by Scott McEwen
Upon his arrival at Hampton Roads, he was assigned a task of mundane training duties. He was told by his new commanding officer that under no circumstances was he to speak with anyone about the unauthorized rescue mission, and under no circumstances was he to attempt to contact Captain Daniel Crosswhite. He then spent the next three months cooling his heels around the training center, bored to death.
The news of Sandra’s daring rescue had spread like wildfire across the United States, though very few actual details of the operation were released to the public. There were rumors around Hampton Roads of Gil’s involvement, but no one ever had the poor judgment to ask him about it.
Then one afternoon, after his second month in Hampton Roads, the other shoe finally dropped. He was called before his commanding officer and given the news that he and Daniel Crosswhite were to be awarded the Medal of Honor, along with Halligan Steelyard, who would be awarded the medal posthumously. There was to be a ceremony at the White House at the end of the month, during which the president himself would present them both with the award. Gil felt his temper flare, but he maintained his military bearing, snapping to attention and stating respectfully that he intended to refuse the award.
“Oh, you can certainly refuse it,” the Navy commander said, “but you might want to consider the fact that this president now stands poised to win reelection. Do you really think it’s a good idea to spit in his face a second time? Your court-martial has been held in abeyance only because of his personal order.”
That had settled the matter. Gil would have no choice but to accept the Medal of Honor, allowing the president to use him as a prop in his political freak show.
MASTER CHIEF GIL Shannon stood in the White House in his Navy dress whites, posing beside Captain Daniel Crosswhite before a bank of photographers. Marie sat off to the side beside Sandra Brux, who had only recently made her first public appearance. Her husband, John, sat on the other side of her. Both were in uniform, and both were smiling. Neither of them had any idea what the charade was really all about. All they knew was that two brave men were about to receive the nation’s highest military award.
Sandra gave him a wink, and he nodded back, feeling like a complete chump to be accepting a medal for getting one of his best friends and seven brave Tajik fighters killed.
Crosswhite, however, was eating it up. He knew the whole thing was a charade, but he didn’t care. As far he was concerned, they’d both earned the goddamn medal, and Steelyard, too. “Why let it get to you?” he’d said to Gil earlier in the day during one of the brief moments they’d been left alone. “The only thing that pisses me off is that Sandra doesn’t get shit for what she went through.”
Gil tried to focus on the bright side. He was still a member of DEVGRU, as far as he knew, and he had been somewhere that no other SEAL had ever been . . . Iran. Who knew how valuable such an experience might be to SOG in the future? There was also the medal itself to consider. Good or bad, right or wrong, Medal of Honor recipients enjoyed a certain status within the US Armed Forces, and Gil realized there would be ways of using that status to his advantage.
Still, there were jealousies within SOG that he would have to contend with, other operatives who might now try to edge him out of the game. Only time would tell how well he would be received by his peers in the coming months. And only time would tell how willing the Head Shed would be to put a Medal of Honor recipient back into harm’s way.
The President of the United States entered the room and stood before the podium. “Good afternoon,” he said with a smile. “Today, we are gathered to bestow . . .” And so the brief speech went, and after the president had finished telling the American public what gallant warriors both Gil and Crosswhite were, he stepped from behind the podium to accept the first of two medals from the secretary of defense.
He was about to slip the sky blue ribbon over Gil’s head when he stopped. “You know what?” he said, turning to look toward the honored guests. “I’ve got a better idea. Sandra, would you mind doing the honors?”
It was an unprecedented turn of events, and neither Gil nor Crosswhite believed for a damn minute that it was as spur-of-the-moment as the president was trying to make it appear.
Sandra was smiling as she rose from her chair. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. President.”
She accepted the medal and stepped over to Gil. This was the first time they had seen each other since she had gone sailing off into the night beneath the belly of the AC-130J, and when their eyes met, Gil felt it clear down in the pit of his stomach. She winked at him and smiled, then slipped the ribbon over his head, muttering “fuck it” loud enough for his ear alone and leaned to kiss him on the cheek. Every camera in the room flashed, and everyone in attendance applauded.
Gil looked at Marie and rolled his eyes, feeling his face flush. Marie smiled proudly and clapped.
Sandra accepted the second medal from the president and slipped it over Crosswhite’s neck, giving him the same kiss on the cheek she had given Gil before stepping back to join in the applause. In those brief few seconds during which the president was just another person in the room and no cameras held an angle on his face, Gil caught the gaze of the commander in chief’s half-lidded expression, an expression that . . . no matter how fleeting . . . was unmistakably a smirk.
EPILOGUE
MONTANA
After the award ceremony, Gil was ordered to take three months’ leave while the fallout from Operation Earnest Endeavor finished blowing over. President Karzai was still having trouble with the Hezb-e Islami factions in the Afghan parliament, but it didn’t look like that trouble was going to translate into much of a threat to his presidency. The US Air Force had done a pretty thorough job of reducing the Hezbi forces in the Panjshir Valley, and it was doubtful they would be able to replenish their numbers or regain their influence in and around the Hindu Kush. They had simply lost too much status, allowing Sandra Brux to be rescued and essentially transformed into a Western heroine. What was more, as a result of the HIK’s slide, the Taliban had begun another resurgence.
Which of those two pseudo-political groups held the most power in the region didn’t matter to Gil. To him they were both equally violent, equally dangerous to the Afghan people. He hoped the country would begin to stabilize, that reasonable alliances could be struck with the mountain warlords to prevent them throwing in with the Taliban again, but he didn’t hold much hope.
Today was the day after New Year’s, and he rode Tico through the deep snow of the high country overlooking the Ferguson Valley, sitting in the saddle and thinking back on that night in the Panjshir, of the horse that had been killed beneath him in battle. As he sat reflecting on the death of his friend Halligan Steelyard and the dozen near-misses that should have taken own his life, he heard the sound of a distant bugle come echoing across the snowy linen landscape. For a moment he was reminded of the cavalry’s call to arms, but a glance over his shoulder revealed the elk two hundred yards down the slope. He lowered his hand to shuck the Browning from the scabbard and reined Tico around in place, shouldering the rifle to peer through the scope at a beautiful fourteen-point bull, easily the finest looking animal he’d ever held in his crosshairs. He’d brought the travois rig along on the off chance that he would spot an animal for the freezer, but this elk was a prize well beyond the promise of food. This bull was a taxidermist’s dream, and Gil had him broadside to a barn door.
Fingering the trigger, he could not help thinking again of the horse killed beneath him, of the two dozen other horses gunned down in the box canyon by their own men. He remembered Kohistani struggling for his life with the piano wire slicing through his trachea. How could he ever tell Marie about something like that? Could she possibly even stay married to a man who had done something so hideous to another human being? And what would she say if she knew how much he’d enjoyed it?
He lowered the rifle and pulled back the bolt, ejecting the round that would have killed the elk and tucking it away into
the breast pocket of his Carhartt. He was finished with killing for sport.
The cell phone vibrated in his pants pocket, and he glanced across the valley, where the new telecom tower had been erected atop the far mountain the year before on Ferguson’s property, gaining the old man a tidy profit from the lease. Gil did not recognize the number on the screen, but he answered it anyhow.
“Hello?”
“What’s the matter?” asked a gentle-sounding male voice. “You couldn’t do it? Or it just isn’t the same anymore?”
Gil felt the goose bumps rise across the tops of his shoulders. “Couldn’t do what?”
“Shoot the elk.”
He turned his head, checking all four points of the compass and pushing the bolt forward to load another round into the battery. “Who the hell is this?”
“Look up,” the voice said.
Gil looked straight up into the brilliant blue sky directly overhead, seeing absolutely nothing at all. “Pope?”
“I don’t have long,” the voice continued, “but I wanted to warn you.”
“Warn me?”
“Whether you know it or not, you were given that medal as a punishment. I did what I could to prevent it, but the president himself wanted it to happen.”
Gil recalled the smirk. “I guess I should have realized that.”
“He wanted to use you for political points,” the voice said. “While at the same time destroying your anonymity, knowing how much a SEAL’s privacy is worth to him and his family. What I don’t think he realized was that he was putting the mark on you—at least I hope he didn’t. There’s an element within the Muslim world that knows Kohistani was killed with a garrote. They’re furious over it, and they think it was you who did it. The chatter I’m hearing gives me cause for concern.”
“They want revenge.”
“This is irrespective of sect . . . Taliban, Al Qaeda, HIK . . . they’re all Muslim . . . and the brutal assassination of a Muslim cleric would be seen as a direct insult against Islam.”
Gil slid the rifle into the scabbard, taking up the reins in his free hand to set Tico sauntering off toward home. “So you think they’re comin’ for me here.”
“I believe we need to assume so—there’s definitely a price on your head—but don’t expect anyone from the Pentagon or the White House to give you the heads up.”
“In other words, the president threw me under the bus.”
“No, not him,” the voice said. “The president’s a banker. He knows very little about things militaire or the Muslim world. Unfortunately, he looks to his sycophantic military advisor when it comes to these affairs. So, it wasn’t the president. It was Tim Hagen. Hagen’s the guy who burned you, and so far I’ve got nothing on him—but don’t worry. Everyone’s pumping the neighbor’s cat. I’ll find something.”
SCOTT McEWEN is the #1 New York Times bestselling coauthor of American Sniper. He is a trial attorney in San Diego, California, and has taught at Thomas Jefferson School of Law. He grew up in the mountains of Eastern Oregon, where he became an Eagle Scout, hiking, fishing, and hunting at every opportunity. He obtained his undergraduate degree at Oregon State University and thereafter studied and worked extensively in London. Scott works with and provides support for several military charitable organizations, including The Navy SEAL Foundation.
THOMAS KOLONIAR is the author of the post-apocalyptic novel Cannibal Reign. He holds a bachelor of arts degree in English literature from the University of Akron. A former police officer from Akron, Ohio, he currently lives in Mexico.
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Copyright © 2013 by Scott McEwen with Thomas Koloniar
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First Touchstone hardcover edition June 2013
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Designed by Claudia Martinez
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McEwen, Scott.
Sniper elite : one-way trip : a novel / Scott McEwen.
pages cm
“A Touchstone book.”
1. Snipers—Fiction. 2. United States. Navy. SEALs—Fiction. 3. Undercover operations—Fiction. 4. War on Terrorism, 2001–2009—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.M4355S65 2013
813'.6—dc23
2013010321
ISBN 978-1-4767-4605-0
ISBN 978-1-4767-4608-1 (ebook)