Target America: A Sniper Elite Novel

by Scott McEwen

  Akram shrugged. “What choice will she have? But do not worry. We have discussed it, and she understands her duty.” He sat down to finish his breakfast, bidding his brother to take the chair across from him. “Now, enough doomsaying.”

  Haroun was still frustrated that Kashkin had provided so little information. “He said the American was stalking him, but he was very calm about it, very accepting.”

  “As we should all be at such a time.” Akram tore off a piece of unleavened bread and put it into his mouth. “I have vetted this American. He is a man who does things his own way. This makes him unpredictable and dangerous—as Kashkin has apparently learned—but it also makes him vulnerable.”

  “Our people in Detroit will follow you?”

  “Of course,” Akram said, pushing runny egg yolk around on his plate with a piece of bread.

  The uncertainty was apparent on Haroun’s face. “And you trust that stinking pig mercenary we hired? Duke?”

  Akram shook his head. “I trust his greed. His greed is very reliable.” He chuckled and reached out to muss his brother’s hair. “Relax. It’s taken a long time for us to become established on this continent, but soon the American military will begin to understand with great clarity that the war has finally come to their homeland—that we are now in their rear among their families and supply.”

  “The bomb will teach them that in very certain terms,” Haroun said gravely.

  “Yes, but it’s unfortunate the first bomb was detonated prematurely. We’re going to need another, so be sure to squeeze Faisal for more. Tell him that soon we’re going to need money from his personal account.”

  “Do you already know where to find another weapon?”

  Akram shook his head. “No, but once the second bomb goes off, and our friends abroad see how successful we were, how vulnerable the US really is, doors are going to open. Everyone is always afraid of the largest wolf in the pack—until he stumbles.”

  “And then others fall upon him?”

  “They fall upon him quickly, before he can get back up.”

  30

  LAS VEGAS

  The Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department was somewhat different from other metropolitan police departments in that the LVMPD was a joint city-county police department for both the city of Las Vegas and Clark County, Nevada. The department was not headed by a chief of police appointed by city officials but rather by a sheriff elected by the citizens of Clark County. This meant the LVMPD was not under the direct control of either the city or the county. It was under the direct control of Sheriff Jack Moleska, and Jack Moleska didn’t appreciate being bothered at home during breakfast by a bunch of G-men in dark suits.

  “Exactly who are all you people?” Moleska said, standing on his front porch in his pajamas looking at a veritable crowd of Secret Service agents on his lawn. He was tall, with thinning dark hair and a narrow face.

  “We’re with the Secret Service, Sheriff.”

  “All of you, huh?” Moleska handed back the agent’s identification. “And you say you have some kind of warrant?”

  “Yes, sir.” The agent produced a single-page warrant, offering it to Moleska. “This warrant is issued by the United States Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court in Washington, DC.”

  “Uh-huh.” Moleska took the time to read the entire warrant. It directed him to provide a “secure perimeter” outside the Luxor hotel and casino while “federal agents” entered the hotel for the purposes of taking into custody a “subject wanted for questioning.”

  He looked at the agent. “So who the hell’s the subject?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I haven’t been given that information.”

  “Well, where’s the warrant for him?”

  “I don’t have that information either, sir.”

  Moleska stood looking at the Secret Service man. “So is this an FBI operation? Secret Service? Marshal Service? Ninja Turtles? Who?”

  “There again, Sheriff, I haven’t been made privy to that information.”

  Moleska gestured with the warrant. “Do you serve this kind of warrant often, Agent Rivers? I ask because I’ve never seen anything like it in thirty-five years of law enforcement. With the exception of”—he had to read the letters directly off the warrant—“the USFISC letterhead, this so-called warrant doesn’t actually name anyone at all.”

  “It names you, sir.”

  Moleska narrowed his gaze. “Okay, you listen . . . this is my city. My county. So you go back to wherever you came from, and you tell the federal government that I’m not an idiot. I can read between the lines as well as anyone, and this warrant directs me to stand by and watch what amounts to some kind of federal abduction. Not only will I not be a party to it, but I won’t allow it to take place inside my jurisdiction. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir.” The agent lifted his hand and spoke into his sleeve.

  A few moments later, the back door to one of the government sedans opened up, and a tall, white-haired gentleman came strolling up the concrete drive smiling.

  “Hello, Sheriff,” the man said, offering his hand. “My name is Pope. May we have a word in private?”

  Like most people, Moleska couldn’t help being disarmed by Pope’s boyish smile. “Sure, step inside.”

  He turned and opened the door, allowing Pope to precede him into the house. Moleska shut the door, and the two of them crossed into the living room. “Now, what’s this all about?”

  “Sheriff, I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  Moleska held up the warrant. “That’s why nobody’s mentioned on this piece of paper. The CIA has no authority inside the US.”

  “That’s correct,” Pope said. “Unfortunately, however, there’s a live nuclear weapon loose inside the country, and we’re the agency with the best chance of finding it before it goes off—which we expect to be in about thirty-six hours. That leaves us very little time for following the rules, as I’m sure you can understand. So I tell you this in all candor, Sheriff . . . if you refuse to look the other way on this . . . if you force the book on us . . . our one and only suspect is going to lawyer up and laugh while the clock on a Russian suitcase nuke ticks down to zero.”

  The sheriff lowered his gaze, folding the warrant in half. “Let me get dressed. I’ll be right out.”

  31

  SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA,

  Edwards Air Force Base

  The president stood smoking his pipe on the tarmac at the foot of the stairs below Air Force One. There were a number of troops and Secret Service men about, all of them very alert and focused on the landscape surrounding the plane in the early-morning sunlight. He was very presidential looking in his Air Force One jacket: a man in his midfifties, gray at the temples, with expressive blue eyes and a perpetual tan. Even though he now led the nation from Edwards Air Force Base, located twenty-two miles northeast of Lancaster, California, he slept aboard the blue and white Boeing 747, which was kept ready for takeoff at a moment’s notice. He slept aboard the plane for two reasons: one, the First Lady preferred the Posturepedic mattress aboard the plane to the cheap military mattress in their base quarters, and two, if something catastrophic happened in the middle of the night, requiring a fast getaway, he would already be aboard.

  General Couture had only just learned of the resurrection of SEAL Team VI/Black, and he was less than thrilled by the news. “You are aware, Mr. President, that we’re violating the United States Constitution?”

  “I am, General, but I was thinking about President Truman last night—thinking about his struggle over whether or not to use the atomic bomb against the Japanese. He was troubled by the idea of killing thousands of civilians. But in the end, he did it because he wanted to save American lives. That’s the same way I came to my decision last night, and I have to say it wasn’t that difficult. It’s one man we’re talking about. One�
�s man’s rights. One man’s life against thousands.”

  “And if he doesn’t know anything, Mr. President? If he’s innocent?”

  The president shrugged, turning to rap the spent tobacco from his pipe against the stairway railing. “That’s what presidents are elected for, General, to make the tough calls and to live with the results.”

  Couture conceded the point, knowing that the issue of SEAL Team VI/Black was well out of his hands.

  “Tim Hagen tells me the two of you had something of a disagreement outside the Oval Office the other day.” The president chuckled as he drew a pouch of fresh tobacco from his jacket pocket. “You don’t really care for him, do you?”

  The general straightened his shoulders. “I think he’s a worm, Mr. President; that you could do a great deal better.”

  “He is a worm,” the president said, dipping the pipe into the pouch. “He’s a sycophantic little prick, as a matter of fact, but he’s also the single most intelligent man that I know—present company excluded, of course,” he added with a friendly grin.

  Couture offered the driest of dutiful smiles.

  “What do you think of Bob Pope?” the president said. “I ask because NSA has recently found a mole on his staff. He’s been sleeping with one of his Asian protégés, and she’s been giving information to the Chinese.”

  Couture felt his hackles raise up. “Does Pope know? Is he party to it?”

  The president shook his head. “NSA doesn’t think so. They think he’s allowed love to cloud his judgment, and that he’s trusted her with a higher security clearance than he should have.” He flicked a butane lighter to life, breathing the blue flame into the bowl of the pipe and puffing it to life. “She’s scheduled a flight to Australia for tomorrow night. NSA’s going to wait and arrest her at the airport to keep Pope from knowing.”

  “Mr. President, do you feel certain we can trust Pope with tonight’s operation?”

  “Yes,” the president said. “George Shroyer and Cletus Webb at CIA both believe he’s a solid patriot. That’s good enough for me. Nonetheless, once the bomb is found, whether by Pope’s people or by someone else, he’s out of SOG for good.” The president chortled quietly. “Then I guess we’ll get to see who he’s got files on.”

  Couture hated this aspect of government, resenting most of the civilians he had no choice but to work with. The entire cast reminded him of a bunch of school kids playing out a childish high school drama.

  “I suppose so. Well, Mr. President, I should let you go up to breakfast, sir.”

  “Do you think we’re going to find that nuke, Bill?” The president was looking him dead in the eyes.

  Couture didn’t waste a moment answering. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry, but I think they’ve got us by the balls this time.”

  The president nodded, putting the stem of the pipe between his teeth. “So do I. That’s also part of why I’m prepared to let Pope run with ST6/B. We’ve got nothing to lose.”

  The president, still smoking his pipe, ascended the stairs and stepped onto the plane. Tim Hagen was eating breakfast with a laptop computer sitting off to the side.

  “I’ve got good news,” Hagen said with a smile.

  The president took the pipe from his teeth, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline. “They found it?”

  “Well, no,” Hagen said. “It’s about the latest poll results . . . you’re leading by almost thirty points now, Mr. President.”

  The president narrowed his gaze, allowing Hagen to feel the weight of it before saying, “Tim, I sometimes wonder if you have an ounce of human compassion in your entire body.”

  32

  LAS VEGAS

  “Okay, listen up!” Gil said, taking a seat on the edge of the table. “Tonight we execute the illegal abduction of an American citizen. We will be breaking the law. This means we have zero room for error. Is that understood?”

  Every one of the team members nodded his head, all of them steely eyed and focused.

  “The plan is simple and straightforward. Four of us will enter the Luxor casino. We will be escorted by a CIA plant working as a hotel concierge to Muhammad Faisal’s suite’s elevator, which opens up just outside his door on the twentieth floor. When we arrive, we will blow the door and sweep the room, killing his entire five-man security team. Once Faisal is secured—alive—we will bring him directly back here for interrogation.”

  Crosswhite cleared his throat. “Sorry, but do we plan on shooting our way out of there? Because that casino is wall to wall with security.”

  Gil grinned. “Did I not say, simple?”

  “Yeah, and that doesn’t sound too simple to me. Then again, I’m not a navy man.”

  Gil got up and put out his hand for a cigarette. “The sheriff and the head of casino security have been advised that we have a FISA warrant for this guy—which isn’t exactly true—and they have both agreed to help. So there won’t be any trouble with security on the way in or out, neither with the cops or hotel security.”

  “Who explains the bodies we leave behind?”

  “Can any of you think of a better cover story than to blame it on the bastards who hit us in Benghazi? The State Department’s going to blame Faisal’s abduction on AQAP . . . Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula . . . the sworn enemy of the Saudi royal family.”

  “Wow!” someone said. “Threaten us with a nuke, and our moral ethics go right out the fuckin’ window.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Lying to the Saudis,” the SEAL went on, shaking his head in disappointment. “Tell me it isn’t so.” His name was Clancy, the team prankster.

  Gil drew from the cigarette. “I think you’ll get over it.” He waited a moment for the men to regain their focus before continuing. “We’ll wear shemaghs and carry AK-47s, using hand signals to communicate, jabbering in gutter Arabic to make sure any witnesses we leave behind will corroborate our terrorist cover story.”

  “What about the five million security cameras?”

  “Pope’s hacked into their system. He’s going to make sure nothing is recorded. Once we’ve got Faisal, we stuff his ass in a laundry cart, and the CIA man brings us back down in a service elevator. Then we bring him back here and find out what he knows . . . by whatever means necessary.”

  “And the president knows about all this?” Alpha asked dubiously.

  “Given the briefing I received from Pope, I’m left with that assumption, yes. However, do not forget that every man in this room has a well-documented history of acting against orders. This means we could all be disavowed very easily without the president taking any damage if he chooses to double-cross us. Regardless, once the op jumps off, we’re in it to the last man. Nothing and no one can or will be allowed to prevent us from completing this mission.”

  Tuckerman put up his hand.

  “Yeah, Conman?”

  “I don’t like to be the guy to point out the fly in the honey jar here, but how do we know the target will be in the room when the entry team makes the breach?”

  “Actually, that’s where you come in. Like Pope said, he sprung your ass for a particular reason. It’s going to be your job to make sure Faisal’s in the room.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Pope has secured you a one-million-dollar line of credit with the Luxor casino. He’s also secured you a seat at tonight’s high-stakes poker game. Muhammad Faisal will be at the same table.”

  “No fuckin’ way,” Tuckerman said, laughing with nervous tension as everyone turned to look at him again.

  “The son of a bitch never leaves the hotel these days,” Gil said. “Pope considers that an encouraging sign of his guilt.”

  “Okay, so what am I supposed to do after I whip his ass at poker?”

  “Con your way into his hotel suite and be ready to take his ass to the floor the second we blow the door. If he ge
ts clipped, it’s game over.”

  “Piss,” Tuckerman mumbled to himself. “It’s all gotta ride on me.”

  “Hey, what about after the interrogation?” Trigg asked. “Suppose Faisal doesn’t know anything? I mean, we don’t have jack shit for evidence on the dude. It’s entirely possible he’s innocent. What happens to him then?”

  Gil shrugged. “He can’t ever be allowed to tell the Saudi royal family that we took him—or what we did to him afterward. No matter what he knows . . . or doesn’t know . . . the royal family will be told that he was killed in a terrorist attack executed by AQAP. So if he is innocent—well, that’s just something we’ll have to live with.”

  33

  LAS VEGAS,

  Luxor Casino

  After three and a half hours of Texas Hold’em on the floor of the Luxor casino, there were only three of the original ten players left at the table: Conman Tuckerman, Muhammad Faisal, and Big Ray, a professional gambler out of San Antonio, Texas. Big Ray wore a black cowboy hat, dark sunglasses, and gaudy, diamond-studded gold rings on the thumb and middle finger of each hand. The dealer had just flipped open the turn card, and Tuckerman could see from the way that Ray now seemed to ignore his hole cards that he’d be gone before the flip of the river—the river card being the last of five community cards to be flipped open before the end of the hand.

  Faceup in the center of the table were the three flop cards: the queen of diamonds, the queen of spades, and the four of hearts. The turn card, also faceup, was the king of spades.

  Faisal eyed his hole cards for a moment and then laid them flat, suppressing a smile as he made a ten-thousand-dollar bet.

  Tuckerman immediately raised it to twenty, letting out an obnoxious snigger toward Big Ray sitting to his left.

  “Think you’re pretty fuckin’ funny, don’t ya?” This was the first Big Ray had spoken the entire game, and Tuckerman knew he was finally finished.

  Tuckerman turned over both of his hole cards for Big Ray to see: the two of clubs and the queen of hearts. Combined with the two flop-card queens, this gave him a very strong three of a kind.