a little while. Ivan, you pull that chart that will get us to the easternmost end of the Wakham Corridor. We’re heading for China.”

  Gibson recognized that one planeload of airborne troops wasn’t enough for a meaningful battle. They would have light machineguns and little mortars, good for securing a tiny place like the scoured airfield, but heavier stuff and more troops were needed to undertake any serious offensive action. That meant more troops and equipment were on the way, probably aboard helicopters and overland by trucks. The timetable for the raid had obviously been put together in a hurry, which guaranteed that things would stop running like clockwork as more people and machines became involved. A chopper might crash, a fight might actually break out, someone might misunderstand an order. The troops would hardly look up at the sound of another helicopter. And the electronic world on the surveillance plane high above was about to get very tangled, as radar blips would be flowing every which way, exiting and entering the area. That was all Gibson needed to get lost in the traffic.

  * * *

  THE SNIPERS SLID IN some rubble and covered themselves as the Rangers toppled from the sky and drifted down to the plateau. They didn’t want to exit from cover until the soldiers had some time to get organized. Popping up out of nowhere in the landing zone of a bunch of heavily armed paratroopers was a good way to draw a lot of gunfire, even if they were expected.

  The soldiers dropped their heavy harnesses, and their sergeants collected small groups and organized defensive points around the heart of the field. A team of specialists got the radios going and a command post was soon up and running, with aerials marking the spot. Medics set up an aid station nearby, and a few soldiers hobbled over, or were helped, from drop-related injuries. For a moment there was absolute quiet, and the Rangers offered silent thanks for the cold landing, then hunched over their weapons, ready for anything.

  The two Cobra gunships dashed overhead with floodlights nosing into the surrounding area, and then came the extraction Blackhawk and it’s twin backup, settling down at one end of the slowly expanding LZ, but inside the perimeter. Bruce Brandt raised the pilot on his own frequency, and the chopper relayed the call to the CP.

  An officer and a sergeant emerged from the command center, looked around, then called out for the men near the choppers to hold their fire because three friendlies were coming in. The crew chief of the lead helicopter joined them.

  Actually, the snipers were already inside the perimeter, which had surged past their hide without detecting them. Swanson, Thompson, and Brandt stood s
lowly, hands in the air, mysterious and shadowy figures who weren’t there one moment and, the next, they were. Swanson hailed, “Friendlies coming in.”

  The officer stepped forward. “Captain Sanchez, Company B, Third Ranger Battalion,” he said, extending a hand.

  “Good to see you, sir,” said Swanson. No names were given, or expected, from the operators.

  “You boys been having a good time?”

  “Best day of my life,” Thompson answered.

  “Well, much as I’d like to hear about it we’ve got no time for chitchat. Let’s hustle you all out of here. Lot of material and troops on the way to this little spot of dirt. We’ll be moving into the village at daybreak.”

  “You know to keep a lookout for our missing target?” Swanson asked.

  “Fully briefed, sir,” said Sanchez. “Luke Gibson is dead meat.”

  “Right, then. We’re out of here.” Swanson turned to the helmeted crew chief. “Lead on.”

  “Back to the world. Warm bed, hot chow,” said Brandt, moving toward the waiting Blackhawk.

  “Beer,” said Thompson, and they walked away, back into secrecy.

  28

  NEW YORK

  MIDNIGHT

  THE WELL-COIFFED NETWORK ANCHORWOMAN in a blazing red dress did the intro. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, the cable network churned out news and opinion, so there was always an anchorwoman, or an equally charming anchorman, to read the teleprompters mounted on the studio camera they faced. To be an anchor at any hour was considered a major achievement for a television news reader, and somebody was always in the makeup room backstage, preparing for the next hour.

  “We have a major story developing in Afghanistan right now involving American soldiers,” said Jennifer Holland. “A single pool reporter was allowed to accompany the troop movement. We switch now to John Foster, the embedded correspondent, who is on the ground in the town of Girdiwal.” She blinked her eyes once. “John, what can you tell us?”