Super Sniper

by Rawlin Cash

  It get her in a world of trouble.

  What she was doing had been authorized by the executive order, but that wouldn’t help her if he’d exceeded his powers. And regardless of the rules, if anything went wrong, if some kindergarten kid happened to be in the blast radius, that was it. Game over. She could kiss her career goodbye.

  “Legal review,” she said.

  It was a formality, something that would allow her to check a box later on. What could a lawyer say? No one even knew if this man was the shooter. She knew she wouldn’t get an answer in time, but just asking for it would show an intent to operate within the law.

  She had no choice.

  She was fucked if she took this shot, and she was fucked if she didn’t.

  The man was running right by the Supreme Court. Mother fucker. That whole side of the building would be caught in the blast radius. An air strike on the supreme court, she couldn’t think of a more potent symbol of executive overreach.

  “Fuck me,” she said. “Arm hellfire.”

  The AGM-114 was a hundred pound, sixty-five inch missile, built by Lockheed Martin. Fawn had been to the manufacturing facility in Marietta, Georgia personally and was intimately acquainted with the twenty-pound, high-explosive, anti-tank warhead. It had a blast radius of fifty feet.

  Fifty fucking feet.

  “Fuck me,” she said again.

  She was terrified.

  “Who’s that?” she said, as a vehicle approached the target, cutting him off and diverting him north through the park toward Constitution Avenue.

  “DC Metro, ma’am.”

  “To the rescue,” she said.

  The target ran past the Russell Senate Office Building and entered a green space known as Lower Senate Park. The park wasn’t big, but it was a hell of a lot better than dropping a hellfire on the supreme court.

  The park covered the three blocks between the target’s present position and Columbus Circle. There was a small pond at the center.

  In sixty seconds he’d be through the park and entering Union Station. Then it would be too late. Commuter services, a busy subway station, a greyhound bus station, taxis. She couldn’t hit him there.

  He’d disappear in seconds.

  Forever.

  Shoot the president and disappear. She couldn’t let that happen.

  The man was racing through the park toward the pond.

  “Ma’am, we’re picking up a second drone in the sky.”

  “One of ours?”

  “Negative.”

  “Military?”

  “It’s blocking our scanners.”

  What the fuck was going on? She had to act. She couldn’t let this slip through their fingers.

  “Order strike,” she said. “Take him out.”

  She shut her eyes and braced herself. She wasn’t squeamish. She had what it took to do her job.

  But she’d never imagined she’d be the first CIA officer to order a shoot-to-kill drone strike on US soil. It was routine in Iraq and Syria and Afghanistan. Maybe there should have been no difference. But death from above felt a lot more serious, a lot realer, when the target was in Lower Senate Park and not Al-Zawraa Park.

  She was too far away to feel the thud of impact.

  In the grand scheme of things, the missile wasn’t that big. It was standard ordnance for the drone she’d been given. But in that moment it sure felt big.

  She felt it in her gut. And she was sure the lawmakers and judges in the capitol felt it too. Many of them would be looking at it, right at that moment. Actually looking at it coming out of the sky like an act of God.

  She opened her eyes in time to see the screen light up.

  “Good hit, ma’am.”

  “Fuck me,” she said again, louder than before.

  Eleven

  It took Hale forever to get out of the capitol. His driver couldn’t get anywhere near him and there were cops at every corner containing the crowd. He had to show his credentials multiple times. When he got to the Federal Center metro station it was already too late. The entire system was closed. By the time he hailed a cab he’d already walked to Maine Avenue. Two hours had passed when he got to Langley.

  He’d never seen the sky over the city so full.

  “Second Coming,” the cab driver said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’d swear it was the Second Coming.”

  Hale nodded. He’d been trying to get Fawn on the phone but she wasn’t picking up. She was probably already in debriefing.

  Social media had picked up on the air strike. It was a shit show. Videos of a missile flying over the capitol like a meteor. Hale wasn’t sure which way the wind would blow.

  President Jackson was dead.

  It was a shock to the system.

  But Hale was certain of one thing. If he’d been the one in the Command Center, he wouldn’t in a million years have ordered that strike.

  No fucking way.

  There were too many ways it could blow back on them.

  No one would be safe from the blowback, least of all him. He was the Director of the CIA. The president had been killed. The air strike was a CIA hit. That was all on him.

  But he’d made up his mind. Fawn was expendable. If someone had to take a fall, it would be her.

  Hopefully it didn’t come to that. Public anger would be on their side. If someone fucking shoots the president, you fucking shoot them back.

  But there were always those who would be shocked that the country actually used its military power to protect itself. And there’d be the surprise factor. No one knew of the new directives the president had authorized. The ability of the CIA to call in heavy ordnance on home soil, that was new.

  But it was legal. It was all there in the small print, the secret orders, the classified powers. The people who needed to know had signed off. The attorney general had ticked the boxes. Hale had personally read every document.

  The court would get its say now, but the judges had been in the room when the president was hit. They’d understand.

  He tried Fawn again. He’d have to decide soon whether he was going to put his neck on the line for her.

  At Langley, the guard at the front gate wouldn’t let the cab in.

  Hale had to get out of the cab.

  “You stay right here,” he said to the driver. He hadn’t paid his fare yet but there was always a risk a driver would cut and run in the face of CIA security.

  “Get back in the vehicle, sir,” the guard said.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Sir, I’m only going to ask once.”

  The guard was about twenty years old and had his hand on the gun at his waist.

  “My name is Jeff Hale. I’m Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  The kid hesitated. If Hale had arrived in his own car this wouldn’t have been an issue.

  “There’s been an attack on the capitol,” the kid said. “We’re on lockdown.”

  “I was there.”

  “We’re on lockdown,” the kid stammered again.

  Hale made to reach for his pocket and the kid gripped his weapon, shaking his head.

  “Jesus, you’re jumpy,” Hale said. “I’ve got my credentials in my pocket.”

  “Don’t reach for your pocket,” the kid said.

  Hale sighed. There was another guard in the post. If anything, he was even younger.

  “You got the internet in there?” Hale said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Look up the head of the agency.

  The second kid typed on his computer and then called his friend over. They both looked at the screen, then at Hale.

  “All right,” the first guard said, his tone softening. “Let’s see the credentials.”

  Hale showed him his card and the guards finally let him pass. He gave the cab driver a forty dollar tip.

  Inside, he went straight to security.

  “Fawn Aspen,” he said.

  “Already in de
briefing, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “Fourth floor.”

  Hale rushed through clearance and got in the elevator. He was the only person in it. He stood right in front of the door. If anyone tried to get in, he’d have bumped into them.

  On the fourth floor he passed the secretary and rushed past the cubicles. People were at their desks, scrambling to get a grip on what had just happened.

  He got to the debriefing room and two armed guards blocked his entrance.

  “Jesus,” Hale said. “I’m the fucking director.”

  They stood aside and he entered the monitoring room. Inside were some of his own people and some NSA people. The NSA Director, Patrick Fitzpatrick, had been at the speech. Hale had seen him there. He doubted he’d get there any time soon, but his representative was there and she was a woman not to be taken lightly. Hale had encountered her before. A lawyer who’d formerly worked for the State Department, Janice Lute.

  He tried to remember if she was married.

  “Janice,” he said.

  “Mr. Hale.”

  Her blouse was a size too small for her chest. The button was ready to pop.

  “Is your boss coming down?” he said.

  She nodded.

  Antosh and Goldwater would want to weigh in on this also, but that would come later.

  “Has the debriefing started?” Hale said.

  “We’ve been instructed to wait.”

  They shouldn’t have needed to wait. The NSA was represented. That was all the regulations required.

  “Who are we waiting for?” Hale said.

  “Everyone. They all want to be here.”

  “Fitz?”

  “And Antosh and Goldwater.”

  “This will take all night,” Hale said.

  Janice’s face remained blank. She gave away nothing.

  Hale was worried. The more people involved, the higher the risk. It was one of those things that shouldn’t have mattered. If you were innocent, why care how many people were there? But he did care. Because it made all the difference in the world. With things like this, political things, whether you were right or wrong didn’t matter so much as who you were pleading your case to. Right and wrong was up to them. The more of them there were, the less control Hale had over the outcome.

  “Protocol doesn’t require that we wait,” Hale said.

  Janice smiled. She knew exactly what he was doing. “The president’s been shot,” she said.

  She took a seat facing the observation window and Hale couldn’t help watch the way she crossed her legs. There was something about her that got his blood flowing. Janice was looking at the window and Hale turned toward it and saw Fawn for the first time.

  It was a large, one-way mirrors with a button you could press to turn on or off the microphones. Fawn looked calm. Resolute.

  Hale prayed he wouldn’t be required to sacrifice her because of this.

  He went to the debriefing room door. There was a guard in front of it. Debriefing was a euphemism. They could have called it an interrogation room. The temperature was always a few degrees lower than was comfortable and the AC vent was directly above the subject. The one-way glass was intentionally obvious. They wanted the subject to know she was being watched. They were mild measures, but enough to increase compliance in the subject and decrease the amount of time they wanted to spend in the room.

  Hale knew that the people watching the interrogation would all have something to lose. That included the NSA Director, the National Security Advisor, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, as well as Hale himself. There were protocols in place. If Fawn had obeyed them, theoretically she had nothing to worry about. The issuance of a strike order was a tactical decision.

  Theoretically.

  In this case, the strike had been on Capitol Hill. That made it political. Any indication Fawn had made a mistake, no matter how slight, would create a firewall between the people on the other side of the glass and her. If there was blowback, it would mean it could all be directed on her, on her error, on her breach of protocol, and not on them.

  All things considered, everyone wanted Fawn to have made a mistake. Even Hale. No one wanted to see that she’d done everything by the book. Because that would bring the book under scrutiny, and they were the ones who’d written it.

  Hale looked through the glass. Fawn was sitting at a desk with a cup of coffee in front of her. She looked calm, collected. She wasn’t restrained.

  She had done nothing wrong. This was just part of her job. To come in and explain herself after a strike. All protocol, all part of the power she’d exercised.

  Still, it could get ugly.

  Hale winced at the thought of it.

  He turned to the guard. “I’m going in.”

  “Yes, sir,” the guard said and pushed a button unlocking the door.

  “Boss,” Fawn said as soon as the door opened.

  “Fawn. How long have you been in here?”

  The room was ice cold. That would have been Janice’s doing.

  “I did everything by the book, boss.”

  “I know, Fawn.”

  Hale was conflicted. He still didn’t know what he wanted. Whose side was he on? Did he want Fawn to be in the clear, or did he need her to take a fall?

  “I knew it could end me.”

  “It won’t end you.”

  “It might,” she said.

  “Then why did you pull the trigger?”

  “Because it’s my job. He was going to get away. He was thirty seconds from the busiest rail hub in the country.”

  “Okay, Fawn. It’s okay. This isn’t the interrogation. I’m just here to check on you.”

  “What’s the delay?”

  “Everyone’s coming in.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Fitzpatrick, Antosh, Goldwater.”

  “Fuck,” Fawn said.

  “It’s not a bad sign. They’re just covering their asses.”

  Fawn nodded. Then she smiled, slightly. “Thanks for coming in.”

  “I wouldn’t leave you out on the line.”

  “I know, Hale.”

  But he wasn’t sure. Hale was a man who lied for a living. As the head of a spy agency, that was his job. Lies, deception, secrets, it was all part of the government’s security apparatus. But this was different. Fawn was a friend.

  His only friend, he realized.

  “I better get back outside,” he said.

  There wasn’t much they could say anyway. The room was being recorded. Offering some support was within his rights. Getting into the nitty gritty should wait.

  “Do you need anything? More coffee?”

  “How about a cigarette?”

  He smiled. “How about a fresh coffee. I bet that one’s cold.”

  She nodded.

  His hand was on the handle of the door when she said, “There was another drone up there, Hale.”

  He looked back at her. “I didn’t see that in the report.”

  “It was there. I got confirmation.”

  “I’ll have to look into that.”

  “Make sure they recover it. It wasn’t one of ours.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

  Twelve

  Hunter was on the beach with the girl and Antonia. The girl played in the waves and Hunter sat next to Antonia and watched.

  “Es feliz,” Antonia said.

  Hunter nodded. She was happy. At least for now.

  He finished his cigar and went down to the waves. The girl ran into the water and he chased after her. He picked her up and held her over the break. She screamed.

  She was a lot like her mother. She had the same eyes. The thought made him feel guilty.

  Hunter hadn’t loved her mother.

  He wasn’t sure he’d ever really loved anyone.

  He’d used them. He got something from them. Comfort. Affection. Pleasure.

  And then they died.

  Without fail.


  Even now, he knew Antonia and the child weren’t safe. Just being close to him dropped their life expectancy dramatically.

  “You want to get something to eat?” he said to the girl.

  “No,” she said.

  They played a little longer. When she was tired, they want back to Antonia and dried off. Then they went into the village and sat at a restaurant on the square. They sat outside under the umbrellas. Hunter leaned back and the salt on his skin felt good.

  They ate lunch and Antonia told him he ate too much meat. He ordered dessert for the child and Antonia said he spoiled her. Hunter ordered two coffees and they sat together and smoked while the child ate the ice cream.

  There was a television inside the restaurant showing football and Hunter turned away from it. He shut his eyes and listened to the sounds of the village. A dog was barking somewhere. The girl was chatting to Antonia. She seemed happy but Hunter knew better. Just because you don’t see a wound doesn’t mean it’s not there, festering. Everything under the surface comes up eventually.

  “Más café?” the waiter said.

  He looked at Antonia. The child was content.

  He held up two fingers and the waiter left.

  Antonia was relaxed. He could tell she didn’t want to leave. Maybe she hadn’t had many lazy afternoons drinking coffee on the square. He knew nothing of her life and didn’t care to. He didn’t even know if she had a husband. She wore many rings and they moved daily from finger to finger. Sometimes she wore a ring on her wedding finger. Sometimes she didn’t. He didn’t know if she had children and grandchildren. He never asked. He guessed she was a widow whose kids had moved on but he didn’t know.

  He thought of his grandfather.

  Another wound that festered beneath the surface.

  Hunter had left Texas as soon as he was old enough to think of it. The journey from El Paso to Amarillo was 730 miles by train. It might as well have been a million. He’d changed lines at Abilene and Lubbock. At Amarillo he worked at a bar, washing dishes, hauling kegs up from the basement, mopping the floor at night. It was a live music place and he got to see all the shows. It went fine until the owner’s girlfriend started hitting on him. She was twenty years older than him. Hunter didn’t know what to make of it but his boss did.