In the Crosshairs: A Sniper Novel

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  “Hello, Jennifer.” Tilt Foster looked weary and sweaty as he did his fourth interview in an hour. “Elements of the U.S. Rangers parachuted into an airstrip in northeast Afghanistan early this morning. Let me emphasize that I am reporting with the full knowledge and permission of the Pentagon, so we are not endangering our troops. In fact, an Army communications team is my camera and sound crew.

  “The attack here came as a total surprise to almost everyone, including me, because I wasn’t briefed until we were airborne.” Some of the pictures he had taken while flying rolled onto the screen: young men weighted down with weapons, chute packs, and other gear were seated inside the plane in two long rows, and had waved for the folks back home.

  “The mission was to secure the airfield just outside the town of Girdiwal, which has become a crossroad in the international drug trade. From where I stand, I can see scorched fields of opium poppies that were a major source of the heroin and opioids that challenge all countries.” Pictures came of daylight breaking over flat fields and sheer mountains, and of dim rooftops below.

  Foster took a breath, counting the ticks of the clock in his head. On TV, time was money. “As most people now know because of recent developments in Washington, the CIA was accused of running drugs out of this place. The CIA has denied that charge, and I’ve seen no evidence here to substantiate that accusation.” A pause to toss the ball back to the anchor. “Jennifer?”

  The studio director told her through an earpiece to go another fifteen seconds. The video was good, and he didn’t want to have to wait in line for another hour or two before getting another report from this guy half a world away.

  “John, was the mission a success?”

  “Let’s ask one of the men in charge. This is Captain Jim Sanchez. Captain, the question is whether the mission was a success.”

  The handsome, equitable, calm face of Sanchez came on camera, a war paint work of camouflage oils. His hair was high and tight. “It most certainly was, Tilt. It was a multiforce, multinational operation, and the Air Force and the Army and the Marines obliterated most of the opposition before we even arrived. After a few minor skirmishes, we took absolute control with minimal casualties, just a couple of broken legs. Very little collateral damage, since the town was asleep when we hit the airport. Now the Afghan Army is rolling in to secure the village.”

  “Did you find any evidence of a CIA drug-running operation, Captain?” Fostert asked.

  Sanchez kept his pleasant demeanor and shook his head. “Nope. Nobody here but us chickens.”

  Tilt didn’t mention the three men he had watched get on the Blackhawk and disappear. It was obvious they were spooks. Enough of a scoop is enough, and he didn’t want to burn the bridge of letting the CIA owe him a favor. Delta boys knew when to call in favors, and when to shut the hell up. “Thanks, Captain Sanchez.” Camera back on Foster. “Jennifer.”

  “John.” She maintained a serious face, and the dark eyes bored into the big lens. “We’ll be right back with an exclusive story about a sixth grader in Ohio who has an amazing memory.”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  MIDNIGHT

  CONGRESSWOMAN KEENAN WAS SERIOUSLY considering getting drunk. Her big exposé of the CIA had boomeranged and smacked her right in the head. It was all over the news. The Leadership wanted to see her first thing in the morning, although she didn’t want to see them. She didn’t particularly want to see anyone, except maybe that Prince character who had opened this can of worms. Her staff had all left with their tails between their legs. They were probably in the pubs of Georgetown and around the Hill, spreading gossip and looking for new jobs, since her ship was going to sink at the end of her term. She took a bottle of Chardonnay from the sideboard and poured a glass so full that it almost brimmed over. She was bending over, sipping away the excess, when the ringtone of her private cell phone broke the silence: ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.”

  She carefully picked up the glass, took a sip, and noticed that the caller ID was blocked. “Hello,” she said, impatient. Victoria Keenan hated all anonymous callers, who usually only bombarded her with long strings of profanity.

  “It’s Mr. Prince, Congresswoman.” The voice sounded faint and far away.

  “How did you get this number?” She spat the question as anger rose inside her. She toed her way out of her heels and sat at her desk.

  “We’ll make this short.” His voice seemed normal, in total control of himself. “How are you holding up?”

  “Everything has fallen apart and you dare ask me that? I’m going to be skewered, thanks to your lies. You can be sure that I will cooperate fully with the authorities to prosecute you.”

  He laughed. “Don’t be too quick to judge, Congresswoman. I know what happened at Girdiwal, because I was there. Don’t believe the press reports. That’s just the government covering its ass.”

  “You were there? How?” She placed the glass on a piece of paper so as not to leave a wet ring on the wood.

  “Never mind. Your next move is to point out that the raid was nothing more than misdirection. It confirmed that Girdiwal was a drug highway, but that’s all. They’re dodging the question of the agency being a cult of covert corruption that has run amok.”

  Keenan sucked in a sharp breath. “That Kyle Swanson guy isn’t a rogue, as you said. I just watched on-the-spot reporting that there was no sign of CIA involvement over there.”

  “That’s why I called, ma’am. Don’t be so sure about Swanson being in the clear. Keep the pressure on him. His partner, Luke Gibson, has also turned out to be a rotten apple.”

  Keenan was hoping for a rope of help, but instead she was getting more cloak-and-dagger stuff that couldn’t be proved. “That’s not enough. They’re going to crucify me,” she said with a slight moan.

  The man’s voice was lower, more confidential and soothing. “No, they’re not, Vicky. May I call you that? When you have them all going on record as saying nothing happened, you can drop the anvil. Have them look into the outgoing traffic at Girdiwal immediately after the raid. A Blackhawk helicopter extracted a three-man CIA team—Swanson and two others. They had killed several Afghans, so deal that card when they brag about no collateral damage.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I was there, Vicky. I saw them leave. U.S. troops were already on the ground and helped them.”

  “Okay,” she said. “That’s good.”

  “Then play your ace. Shortly after that Blackhawk departed, another helicopter belonging to the CIA took off and headed east.”

  A gulp of wine. “You saw that one, too?”

  “No doubt about it. Hang tough on this, Vicky. You’re the hero in this drama, not them. I’ll contact you again later.” The call terminated.

  Keenan poured another glass, and her mood was entirely different. She could go home and sleep tonight, because she had the mother of all whistle-blowers in her pocket.

  KAISERSLAUTEN, GERMANY

  ANOTHER TAKEOFF, ANOTHER LANDING. Kyle Swanson felt like a piece of lost luggage, being shuttled around until it arrived wherever it was supposed to be. He had gotten aboard the helo at Girdiwal and had immediately huddled with the waiting medic, Thompson, and Brandt. Then he gave out.

  “I’ve got a bad one back here,” the medic said on the Blackhawk internal intercom system. With sharp scissors and help from the other two men, Swanson was stripped to his skivvies by the time the bird was flying. Stethoscope, blood pressure, oxygenation, temperature, light in the eyes—a full airborne quickie physical. The crew chief unfolded a silvery blanket for the patient. The medic noted the conditions and had the pilot raise a doctor. The word came back to hydrate the patient, keep him warm, administer a strong sedative, and put on a stiff cervical collar to help immobilize the neck and spine.

  Swanson relaxed through it all, and when the needle poked into a blue vein, the first drops put him out like a light.

  The rest of the long trip was a bounding dream, things happening t
o him just below the surface of consciousness—being strapped down, hearing muted conversation, being placed on rolling litters, given a more thorough examination at a base aid station, then swaddled up again and locked into a bed aboard a Gulfstream executive jet belonging to the CIA. Brandt and Thompson rode with him, keeping him apart from everyone other than the original medic. The new assignment was to protect him and keep him from talking to anybody until they reached the CIA station in Germany. He made the trip in a pleasant twilight zone.

  When he was allowed to surface again, Marguerite del Coda was at the foot of his bed, which itself was a haven of white cotton sheets and warm blankets with cool air-conditioning. She was watching him curiously. He flopped a hand in druggy recognition. “’Lo, Marjrit…”

  “Hey, your own self, Kyle,” she said. The voice was pleasant, but cool with a touch of worry.

  “Luke?” Breathing came hard. Splitting headache. “Catch Luke?”

  “No, but we’ll talk about that later. He played us all for fools and we were really worried that he’d have you trapped in Afghanistan.” She squeezed his big toe hard. He flinched. She smiled. “You’ve been unconscious since they brought you in yesterday, so they want you to have some rest and recovery. You did a great job out there, Kyle.”

  “Bruce and … Ingmar?”

  “Already debriefed and gone. They told me about your idea, but I have my doubts. I’ll try is all I can say. Meanwhile, you’re being sent over to the Landstuhl medical center. An interrogation team flies in from the Death Star to dig around about what happened. After that … we just have to wait and see. Kyle, I don’t know if what you want to do is possible. It could do serious harm.”

  “Try.” His voice was hoarse in a raspy throat. Swanson balked for a moment about the briefers. They would be building a book on Luke Gibson and kicking over a lot of stones hat had never been exposed. He didn’t like the exertion that would be required to answer their questions, but he would just have to endure. He closed his eyes and breathed evenly. He couldn’t move his head. Opening his eyes again, it seemed as if he were looking through the face guard of a football helmet. Tried to reach, but his wrist was lashed.

  “Okay.” She gave another squeeze and studied the darkening bruises that covered most of his face and arms, and the tubes feeding in the meds. A bad cut on the back of his head required stitches, and the helicopter medic reported that while checking for a possible concussion he had discovered a possible skull fracture and spinal trauma. She wondered if Swanson had finally pushed himself beyond his limits. He was now headed for X-rays and CAT scans.

  She stepped away and two nurses swept into his room, while two others pushed in a gurney. They read the charts and machine screens, and one punched the morphine feed. Swanson’s eyelids closed and he was gone, heading down deep to where the nightmares lurked, fully anticipating another spitting match with the Boatman.

  Instead, he found himself feeling comfortable on a wharf that he recognized, a pier of heavy pilings extending from a concrete walkway. Somewhere on the Massachusetts north coast. Lobster boats canopied with nets bobbed at anchor, and frilly ice floes decorated the small, restless waves. A figure stood waiting for him, but it wasn’t the dreaded Boatman. It was a small blond woman in a thick white wool sweater with a rolled collar and tight jeans tucked into black leather boots. Coastie? When she turned, the smile on her face lit the sky with gold. In the dream, he walked toward her, she reached out her hand to grab his, and they fell together in an embrace that he never wanted to end.

  HONG KONG

  LUKE GIBSON HAD FOLLOWED the Chemin du Roy, the King’s Highway—the old family footsteps—from the Chinese border with Afghanistan all the way to the best watering hole in Asia, the Hong Kong Foreign Correspondent’s Club. It was an area where friendships required generational ties, and his tribe had been passing through Honkers since long before it ceased to be a British colony. They knew people.

  He had made his way by helicopter, automobiles, small planes, junks, and powerboats. Once the border guards entered his cover name and code into the system, he was vouched for by intelligence officers in Beijing; the way was cleared to the family’s privately owned flat on the thirteenth floor of an apartment building on Cloud View Road. The harbor below had a bronze look in the setting sun and was crowded with ocean-tough freighters, some warships, and the reliable old Star Ferries that still churned from the island over to the Kowloon side, packed with people, despite the highway bridge. The flat was almost an heirloom, and he felt the presence of his forefathers there, all the way back to the Brits, and was almost sorry he had murdered one of them. It was kept clean by an amah, who had telephoned ten minutes after he arrived offering to cook dinner. He smiled. Talk about networks. He hadn’t been in town for almost a year, and the amah was already on the job. He declined.

  The noise of the city roared up the heights—car motors and yells, and the eternal slapping of mah-jongg tiles. Furniture from all over the Orient had been collected here and tastefully arranged in strong, dark patterns and curves. Gibson pushed back a thick bamboo chair and used a knife to pry up a square of parquet floor: two pistols, Canadian passport, press badges, credit card and cash in various currencies. He removed the new identity, some money, left the guns, covered the square again.

  After a shower in the master bedroom, he pulled a tailored gray suit from the closet. The amah kept his wardrobe fresh. A generous absentee foreign landlord was a gift for the whole family, and was pampered, no matter the nationality. After all, Hong Kong was about money.

  A taxi ride down to Central and he found Detective Inspector Susannah Lai waiting at the Great Bar. The FCC had always adapted with the times, and since the Vietnam years, when it had been a playground for rowdy war correspondents, it had slewed back into the grasp of the Old China Hands, the diplomats and public-relations and businesspeople—a two-way mirror into and out of Communist China.

  Lai waved him over, and he gave her a light kiss on the proffered cheek. “Long time no see, Luke. You have been a naughty boy.” She was elegant in her mid-forties, with shining hair and a figure that demonstrated that she exercised daily. Dainty and dangerous, Lai was an agent of the Beijing government’s intelligence service, with a detective’s badge in Hong Kong.

  “Great to be back, Susannah.” A pair of cold gin and tonics appeared before them, and he toasted her. “We must fight malaria every day.”

  She signaled a waiter and they went upstairs to a quiet table in the corner, windows on two sides and the Bank of China hulking like a giant among the business buildings. Lai ordered a salad, and Gibson chose a chicken curry.

  “I can give you seventy-two hours on the island, Luke.” Her hands folded on the table. “You are radioactive-hot, my friend.”

  “Works for me. Many thanks for expediting the trip from Afghanistan.”

  “No problem. That’s a big public-relations black eye for Washington, so we’re glad to help. I can offer to move you deeper into China, even Beijing or Shanghai for a while, until they lose interest.”

  Gibson drained his glass and ordered another. “Thanks. The CIA may lose interest in me, but I still have unfinished business with them. So I must decline, although I appreciate your having my back.”

  She smiled. “My help is not free, you know.”

  Gibson was ready. He took a flash drive from his shirt pocket and put it beneath the folded linen napkin. “This is a proposed merger deal between two major software companies in Silicon Valley. Completion would open the way for advancement in military laser technology—specifically, airborne weaponry. You may want to wreck that partnership. I understand that not all the board members on either side are happy, because they don’t want to share that Pentagon pie.”

  Lai drew the napkin toward her and dropped the thumb-size memory bank into her designer purse. “Good. Anything else you need from us?”

  “Get me on a cargo plane full of toys, or some such, heading for Canada.”

  “S
ure. But why Canada? What’s in Canada?” she asked.

  “Safety,” he said. “Moose and safety.”

  29

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  WHAT PRICE SUCCESS? MARTY Atkins pondered that question at his desk. Back when he was a young man, he considered the world to be his oyster. By going to work for the Central Intelligence Agency, he believed that he could do anything: be stronger than a locomotive, or fly across entire continents in a single bound. He was in line to eventually become director of the entire agency. That was now probably out the window. Superman was a make-believe cartoon, and Atkins lived in the real world, which was why he’d been mentally drafting a letter of resignation. Before this was all over, somebody at the CIA was going to have to fall on his or her sword. He was the likely scapegoat.

  The quick and hard military attack to secure the drug town of Girdiwal in Afghanistan had worked with precise efficiency. The world saw the results on television. The CIA proved it had nothing to hide and wasn’t running a Middle East drug bazaar.

  So why was that pesky congresswoman from Nebraska hanging so tough with her accusations? Perhaps the agency wasn’t out of the woods of public opinion yet.

  Added to that public relations problem was the loss of two of his best operatives. Luke Gibson was a total asshole of a traitor who had fooled them for years and was still on the loose. God alone knew what damage he’d done, what secrets he’d compromised, how many lives he’d cost. Atkins already had an internal investigation under way.

  Kyle Swanson, the indestructible sniper, was immobile in traction, shut off from his own senses in an induced coma at the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center outside Ramstein Air Base in Germany. His condition was listed as critical, with a seriously injured neck.

  “How soon can he be evacuated?” asked Willa Kent, one of the interrogation specialists on the internal investigation team. She was a quiet, unthreatening brunette who had earned her psychology degree at Purdue and developed her interviewing chops down in Guantánamo.