American Sniper

by Ian Patterson

  Also by IAN PATTERSON

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  AMERICAN SNIPER

  * * *

  A Novel

  * * *

  IAN PATTERSON

  AMERICAN SNIPER © 2019 by Ian Patterson

  PAGE-TURNER Publishing

  All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Steven Nicolas Vasil

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ONE

  ST LOUIS, MISSOURI

  THE MAN COULD HAVE SHOT THE GEEZER then and there. He wanted to, bad, real bad. Wanted to paint his goofy-looking face across the back wall of the gun shop in his own blood and brains. But he didn't. Practicing self-restraint, he resisted: You’re in it for the long-game, buck-o, he reminded himself.

  Rather than yank the 45 Magnum from his waistband and start blasting-away, he left the weapon safely holstered at the small of his back, beneath the fold of a loose-fitted Hawaiian shirt. Later, should the urge arise, he was satisfied to know he’d left his options open.

  “Ya’ got it?” the Geezer said, speaking to the man as if he was an idiot.

  “Yes sir, indeedy I do,” the man said, an appropriate amount of humility and respect inflecting his reply.

  Eyeing the man skeptically, the Geezer said, “Y’all mocking me, boy?”

  “No sir, surely, I do not.”

  What the man got was the Geezer’s admonition that the weapon on the counter-top in front of him was not a Trifle—as the Geezer had put it—but rather a sophisticated and highly efficient killing machine.

  As if I don't know it already, asshole; as if it’s not why I'm here in the first place, the man said to himself.

  “In the wrong hands,” the old coot said, his grizzled claws fingering the dark, cold metal as if it was a sex toy, “this bad-boy can do a lotta’ damage, conjure-up a whole world ah’ human sufferin’ ‘an pain.”

  What I’m counting on, asshole, the man thought, repulsed at the sight of the Geezer’s ancient paws fondling his soon-to-be prized possession.

  “Uner-stan’?” the Geezer said, this time with a conspiratorial wink.

  “Oh, yes sir,” the man replied with a wink-back. “Yes, sir, indeedy, I do.”

  Thirty minutes later, the man exited the gun shop to the street, his youthful stride and boyish appearance making him look much younger than his forty-six years. The Mizzou ball-cap on his head and knapsack over his shoulders helped to reinforce the look; a student on his way to class.

  But it wasn’t the tools of higher learning weighing down his backpack today, it was the implements of death; a disassembled CheyTac M300 XTreme Long Distance lightweight aluminum sniper-rifle with parts and ammunition including both long-range and night-vision scopes; fourteen rounds of .375 caliber shells; and a dog-eared copy of Chris Kyle’s memoir, American Sniper.

  The Idea! had come to him months earlier, after buying the paperback edition in a used book shop in Phoenix. He’d carried it with him ever since.

  On the street, the sun was bright, warming his face. From the gun shop, the man walked south on Jefferson Avenue at a steady pace, turning left at Market Street in the direction of the great Mississippi River. In the distance, The Gateway Arch appeared to him like a whore with her legs splayed wide-open.

  On Market, the man stepped into a diner serving all-day breakfast. The interior smelled faintly of grease. He chose a booth by the window where dead flies littered the sill. The waitress arrived.

  “Nice shirt,” she said to the man, nodding in appreciation.

  The man thanked her and ordered bacon and two eggs sunny-side up.

  “You wants grits with that?” the waitress asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, I do,” he said, his Arkansas drawl fluid and seductive. “Indeedy, I do.”

  Breakfast arrived in short order. The waitress, a bedraggled-looking African American woman of middle-years, poured a coffee refill. Though served lukewarm, the meal was satisfying. After wiping his plate clean, the man ordered a third coffee refill.

  For what seemed a long time, he sat staring from the window to the street. After a while, he set down his cup. He settled the tab in cash, leaving a modest twelve percent tip. The man proceeded to the toilet, where he scrubbed his hands in a grimy basin. He rinsed his face with cold water from the tap.

  Back on Market, the man turned right on 14th Street toward Gateway Station. There, he entered the restroom. In a stall, he removed the Mizzou ball-cap and the Hawaiian shirt. He donned a simple black tee. He transferred his arsenal from the Mizzou knapsack to a nondescript shoulder bag with a wide strap. Lastly, the man placed the cap, the backpack, and the Hawaiian shirt into a trash bin concealing them beneath a wad of soiled paper hand-towels.

  Wearing a faded blue jeans jacket, a Cleveland Cavaliers ball cap, and appearing every minute his actual age, the man exited the restroom. Paying cash, he purchased a ticket on the next Greyhound bus headed west. On the bus, the man selected twin seats in the rear, stowing his possessions like a traveling companion on the empty seat beside him. Once settled, the man dozed the untroubled sleep of damned.

  TWO

  RAPID CITY, SOUTH DAKOTA

  AFTER PROVISIONING IN ST. LOUIS, the man traveled overnight by bus to Rapid City, South Dakota, via Omaha and Sioux Falls, arriving after dark next day. On Main Street, six blocks from the Jefferson Bus Depot, he stayed at a budget family motel. In Rapid City—known as Gateway to Mount Rushmore and with attractions such as Bear Country USA, Black Hills Maze, and Reptile Gardens—budget motels are aplenty.

  Over continental breakfast the following morning the man bonded with a twelve-year-old Yankees fan from Queens on a four-week road-trip west with his family. No surprise; the man wore a Yankees ball cap and a Yankees tee, himself. The boy was knowledgeable about the Yankees and baseball in general. The man said so.

  After ten minutes talking non-stop, the boy’s mother intervened. She smiled and said to the man, “Sorry. Once he starts…” She shrugged her shoulders in a What can you do? gesture.

  Sipping the last of his coffee from a Styrofoam cup, the man said, “All-righty, then. I should go fetch the Missus. Mount Rushmore awaits.”

  “Fog is heavy on the mountain,” the boy said, referring to the early-morning mist typical to the mountaintop in May.

  “S’pose I should say Mrs. Johannsen awaits,” the man said.

  With a lopsided grin at the boy, the man exited the breakfast room.

  THREE

  MOUNT RUSHMORE NATIONAL MEMORIAL

  BLACK HILLS REGION, SOUTH DAKOTA

  WITH MIST STILL HEAVY ON THE MOUNTAIN, the tour bus arrived at the Buses Only parking area of the Mount Rushmore National Monument after taking an hour to make the winding twenty-five-mile journey uphill from Rapid City. Along the route, the man saw road signs for Black Hills Maze, Reptile Gardens, Fort Hayes Chuck Wagon Supper and Show, Sitting Bull Crystal Caverns, and Big Thunder Gold Mine, among other attractions.

  On the way, the driver assured his pa
ssengers: “No need to worry, folks. The mountaintop is a south-facing exposure; mist will have burned-off by the time you check-in, use the restrooms and make your way to The Grand View Terrace. Departure time for a return to Rapid City is every hour on the hour, lest you stay to see the lighting ceremony. In that case, the last bus leaves the mountain at nine thirty p.m. sharp.”

  Together with thirty other sightseers, the man exited from the vehicle. Once off-loaded, the passengers moved like an oil slick toward the main gate. The bus departed in a puff of diesel fumes. The man, alone, remained behind, stepping from the paved tarmac to a grassy knoll still slick with morning dew. Here, he lit a cigarette. (Smoking and pets on a leash are permitted only in the designated parking area.) Through the mist, the man surveyed his surroundings.

  Located in the Black Hills of South Dakota, Rushmore’s granite face towers fifty-five-hundred feet above sea level. Four hundred workers labored fourteen years from nineteen twenty-seven through to forty-one moving eight hundred million pounds of stone to create the likeness of four Presidents who were said, at the time, to reflect the quintessentially American ideals of Liberty, Destiny, and Equality.

  The parking area consists of twin multi-level concrete structures surrounded by a ring-road accessible from Route 244 and located on a broad flat plateau situated at the base of the mountain. From the parking area, visitors pass through the Information Center and from there to a broad pedestrian boulevard leading to the Avenue of the Flags, representing America’s fifty-six territories and States. The Grand View Terrace is situated just beyond.

  Additionally, there is The Amphitheater, the Lincoln Borglum Visitor Center and Museum, the Sculptor’s Studio, a Youth Exploration Area, the Lakota, Nakota and Dakota Heritage Village, and The Presidential Trail, a half-mile walking path that gives visitors the closest view possible of the sculptures.

  There are the necessary restroom facilities, the Gift Shop, and Carver’s Cafe and Ice Cream, which serves not only food but offers a commanding view of the Presidents themselves. Establishing shots featuring the cafeteria were used in the filming of Alfred Hitchcock’s classic nineteen fifty-nine film North By Northwest starring Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint. The cafeteria has since been updated and remodeled.

  Of course, the cafeteria will not do, the man had decided when choosing the Monument as an appropriate setting for his first kill: No siree, the cafeteria simply will not do.

  The man snuffed-out his cigarette and jammed the butt to his boot-heel. Ever diligent, he placed the remains into a zippered side-pouch of his nylon windcheater. He adjusted his backpack and, after a final glance to the parking area, made his way purposefully toward the treeline. With a milky sun still struggling to penetrate a mantle of low-lying cloud, the man set off into the woods.

  FOUR

  MOUNT RUSHMORE NATIONAL MEMORIAL

  BLACK HILLS REGION, SOUTH DAKOTA

  SARAH PETTY SIGHED. Past noon. The sun had yet to burn-off the film of mist obscuring her view to the mountaintop. “What’s a visit to Mount Rushmore without a viewing of the Presidents?” Sarah complained to her traveling companion, Elizabeth Stein.

  As an alternative, Elizabeth suggested a hike along The Presidential Trail. “We can visit the Heritage Village along the way. Wait till the fog lifts,” Elizabeth said.

  “Hike? The Presidential Trail? It’s not a hike, Libb, it’s a stroll for crips in wheelchairs.”

  “Two-hundred-fifty steps, Sarah!”

  With a grunt from Sarah, they set off.

  FIVE

  MOUNT RUSHMORE NATIONAL MEMORIAL

  BLACK HILLS REGION, SOUTH DAKOTA

  WITH NO FOREWARNING, THE FOG LIFTED. The face of the Presidents glowed white as alabaster in the noonday sun.

  On the mountain, the man scaled the rock-face with ease, skipping like a mountain goat across a cascade of rubble and loose stone. Keeping close to the cover of the treeline along Rushmore’s eastern flank, he climbed effortlessly to an elevation of five thousand feet. From an earlier reconnaissance of the territory using Google images, maps, and satellite view, he knew the eastern flank presented the best cover going up the mountain and a preferred line-of-sight looking down to The Grand View Terrace, the Avenue of the Flags, and—albeit, only through gaps along the treeline—The Presidential Trail.

  Having arrived at a line of Ponderosa Pine rooted firmly at the base of the Presidential sculptures, the man studied the landscape below. At three thousand feet, the tourists moving along the Terrace and the Avenue of the Flags were as inviting to him as shipwreck survivors clinging to a leaky life-raft are to a circling shark.

  And the view? Majestic!

  After ten minutes of observation, the man removed his pack. Placing it on the ground beside him, he retrieved a bottle of lukewarm water. He twisted the cap and sipped sparingly; enough to re-hydrate but not to force a pee-stream of tell-tale DNA. Next, he chewed on a power bar laced with protein and caffeine. For good measure, he swallowed a Snickers in two bites.

  After stowing his refuse, the man retrieved a Leupold Mark 4 tactical spotting scope from his bag. At maximum magnification, the scope provided an expansive field of view, allowing the man to easily track and to assess potential targets.

  On the Avenue of the Flags, he tracked a family of four; father, mother, two children—a boy and a girl. An elderly couple with a wispy-looking woman pushing a fat guy in a wheelchair. A middle-aged black couple walking arm-in-arm. A group of school-age children on a field trip. Surprisingly, he spotted the twelve-year-old Yankees fan from the motel on a family road-trip west from New York.

  For fifteen minutes, he reconnoitered: Another family, another couple, another group of school-age children.

  Dissatisfied with the selection, the man turned his attention to The Grand View Terrace. There, he clocked a thick-set man wearing short-sleeves, forearms heavy with tattoos. His broad, flat face looked skyward toward the mountain, quizzical. Was he indifferent, in awe, or does he see me?

  The man tracked the target as he shifted from left foot to right, paced along the stone rail looking impatient.

  An easy kill. A deserving kill.

  After five minutes, a woman toting a shoulder bag with the Mount Rushmore Gift Shop insignia approached the pacing man below. The woman was shorter than the target by a foot, who the man estimated at over six feet.

  The woman looked up to the target while he talked down to her. He flapped his arms. After two minutes of this, the woman turned and walked away. The target followed in her wake, arms flapping like a canvass awning on a windy day. The man tracked the target until he stepped from the Terrace and out-of-sight. He hoped to see the man again soon, or his wife.

  SIX

  MOUNT RUSHMORE NATIONAL MEMORIAL

  BLACK HILLS REGION, SOUTH DAKOTA

  RESENTING SARAH HER COURAGE, Elizabeth Stein said, “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  Ignoring her friend, Sarah Petty stepped from The Presidential Trail and into the woods where the Ponderosa Pine grew thick upon a rocky incline leading up to a massive outcropping of mottled stone. They’d just exited the Heritage Village when, miraculously, the sun emerged from behind a ridge of smoky cloud, washing the outcropping in a light so bright that, for an instant, it shined like a diamond.

  “It’s a view no one else will ever get to see, Libby,” Sarah said by way of explanation.

  “Because they’re not stupid enough to try,” said Libby.

  “Because they’re cowards,” Sarah retorted.

  Elizabeth watched as the gangly three-sport All-American lurched upward like a bobcat along the incline, displacing small pebbles and loose stone, leaving puffs of granite dust in her wake.

  “I’m not following you!” Libby said to her friend, tone adamant, and shrill. “I won’t be there to call for help if you get yourself into trouble!”

  As if that was possible for a girl such as Sarah Petty to do, Libby thought resentfully.

  SEVEN

  MOUNT RUSHMORE NATI
ONAL MEMORIAL

  BLACK HILLS REGION, SOUTH DAKOTA

  WITH LITTLE EXPECTATION, the man turned his attention to The Presidential Trail. From here, his line of sight was spotty at best, punctuated only by intermittent gaps appearing through the tree cover. His best opportunity to acquire a target was on the path leading east from the Youth Exploration Area and the Heritage Village where the treeline parallels the rockfall. Along this stretch are a half dozen viewing areas offering a clear line of sight to the Presidents and—consequently—to him. It also represented the shortest possible range.

  The man focused the Leupold spotting scope there.

  Owing to the earlier threat of rain, the trail was mostly deserted. The man scanned the path and the scenic lookouts for five minutes, searching for a viable target. Shortly after one p.m. in the afternoon, he spotted two young women exit the Heritage Village. One was tall, lanky, with dirty-blonde hair to her shoulders and the sure stride of an athlete. The other was short and dumpy moving hesitantly over the wet stone. Both looked to be in their late teens, at most, early twenties.

  The pair walked west along the Trail leading to the lookouts. This would take them, ultimately, to a set of stairs and from there to a platform offering a clear view to the Presidents.

  The man measured the wind; prevailing at five knots from the west but changeable. At a downward angle of one hundred forty-two degrees and a range of fifteen hundred yards, it was a relatively easy shot.

  The man set down the spotting scope. From his backpack, he removed the component parts of the CheyTac M300, each piece secured in its own case with Velcro tabs. In sequence, he equipped the receiver with a rubberized pistol grip, a collapsible and adjustable buttstock, and a barrel equipped to suppress both muzzle flash and sound. Next, the man attached a Leupold Mark 4 rifle-scope, companion to the Mark 4 spotting scope. Lastly, he inserted the magazine pre-loaded with seven .375 caliber shells.