Target America: A Sniper Elite Novel

by Scott McEwen

  Pope told him what little he knew.

  “And al-Rashid just volunteered that information?”

  “I doubt it was that simple, Mr. President.”

  “Look,” the president said, “NSA and FBI have both looked at the Kashkin files, and they concur with your DC assessment. All of our resources are moving toward the East Coast, and now you’re changing your mind because of a forced confession?”

  “Mr. President, we know there were two bombs. It makes sense the enemy would choose targets on opposite coasts, and the Pacific Fleet is based out of San Diego Bay. We have two nuclear aircraft carriers in port there right now—priceless targets in the eyes of the enemy.”

  “Look, we’ve already got everything moving toward DC. If we pull back now, and you’re wrong . . . Christ, I don’t even want to think about it! How do we know it wasn’t the other way around? How do we know it wasn’t the San Diego bomb that went off in New Mexico? Al-Rashid could very easily have lied about that.”

  Because of the carriers, Pope believed in his bones that the target was San Diego . . . specifically, San Diego Bay. “Please trust me on this, Mr. President.”

  “I’ll have NSA and FBI look at the files again,” the president said. “Right now I’ve got my hands full trying to figure out how we’re going to deal with the possible invasion of South Korea.”

  Pope was off the phone a short time later, scanning back through Kashkin’s files. An hour passed without him finding a single piece of evidence to even hint at San Diego.

  Midori, his assistant, sat across the table scanning through Kashkin’s browser history but could find nothing related to the West Coast. “Maybe he used a separate computer for each target,” she suggested.

  Pope glanced over. “It’s possible.” He reopened Kashkin’s email account, since those files wouldn’t be specific to either computer. A half hour later, after skimming dozens of innocuous emails for the second time, he clicked on an email marked “no subject” that Kashkin had sent to someone in Chechnya the month before. He had opened it earlier but hadn’t seen anything about DC, so he had quickly moved on to the next email.

  Opening the note, he paged down to find a list of ten real estate addresses . . . all of them on Coronado in San Diego Bay.

  He grabbed immediately for the phone, starting to dial the president, but then he thought better of it and called Gil instead.

  “Gil, it’s Pope. I’ve got a question for you: If the chips were down, and you had to call on one of the West Coast SEALs to save your butt, who would it be?”

  76

  SAN DIEGO BAY,

  Coronado Island, a Half Mile from the USS Ronald Reagan (CVN-76)

  Kashkin’s nephew Bworz sat in a recliner in the corner of the tiny living room, watching television as he listened to two of his men squabbling in the kitchen over who had eaten whose food out of the refrigerator. With eight men living in the small two-bedroom house, unable to go outside except for at night for fear of raising the suspicions of the neighbors, it was becoming rather cramped, and the men were growing increasingly edgy.

  He went into the bathroom and closed the door, looking into the mirror and lifting his upper lip to check his gums, which had begun bleeding the day before. At first it had scared him, realizing he was suffering from radiation poisoning, but then he decided it didn’t matter. The idea of dying didn’t frighten him. He welcomed it. He’d lost his wife and son to the Russians years earlier, leaving him with nothing to live for but the jihad.

  In addition, his uncle Kashkin had not yet returned from Montana, and there had been nothing in the news about Gil Shannon’s death, so Bworz had come to the conclusion that Kashkin was either dead or captured. If that was the case, he and the men would have to stay with the bomb right up until the moment of detonation. His uncle was a brave and dedicated man, but no one was immune to torture, and the Americans would surely torture him to find an atomic weapon.

  His only worry was that the men might see the blood on his teeth and realize that radiation was leaking from the bomb. If that happened, they might desert him, so Bworz was careful to take a drink of water before talking.

  He urinated and then went into the kitchen, where the two men were still arguing, refilling his glass at the tap and turning to watch them. He took a drink and then set down the glass.

  “Shut up. The both of you. I’m tired of listening to it.”

  They stopped and looked at him.

  “When is Kashkin coming back?” one of them asked irritably. His name was Tomas.

  “He’s not.”

  “How do you know?” said the other. “Has he called?”

  Bworz shook his head. “He would never risk exposing our location to the NSA.”

  “Then we should leave,” Tomas said. “We’ve planted the bomb, so our job is done.”

  “Our job is not done,” Bworz said. “We must now remain with the bomb until the end—in case Kashkin was captured and forced to talk.”

  Overhearing this, the five men sitting in the living room quickly came crowding into the kitchen.

  “What’s this now?” one of them asked.

  “If Kashkin doesn’t return,” Bworz said, meeting their gazes individually, “then we must all remain here with the bomb until the day. Until the moment. My uncle is a devout man, but no one can stand up to torture for very long—as some of you know from personal experience. It’s a risk we cannot take.”

  “So change the timer,” Tomas said. “Set it for five hours and let’s go.”

  Tasting blood, Bworz took another drink of water. “Only Kashkin knows how to change the timer.”

  “Oh, well, that’s bloody convenient!” Tomas said in British English. He had studied in London. Only half the men understood what he’d said.

  Bworz stared at him. “Are you afraid, Tomas?”

  “I fear only Allah,” Tomas said. “His judgment. If we have to die, we have to die. But do we have to die? That’s the real question. What will be the point in staying if we can’t self-detonate the bomb in the event the house has been compromised?”

  “To defend the bomb,” Bworz said, “or to move it.”

  “I don’t like it,” one of the men said. “We could never defend this house from a military attack, and they will attack if they think there’s a bomb here.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Bworz said, deciding to gamble. “There’s no point to leaving. We’re all dead anyhow.”

  “What’s that mean?” Tomas said.

  Bworz bared his teeth to show them the blood. “We’ve all been poisoned. The bomb is leaking radiation. I’ve been around it longer than any of you, but not by much. So you all have a personal choice to make. You can die here with me, painlessly and for the glory of Allah, or you can run away like cowards to die a coward’s death. Because I tell you this, brothers . . . cancer stalks us all. And the only cure is to die.”

  One of the men dropped his gaze to the floor, muttering, “It is God’s will.”

  Bworz set the water glass down on the counter and slipped through them toward the living room. “The choice is yours. I’m going to pray.”

  77

  SAN DIEGO

  Lieutenant Commander Jedidiah Brighton of SEAL Team III was eating breakfast with his wife and son in their home just north of San Diego when his iPhone chirped on the table. He sat chewing as he thumbed at the screen to check the message.

  His wife, Lea, saw him make a face as he pushed the phone aside. “What is it?”

  “A list of addresses over on Coronado. Some real estate idiot must be spamming the shit out of everybody in the county.”

  “Dad, you just said a cuss word,” said his six-year-old son, Tony. He had the same blond hair and bright blue eyes as both of his parents.

  Brighton winked at the lad. “Daddy’s allowed.”

  “Yes, Daddy�
�s allowed,” Lea said, “but that doesn’t mean he should do it, does it?”

  “He said shit!” Tony declared proudly.

  Brighton laughed.

  His wife frowned. “Quit encouraging him.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “No? Then you talk to his teacher the next time she calls.” She got up from the table and went to the refrigerator. “He’s been in kindergarten only a couple weeks, and she’s already called twice about him swearing at the other kids.”

  Brighton suppressed a smile and looked at his son. “No more cussing in school. Got it?”

  The boy nodded, scooping Cheerios into his mouth.

  “What did he say, anyhow?” There was the twinkle of mischief in the SEAL team leader’s eye.

  Lea frowned. “We’ll discuss it later.”

  The iPhone rang, and Brighton glanced down at the name of the caller. “What the hell does he want?”

  “Who?”

  “Gil Shannon.”

  “Oh, the hero?” She cut into her pancakes with her fork. “Better answer it before you miss your big chance.”

  “Dad said hell!”

  She glared at the boy. “Enough! Eat your cereal.”

  Brighton picked up the phone, deepening his voice. “Commander Brighton.”

  “Jed, it’s Gil Shannon. Are you in San Diego?”

  “I’m eating breakfast. What do you need?” There was no great love lost between the two SEALs. Gil had served under Brighton with SEAL Team III before his transfer to DEVGRU/ST6 on the East Coast, and even before the East Coast–West Coast rivalry became an issue, the two equally strong-minded men had never gotten along. To make it worse, Brighton knew most of the details of Gil’s unauthorized mission to rescue Sandra Brux, and the fact that Gil had been awarded the Medal of Honor for it annoyed him to no end.

  “Jed, the loose nuke’s somewhere on Coronado Island. Bob Pope is emailing you a list of suspected addresses as we speak. You need to put together a crew and check them out ASAP. Today’s September eleventh.”

  “What are you talking about?” Brighton set down his fork. “They’ve been evacuating DC for the past twelve hours.”

  “I know, but DC’s not the target. It’s NASNI.” The Naval Air Station North Island.

  “There’s been no intel to that effect that I’m aware of.” Brighton sat back from the table. “You’re not even with the teams anymore. What the hell’s going on?”

  “What’s he talking about?” Lea whispered.

  Brighton held up his hand to quiet her.

  “I’m with ST6/Black now,” Gil went on.

  “Fuck, why doesn’t that surprise me? I thought they were disbanded.”

  “Dad just said fuck!”

  Lea pointed a slender finger across the table. “You’re cruisin’, buster!”

  “Jed, look . . . they want to fry the base and take out the carriers. You and I don’t have to like each other, but I called you because you’re the go-to SEAL on the West Coast. And you know me. You know I wouldn’t break it down like this if I thought there was another way. In a couple hours, a two-kiloton Russian nuke is gonna level that island.”

  “What about FBI? DHS? Why aren’t they moving on this supposed intel?”

  “I don’t have the details, but I suspect they’re tangled up in a pissing contest with Pope. It’s typical G2 bullshit, Jed, and Pacific Command is gonna pay the price.” He let out an exhausted sigh. “Jed, listen . . . I’m at my ranch in Montana, where I just debriefed one of the AQAP insurgents who burned down my fucking house and beat the hell out of my wife.”

  “You’re shitting me! What the fuck happened?”

  “There’s no time to explain anything. What matters is that I gave this asshole the VIP treatment, and he gave me San Diego as the target. So are you gonna trust me on this, or are you gonna let the idiots in G2 fuck the West Coast teams right out of existence? I know you’re all a bunch of candy asses out there, but I like to think even a West Coast frog is smarter than that.”

  Brighton would have preferred to think that Gil had lost his mind, but he knew in his gut that he hadn’t. “This coming from the SEAL who was awarded the Medal of Honor as a device for political propaganda.”

  Gil chuckled. “Now, there’s a point we do agree on.”

  “Fuck,” Brighton muttered, running a hand over his closely cropped head, agreeing it was probably time to bury the hatchet between them. “Is Marie gonna be okay?”

  “Yeah. She got the shit kicked out of her, but she’s gonna be all right. So did I call the right frog or what?”

  Brighton got to his feet. “I’m moving now. Call me back with any additional intel.”

  “Roger that. Good luck, Commander.” Gil broke the connection.

  Brighton put down the phone and took his wallet from his back pocket, pulling out five hundred dollars in cash and giving it to his wife.

  “What the hell is this for?”

  He picked up his son from the chair and kissed his face. “I want you two to get in the car and drive east. Don’t stop until dark or until you hear from me. Keep the radio on. If you hear anything bad, you turn south for Texas and head for my parents’ place.”

  “Bad like what? Bad like what, Jed?”

  “The nuke is here—here in town—and I gotta go find it. There’s no time to go through channels.”

  “God damn Gil Shannon!” Lea pushed away from the table as her eyes began to fill with tears. “Why’d he have to call you? Of all the SEALs in San Diego, why’d that prick have to call you?”

  Brighton held his son tight against him, his words catching in his throat . . . “Because I’m the best, baby.”

  78

  SAN DIEGO BAY,

  Coronado Island, Hotel del Coronado

  Senior Chiefs Eddy Cox and Billy Caraway were both passed out on a pair of beach loungers in front of the Hotel del Coronado when Cox’s iPhone began to chime. With standing orders not to leave the island now that the military stood at DEFCON 1, a number of SEALs from Team III had taken rooms at the hotel, and with the announcement the night before that DC was being evacuated, Cox and Caraway had spent the night drinking hard.

  Cox didn’t even look at his phone; he just pitched it out into the sand. But then Caraway’s phone began to ring, and the two of them sat up looking at each other, bleary eyed.

  “What the fuck?” Cox mumbled. “Better check who it is.”

  Caraway dug the phone from the pocket of his surfer shorts. “Fuck, it’s Brighton.”

  “Senior Chief Caraway,” he answered, sounding surprisingly spry considering the volume of tequila he’d imbibed the night before. “What can I do for you, Commander?”

  “Are you and Cox still at the Del?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Listen very carefully, Senior Chief—and this is not for publication . . . the loose nuke is somewhere on Coronado, and we have to find it before 08:45. So gather your squad and meet me in the parking lot in front of the hotel. I’m crossing the bridge now.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “Do not draw attention to yourselves. We are black. Understood?”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Caraway sprang up from the lounger, glancing at the time before tucking away his phone. “Fuck me! It’s already 07:00! Get up, dude! We gotta roll!”

  Cox swung a leg over the lounger, putting a foot in the sand. “Fuck was that about?”

  “The fuckin’ bomb’s here on the island! We’re mobilized black!”

  Cox looked up at him, suspicious as hell. “You takin’ a shit?”

  “No! Get the fuck up! He’ll be here in five, and we gotta gather the squad.”

  A minute later, they were moving briskly through the hotel, which was crowded with international tourists flowing to and from the elaborate breakfa
st buffet. Constructed almost entirely of wood, the 680-room beachfront luxury inn had been the largest resort hotel in the world when it first opened to the public in 1888. The Del had since been the centerpiece for a number of feature films, including Some Like It Hot, starring Marilyn Monroe.

  Topping the stairs to the second floor, Caraway turned left down the hall, and Cox turned right.

  Caraway burst through the door of a room where two team members were bedded down with a pair of French girls they’d picked up the night before. “Stand to!”

  The women quickly covered up as one of the SEALs came out of the john gripping a .45. “What the fuck, Senior Chief? I almost blew your shit away!”

  “We’ve been activated, Santiago! You two be out front in three minutes!” Caraway disappeared down the hall.

  Five minutes later, seven disheveled SEALs stood in a huddle in front of the Hotel Del dressed in flip-flops, shorts, and T-shirts.

  “Okay, here’s the skinny,” Caraway said, keeping his voice low. “There’s a nuke loose on the island, and we got almost no time to find it. Brighton’s on his way to dope us in on the details. But be advised we are black, so don’t call anybody and don’t say anything to give away our mission to the locals.”

  “I thought the bomb was in DC,” one of them said.

  “I don’t know the backstory,” Caraway admitted. “Maybe the CIA got it wrong. Maybe we’re looking for a second weapon. All I know is that Brighton said we gotta find it by 08:45.”

  “Today’s 9/11,” remarked another SEAL, checking his watch. “First plane hit the tower at 08:46 eastern time, and it’s already after ten o’clock back in DC. Hell, boys, I’ll bet they got it wrong.”

  Cox spotted Chief Petty Officer Adam Samir coming out of the hotel with a gorgeous brunette on his arm. He smacked Caraway on the back. “Look over there: Ain’t that Samir from EOD?” Explosive Ordnance Disposal.

  “Yeah, get ’im!” Caraway said. “We might need him.”

  Cox slipped through the crowd to catch Samir by the elbow as he was stepping up to the valet booth. “Samir, I need to talk to you a minute.”