In the Crosshairs: A Sniper Novel

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  One of the sailors pointed and yelled, “Is not true! He lies!”

  “Get down the ladder and into our boat, Mr. McCabe,” the officer said. He didn’t know why, but something about the name Cabot rang a bell. Something about history that commanded respect. “You guys back off.”

  Gibson scrambled from the deck into the customs officers’ patrol boat, turned, and shot a middle-finger salute to the milling Russians, then winked.

  LANDSTUHL REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER

  GERMANY

  WILLA KENT AND TOM Hughes had a couple of problems arranging the transatlantic flight to Germany. The CIA travel office, generally very efficient, had hit a couple of snags, blaming weather on the other end, computer glitches, and housing. Finally, things came together three days after their meeting with Marty Atkins, the director of intelligence. Neither considered it a big deal, since the patient was still in a coma.

  The personable regional agent in charge, Marguerite del Coda, met their plane at Ramstein Air Base and took them to a nice hotel to rest up after the long flight. They graciously accepted the offer, then she took them out to dinner.

  The following morning, they went to see the patient and knew the trip had been wasted. Kyle Swanson lay in a chilly private room, unconscious beneath light-blue cotton sheets. His head, neck, and upper body were encased in a halo vest—a metal ring that encircled the head and was held in place by screws into the skull. His skin was sallow and slack.

  “My God,” whispered Kent upon entering the room. Del Coda introduced an older man and woman, the parents of the patient, and the CIA agents offered their heartfelt sympathies. An Englishman in a tailored suit, eyeglasses dangling from his neck, was at the bedside, checking Swanson’s pulse. His name was Sir Patrick Whyte, and he was now Kyle Swanson’s private physician of record.

  Del Coda took Sir Jeff and Lady Pat over to the cafeteria for some food and to give the professionals some time alone with the doctor and his patient.

  “Can he hear us?” asked Hughes.

  “Very doubtful. He’s been heavily sedated for almost a week.”

  “What’s your diagnosis, Dr. Whyte?” Kent moved around the bed and felt Swanson’s cold hand. This guy is dying.

  Whyte slapped a couple of X-rays on the light board. Hughes moved close to study it as the British surgeon walked them through the injury. Things were worse than originally thought, he told them. He pointed to the crushed skull at the neck, and the angled bends of the upper vertebrae.

  “Imagine a terrific whiplash effect from the trauma inflicted at that exact spot. The brain bounced around like a rubber ball in the skull, then, instead of being immobilized, he made things worse by carrying on with an arduous mission. You see, right there—that’s the only slice of bone connecting the spine to the skull. If that gives way, he’ll be paralyzed.”

  Hughes found no fault with that conclusion. Neither did Kent. The pictures proved it. “What happens now?” she asked.

  “There is nothing more to be done here in Germany, so at the request of his parents I’m having him transferred to my private clinic in London. We’ll try a single level anterior cervical fusion for the disk herniation in a few weeks to stabilize the spinal injury.” The Englishman spoke with authority.

  “So there’s no chance of interviewing him until after that?”

  The surgeon lowered his voice. “Quite frankly, I’m not certain he’ll make it that far. We’ll see where we are in two weeks.”

  “Damn bad luck,” Hughes said. “Kyle Swanson was quite the warrior.”

  “Yes. I will do everything possible for him.” Dr. Whyte took down the X-rays and put them in a thick folder, along with the medical history he’d prepared. “Everything you need is in there.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Whyte. Good luck.” Hughes led the way out of the room, and they were scooped up by del Coda and put back on a plane to Washington. On the flight, Kent went through the folder. “I know Whyte’s reputation, Willa. He is one of the best in the business, and I have the same conclusion. Kyle’s out of the game,” she declared. “He’ll never see another day of active duty.”

  Kent ordered a Bloody Mary. “You mean if he lives.”

  ASTORIA, OREGON

  THE MAN KNOWN TO the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers as Daniel Cabot McCabe was taken to the CMH Urgent Care on Exchange Street. They made him take a shower to wash away the fish stink, then put him in a powder-blue set of scrubs and got him on an examination table.

  He was in better spirits once he was off the ship, and vowed that his report would probably force the boat out of service when it returned to Russia. He carried on about international-fishing laws and compacts and standards even as the ICE officer questioned him about the rough treatment. Assault on the high seas would be almost impossible to prove, he said. McCabe agreed. “Don’t worry. I’ll put it all in the reports,” he said.

  The officer whistled as the doctor fluttered about. With McCabe’s shirt off, the bruising around the ribs was clear, as was a big one across the kidneys, and a yellowing stripe down one shin.

  “They did a job on you, Mr. McCabe. You ought to go to a hospital,” the doctor said, and the ICE agent, a friendly guy named Jack Myers, agreed.

  Gibson refused. “No broken bones except the nose, and nothing to do for the ribs. They were careful with the violence, attempting to scare me off, which they did very well. I’m not even pissing blood.” He winced when the doctor reset his nose, then gave him some antibiotics before reluctantly pronouncing him fit to leave. “Keep the scrubs,” he said.

  “Burn my other clothes.”

  “I guarantee that has already been done.”

  He had retrieved his notebooks, tablet, and cell phone, wallet and identity papers. “Can you recommend a place where I can rest up for a couple of days?”

  “I’ll run you over to the Hampden Inn and Suites. Pretty nice hotel,” Myers said.

  “Let’s go,” Gibson replied, stepping gingerly into the paper hospital slippers. “I can order some new clothes from there. Thanks, Doctor. I appreciate it.”

  “You’ll be fine. Just take things easy.”

  “What are you going to do next, Mr. McCabe?” the ICE man asked as they left the urgent-care facility.

  Gibson pulled out his wallet and showed the lawman the small, credit-card size laminated U.S. passport that was good for crossing all borders in North America. “I’m still on the government dime, Jack, just like you. The taxpayer is going to replace my stuff with better stuff, including new fishing tackle. Then I plan to rent a car and fish my way across Canada to the East Coast, thinking up really horrible things to say about that goddamn boat.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Myers said, laughing. “Safe journey. Meanwhile, my boss says we’re going to take a special interest with that boat before letting it into our ports. It will take quite a bit of time and it will be a real shame if those tons of pollock rot in the holds because some forms weren’t filled out properly.”

  ABOARD THE VAGABOND

  SIR GEOFFREY CORNWELL WAS pleased with the newest version of his yacht, the Vagabond. It was bigger, brighter, and had far more toys than its illustrious predecessors, which had been world-class in their day. What really stood out about the gleaming vessel was its odd shape and pointed edges, closer to the U.S. Navy’s Zumwalt-class stealth destroyer than to a potentate’s plaything, more of a fighter than a lover.

  The Vagabond had been a joint operation of Cornwell’s Excalibur Enterprises and the American and Royal navies, with invisible funding siphoned through the Pentagon and the Ministry of Defense. Just as the CIA had its own air arm, the intelligence services occasionally needed secret help at sea. The hull was laid down by the warship builder Vospert Thornycroft at Southampton as the lead yard, then Brooks Marin, in Lowenstaft, installed the military-grade material, and a succession of other yards finished making it look like a white-and-gold luxury vessel ready for the blue water. It stretched almost 512 f
eet in length and was 77 feet wide, and its power plant could push the 15,906 gross tons of ship at speeds better than 25 miles per hour. It could handle up to thirty passengers and carried a crew of seventy-five, all of them military veterans with a surprising array of skills.

  A helicopter with the matching Excalibur corporate color scheme hovered above the landing pad and carefully touched down with hardly a quiver. When the blades finally stopped, a medical team emerged, wrangled a gurney through the open hatch, popped down the wheels, and set off for the aid station. Lashed atop the conveyance was Kyle Swanson, still out like a light and wrapped in his steel cage. There was silence on the vessel when the crew members saw him so still and wan.

  Lady Pat and Sir Jeff stepped off the helicopter. They had a beaten air about them.

  Elizabeth Ledford was on the bridge of the Vagabond, held in check by Double-Oh Dawkins to keep her from getting in the way on the helo deck. When Swanson was safely in the aid station, he let her go, and she ran down below until she reached the hatch with the red cross painted on white.

  Lady Pat gave her a hug. “Stand here by me, dear, until Dr. Whyte can get him out of that contraption. It looks a lot worse than it is, which was the purpose.”

  “He’s still unconscious?” Coastie asked.

  “All part of the plan, girl,” Dr. Whyte said as he unfastened the straps. Unnoticed by the CIA interrogation team, the small screws that appeared to secure the halo to the skull actually had been tiny bolts with soft rubber tips that didn’t even penetrate the skin. The steel frame had simply been a misdirection play—as had the horrific X-rays, which Whyte had dug up from a terrible motorcycle accident. With a bit of digital legerdemain, those pictures became X-rays of Kyle Swanson’s head.

  Whyte tossed the cage aside, and the orderlies transferred Swanson to a fresh bed with a new IV drip. The doctor filled a syringe and pumped in a dose of medicine that would allow Swanson to slowly emerge from the back depths to which he had willingly consigned himself. “He’s fine,” Dr. Whyte said. “He’ll be waking up in a few hours and the orderlies can care for him during that twilight time. Now, let’s have some dinner, shall we—Pat, Jeff?”

  Coastie stepped to the bedside and ran her palm along Kyle’s damp forehead, then kissed him on the cheek. “You all go ahead. I’ll just stay here with him for a while.” She took the sniper’s hand in hers and perched on the edge of the bed.

  31

  ABOARD THE VAGABOND

  SWANSON BECAME AWARE IN increments as his mind slowly adjusted to the lessening grip of the chemical sleep. Where nothingness had ruled for days, things now began creeping into his consciousness. Coastie, Lady Pat, Sir Jeff, and Double-Oh were clustered in a loose semicircle as Dr. Whyte brought him up through the final stages. An orderly monitored his vital signs.

  A dreamlet was forming in the patient’s idle brain. He was underwater, coming up from a surfboard spill, held down by the force of churning water and the strong outward rush of a retreating wave. Swanson sat on the drifting sand as the ocean surged all around and through him, looking up like a seabed plant. That was interesting. There was light up there. He watched the bubbles rising from his nose and mouth being drawn automatically to the surface. He decided to follow them. It seemed nicer up there.

  Breathing wasn’t a problem, even beneath the water; he thought this was very odd. He coughed several times. New air replaced the old, and his lungs filled with the fresh taste of life. Sounds filtered in, a cacophony of babel that he couldn’t understand. A powerful light stabbed into his eyes, so sharp that he jerked his head away from it.

  “Waddah,” he moaned as his first word, and a cup was at his chapped lips, giving him a few sips of liquid gold. “Ahhh.”

  “All good,” the orderly told the doctor.

  Swanson heard, but didn’t understand. “Watter?” The cup visited again. His hearing improved and a cold wet cloth wiped gently at his eyes. He was in a room with other people.

  “Kyle?” The man’s voice was an easy baritone. “Kyle, can you hear me? Shake your head if you understand me.”

  “Hear.” He coughed. Sir Jeff and Double-Oh did a fist bump, while Lady Pat and Coastie hugged each other. Coastie took Kyle’s hand again. Dr. Whyte decided that tactile contact was a good thing, and that he could work around her.

  “Very good.” Whyte continued. “You’re waking up from a very deep sleep. You’re safe and in good condition. There’s nothing wrong with you except for a lot of drugs that will work their way out of your system. Do not fight that.”

  “Uh-hunh.”

  “Good. We are aboard the Vagabond. Do you know what that is?”

  “Boat.” Another cough. A bad dream crashed through his head, a deadly and roaring red demon, and he began to thrash, but his arms and feet were still secured to the bed. Coastie jumped away as if shocked by a bolt of electricity. Lady Pat grabbed her as if gentling a spooked pony.

  “You’re okay, Kyle. That was a normal reaction. Relax.” The doctor pursed his lips and nodded to the orderly to let the morphine drip resume. “We’re going to let you rest a little while longer, until you adjust at a slower speed. There’s no hurry. No more nightmares.”

  He faded again, but seemed comfortable, safe, and serene. “I love my Coastie,” he said to himself, bringing his mind to bear on life. But she heard it, and tears came.

  LIVINGSTON, IDAHO

  LUKE GIBSON WAS IN no hurry. Having cleared U.S. Customs through the ruse of shipboard persecution, he was now able to go where he wished, and America was a very big place. Time was his buddy. As long as he didn’t break the law or draw undue attention, he was good.

  Using a Maine credit card provided in Susannah Lai’s packet of goodies—maybe he wouldn’t kill her after all—Gibson rented a well-used pickup truck for a week in his alias of Daniel Cabot McCabe. It had a bold round National Rifle Association sticker on the rear window. At a sporting-goods store, he outfitted himself with a camo cap and jacket and big aviator non-reflecting sunglasses. At Walmart he found underwear, jeans and four shirts, plus toiletries and other items—sneakers, work gloves, a small shovel, a flashlight, and a large backpack. Then he set out to see America on a leisurely cross-country drive aboard his 2010 Dodge Ram V8 with four-wheel drive. East, over to Interstate 5, then south to I-84 and east again into majestic landscapes dominated by national forests and by Mount Hood far to the left. A man in camo cap and shirt, his face shaded by large sunglasses and the tinted window of a pickup truck with a few dings and an NRA sticker was unlikely to draw a second glance from any cop or camera.

  He somehow managed to stay awake for eight more hours and rolled safely into the mirror border towns of Clarkston, Washington, and Lewiston, Idaho. The rush was on him now, sleep tugging but unimportant. Hot coffee and a few uppers were his fuel.

  The smokestacks of the Potlatch and Clearwater Lumber factories regurgitated stinking clouds into the darkening sky as Gibson got his bearings in the Lewis and Clark Valley. He crossed the old drawbridge spanning the Snake River, got to East Main in Lewiston, and headed into the industrial sprawl—a rolling carpet of trash, junk, and scrap in a land with no zoning laws that might prevent a man from doing as he wished with his property

  The tires crackled against the gravel of Shelter Road, and from the gloom he found the ruins of the old Sacred Heart Chapel. Its stones were slimy with moss and lichen, and it was isolated behind a rusty barbed-wire fence and a field of waste and thorns. Instead of being a place of worship, the chapel seemed to be trying to hide.

  Dear old Dad, thought Gibson. The King had recognized value when he saw it, and dilapidated churches had been high on his list of hidey-holes. Local governments were reluctant to condemn them, and the religious community liked having them around. Sacred Heart had survived. Gibson shut down the truck and went in.

  The senses were quick to react. The place stank of urine and feces, piled and rotting for decades. Obscene painted words had obliterated any sign of respect. The pews
and the pulpit were gone, as was the roof, which had let the weather come inside. The place was a lot worse than when his father had discovered it. It was not just dilapidated, it was dead. He showed the light around, dancing it over the slag, and saw nothing. “Hey! Anybody here? Show yourself!” he hollered. Only silence came back.

  Gibson held the shovel like a weapon as he moved toward the back of what had once been the nave. He walked directly to the west wall, then back five paces. One more flash around, and he started to dig. The covering of trash and debris was easy to clear, but he had to pry and pick hard to remove the joined rock of the floor.

  He paused to catch his breath, then dug hard to finish. It was either still there or it wasn’t. The blade struck metal, and Gibson chipped around it, then used his fingers to extract an old metal ammunition box. Originally designed to hold several hundred rounds of .50-caliber ammo, the box had been retooled by King for his own purposes: beneath the pop-top metal lid lay a neat set of interior compartments sealed with wax. The contents were refreshed every ten years, so there was a new usable identification set, two credit cards, a thousand dollars in hundreds, fifties and, twenties, a dull silvered Ruger 9-mm. pistol and fifty clean rounds. He squatted on his boot heels and read the new ID: he was now Craig D. Abrams of Charlotte, North Carolina, a sales rep for an international computer-chip manufacturer. The only problem was that the King’s photo was on it, not that of the Prince. Gibson could alter that easily enough. He thanked his father and his grandfather, too, for having the foresight to install these little emergency caches everywhere they had put a CIA secret stash, which in this church was counted from the west wall. He pocketed the money, loaded the Ruger, and replaced the box, making a mental note to replenish it later.

  With the debris haphazardly stacked back in place, Gibson gave Daniel Cabot McCabe a small, fiery sendoff.