Berkshire burned with the knowledge that using his own methods the CIA might have predicted, and possibly prevented, the events of 9-11, a catastrophe he put squarely on the shoulders of the Clinton Administration.
After the election of George W. Bush and the passage of the Intelligence Reform and Terrorism Prevention Act in two thousand four, Berkshire was elevated to his current position as Assistant Deputy Director, Counter Terrorism Center, at the CIA’s National Clandestine Service.
Working steadfastly for two years to purge the Clinton toadies from his department, Berkshire’s next major initiative was to recruit and to train an influential and elite shadow-force of non-governmental operatives tasked to deliver objective quantitative intelligence from the field—by all means necessary. This represented a sea-change shift away from the process favored by the political apparatchiks that had worked for Clinton and his holdover Director of Central Intelligence, George Tenet.
Berkshire despised Tenet, believed his type of flawed intelligence-gathering responsible for the ill-advised rush to war in Iraq, costing America thousands of lives and hundreds of billions of dollars.
After Tenet finally stepped down, Brookbank received both the funding and mandate conceived and envisioned by Berkshire. Through Brookbank, Mathias became one of his first recruits.
Sadly, under Obama, the Agency returned to the flawed ways of Bubba.
“Why are you here, Berk?” Mathias now asked his former handler.
“To renew old acquaintances.” Berkshire drained his mug, setting it down on a haystack.
“You’re lucky Tara didn’t shoot you down.”
Berkshire chuckled. “I imagine she wanted to.” Mathias nodded, serious. “But not you.” It was not a question.
Mathias worried the scar over his eyebrow. “I knew what I was getting into when I signed on.”
Berkshire shifted. “No hard feelings?”
Narrowing his eyes, Mathias said, “No hard feelings.”
“A true professional,” Berkshire said, his tone flat.
Turning his back on Berkshire, Mathias wandered over to a stall. He reached into a bushel-barrel of apples, the skins scarred and bruised. He offered the apple to a horse with a jet-black hide, fetlocks with three white socks, and a white star on the forehead.
“There’s a boy,” Mathias said gently, extending his hand. The horse whinnied, rolled back its lips to accept the treat.
“Nice animal,” Berkshire said.
“Tennessee Walking Horse,” Mathias said. “Sitting a good Walker is like being in a rocking chair; won’t wear-out your bottom on long rides. Tough, with lots of stamina. Hard hooves that hold up well to challenging trails, which around these parts are aplenty. But docile, easy to train. Ranch owners around here favor ‘em for recreational riding.”
“You breed, sell, train?”
“All of the above,” Mathias said.
Berkshire counted stalls; six in total. After a rough calculation, he said, “You’re not making much money.”
“Money isn’t why I’m here. Question is: why are you?”
Reaching out, Berkshire stroked the animal’s hide. Unable to distinguish in the dim light, he said, “Female or male?”
“Gelding,” Mathias replied.
“Poor boy,” said Berkshire. “A man with no balls.”
Eyeing Berkshire speculatively, Mathias said, “What, exactly, is it you’re trying to say, Berk?”
Thumping the animal’s flank, Berkshire retreated. He said, “What do you know about the American eagle?”
Mathias shrugged, indifferent.
Berkshire continued. “Eagles produce one to three eggs per year, two being typical. Often, the oldest chick has the advantage of size over the youngest. Often, the oldest chick will attack and kill the younger. Sometimes, the mother will simply toss the weaker chick from the nest, allowing the stronger to thrive. A perfect illustration of survival of the fittest.”
Mathias remained silent. Berkshire said, “You know Kyprios passed away five years ago. What you don’t know is Freeman took his own life last month. What I’m trying to say, Mathias is of the eight men who entered The Registan that day only you have survived.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Antimony, Utah
NEXT DAY, with the sky clear-blue to the horizon, the Vulcanair departed with a flyby and a playful waggle of its wings.
Later, in the kitchen over coffee, Tara said to Mathias: “You’re being manipulated, Mathias. Berkshire is playing your guilt like a fiddle.”
Setting down his steaming mug, Mathias replied, “Sure, like a Stradivarius.”
In the barn the previous evening the men had talked until past midnight. Islamic Terrorist, Domestic Terrorist, or Serial Killer Berkshire had told Mathias; foreign national or radicalized American citizen?
“We don’t know. What we know is thirty-two dead, at last count, in twelve western States over a seventy-three day period beginning in May, all by a long-range military-grade sniper rifle. Kill-distance estimated at between fifteen hundred and two thousand-plus yards. Women and men, no children so far, thank you, God. But to me, it’s just a matter of time.”
“And the media haven’t connected the dots?” Mathias asked.
“We hope to have closure before they do.”
“Local law enforcement?”
“Clueless.”
“The Bureau?”
“To answer your first question, it’s why I’m here. They need someone of your specific skill-set, Mathias. I’m here asking on behalf of a friend: Deputy Director Gloria Resnick. She and I go way back. She called me. I told her all I can do is ask.”
Sitting on a bale of hay, elbows on knees, Mathias regarded Berkshire skeptically. “Why recruit from the outside? The Bureau has access to the resources internally.”
Berkshire nodded. “The Director is hanging on to his job by his short and curlies. Congress has his balls in a vice, and the grip is tightening. The DNC hack, Russia, Vegas, Parkland. From influencing the outcome of an election to selectively ignoring threats to national security and innocent American lives, it’s been one massive cluster-fuck after another. If he isn’t dismissed, he’ll be forced to resign. The Bureau will need a replacement.”
“And this friend with who you go way back, the Deputy Director, is the logical choice?”
“Resnick wants to go in on a high note. She’s overseeing the investigation herself.”
Standing, Mathias worked the damp from his joints. “Doesn’t explain the need to hire a freelancer. Freelancers are messy and unpredictable,” Mathias said, quoting Berkshire directly from his own statement made to a Congressional inquiry into the behavior of Brookbank contractors in Afghanistan.
Berkshire studied Mathias’s compact six foot, two hundred pound frame. After what he’d been through, a remarkable testament to human resilience and recovery. When Mathias arrived Stateside from Germany, Berkshire was on the tarmac to meet him. The prognosis was dire. More broken bones than suffered in a lifetime of motorcycle stunts performed by the daredevil Evel Knievel. Brain trauma from which doctors feared he would never recover. A stent through his skull to relieve the pressure of internal bleeding. Mathias’s face had been heavily bandaged with only tubes protruding to provide oxygen.
His face no longer handsome, you couldn’t argue it lacked for character, Berkshire decided.
Sensing his scrutiny, Mathias said, “So you know, Tara blames you for all of this.”
“Tara blames me for everything, Mathias. But you were the Commanding Officer.” Berkshire watched the muscles of Mathias’s body tighten into hard knots of remorse. “Full disclosure?” he said.
Humorless, Mathias chuckled.
“Fair enough, Mathias. You have no reason to trust me.”
“I don’t, but say what you came here to say, anyway.”
“The White House wants this guy’s head on a pike.”
“Ah,” Mathias said, realization dawning. “You need an assassin.”
Over the next two hours, Berkshire briefed Mathias on the details of the problem and his proposed solution.
TWENTY-SIX
Antimony, Utah
“I’LL BE OPERATING on American soil, Tara, not a million miles away in hostile enemy territory. The Agency will supply logistics, everything from intelligence and surveillance to aerial reconnaissance via satellite and unmanned drone. I’ll have the support of every Bureau Field Office and FBI Agent throughout the United States. The mission is simple: track and terminate, do not engage. I’ll never be within a mile of the target, never in harm’s way.”
Tara rinsed plates at the kitchen sink, back turned to Mathias. She didn’t know what angered her most; Mathias lying to her or lying to himself. She said, “The shooter has been active for months, Mathias. He’s meticulous. He’s skilled, and he’s killed. You? You’ve been on the shelf for years.”
“All that experience didn’t help me in The Registan, did it?”
Turning to face him, anger rising like lava from the lip of a volcano, Tara said, “Is that what this is? A do-over? A chance to make amends?” Tara regretted the remark as soon as it left her lips; in for a penny in for a pound, she doubled-down. “To ease your guilty conscience? For those men who died or for you not dying alongside them? I’m sorry, Mathias, but I won’t apologize for that, for being thankful you made it back alive. Why should you?”
Mathias sat at the kitchen table, feeling bleak. He stared down into his mug, examined the dregs of his morning coffee. He couldn’t argue her logic. But as a commanding officer, you don’t walk away from seven dead on your watch scot-free. Did Mathias feel responsible for the death of those men and what it had done to their families? Roger that. Did he feel the need to make amends? Ditto. Would a successful resolution to the opportunity offered by Berkshire expunge his guilt? Possibly not, but it was a damn good start.
“I need this, Tara,” he said.
“Need it or want it?” Mathias didn’t reply. “Fine. But if you fall off the wall, Humpty, don’t expect me to pick up the pieces; not this time. Put your self back together, cowboy.”
Tara turned, exiting the kitchen. Mathias sat for a moment contemplating the receding image of her backside. After a while, he moved from the table. He rinsed his mug. He loaded it to the dishwasher. Outside the kitchen window, the thermometer remained stuck at an even seventy-three degrees. Twenty thousand feet above the Plateau, a ribbon of cirrus cloud formed, morphed, and dissipated, looking to Mathias like a river finding a new direction.
Unwilling to over-think his decision, Mathias reached for his mobile phone. First, he arranged for the care of the stable in his absence. Next, he booked a one-way ticket to DC departing day after tomorrow. Lastly, Mathias telephoned his attorney in Provo with instructions on what to do should he fail to return home.
◊◊◊
The wind howled. In bed, Tara refused to move close. Preparing for separation, Mathias imagined. From her breathing, he knew she was awake.
Like Tara, Mathias, too, prepared to confront his demons. But unlike Tara, Mathias was resigned to knowing he had no choice. He’d made it out of The Registan by chance. Every minute he lived beyond that terrible day the RPG demolished his vehicle was, to him, time stolen from the dead. He’d failed to honor an obligation to his fallen comrades. In the life he chose to live—the ranch, Tara—he’d dishonored their memory miserably.
Repeatedly, Tara warned him You don’t owe anyone, anything. Mathias disagreed, knowing his debt incalculable.
Knowing Mathias well, Berkshire knew this too, which is why he came. Why he chose to recruit a broken-down former soldier to do a job more suited to a team of younger, better-trained professionals. Berkshire knew Mathias would run the shooter to ground. Berkshire knew Mathias would kill him.
And Berkshire knew, if Mathias didn’t, he would die trying.
TWENTY-SEVEN
New Orleans, Louisiana
THE FIRST SATURDAY in August. Temperature sits at a dank eighty-eight degrees and not yet noon. Cicadas buzz through the tree-tops like whipsaws. No rain in the forecast, only the risk of a late-afternoon thunderstorm, potentially violent, passing through the Parish. Later, a clearing of the sky and a cleansing of the air.
The perfect accompaniment to Whitney White Linen Night in New Orleans, a tradition revisited every summer in the city’s Warehouse Arts District on the first Saturday night in August. In the spirit of the occasion, revelers wear white outfits and white hats as they stroll leisurely through the art galleries along Julia Street and adjacent side streets, carefree as song-birds, vulnerable as doves.
TWENTY-EIGHT
New Orleans, Louisiana
THE WINDOW AIR CONDITIONER hummed to little effect. The man mopped his brow with a damp kerchief. The room reeked of stale cigarettes, mildew, and mold. On a bedside table, the remnants of a take-out breakfast sat partially eaten, globs of butter-fat congealing over the waxed-paper wrapper. From the room next door, the rhythmic beat of sex. One-half hour on, one hour off all through the night, keeping him awake.
It was not how he imagined his first visit to the city.
The man hoisted his long legs from the mattress. He crossed over the stained carpet to the bathroom. In the bathroom, he stripped naked. He adjusted the faucet for a cold-water shower. On check-in, he’d been offered the option of a shared bath. One look from the new arrival said to the desk clerk this was no option at all.
Shaved and showered, the man dressed in cargo shorts, athletic socks, and a loose-fit, oversize LSU Tigers tee shirt. He laced on a pair of well-worn cross-trainers. He stuffed a Tigers knapsack full of clothing worn on a seventeen hour, two-day bus trip from Albuquerque, New Mexico, where he’d tallied his fortieth kill.
Returning to the bathroom, he balanced himself on the lip of the tub and the vanity counter-top to reach an overhead exhaust fan. He removed the cover plate using a portable screwdriver. Using the screwdriver, he detached the fan. He disconnected the black, the green, and the neutral white wires. The man removed an envelope containing false identification and a stack of hundred dollar bills from the ventilation duct. He replaced the fan, reconnected the wires. Replacing the cover, he stepped down.
The man conducted an inspection of the room to ensure he’d left nothing behind. He secured the 45 Magnum in his waistband. From under the bed, he retrieved a canvas carryall, hefted it over his shoulder. Lastly, he pulled a Tiger’s ball cap low over his eyes.
From the motel room, the man exited onto Ursulines Avenue. With hours to spare, he walked south toward the Mississippi River. A tour of the French Quarter and the waterfront. The man could walk miles in the heat. He was a pack horse. He’d marked time in places worse than this.
TWENTY-NINE
Washington, DC
TWO TOURS IN IRAQ, a tour in Afghanistan, and an encore performance courtesy of Brookbank Security in that broken-down excuse for a country had hardened Mathias to the ugly reality of violent death.
Still, he was moved by the overhead display showing before and after images of The Shooter’s now confirmed thirty-seven victims.
These weren’t soldiers, terrorists, or extremists. These weren’t combatants bound by duty, financial gain, or belief to take or to give life. These were the Innocents; mothers, fathers, grandparents, daughters, sons, women, men, young, old, black, white, and every shade of color in-between.
Thankfully, no children: yet.
The meeting was hosted by Deputy Director Resnick at the hulking J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington DC, a much-maligned structure of add-ons, false walls, and crumbling concrete.
From a conference room on the fourth floor overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue, the dew-covered lawn of President’s Park sparkled like a jewel in the early morning sun. Situated as if intentionally within sight of the White House, J. Edgar Hoover is rumored to have amassed evidence implicating a succession of Commanders in Chief in political and sexual debauchery and chicanery of all kind.
Chairing the meeting was the DD. Joining her and Mathias were Denver Special Agent in Charge Arthur Dubnyk, a trio of senior intelligence analysts, and four Special Agents assigned to support Mathias in the field; two women, two men, all who looked to Mathias like they’d just graduated the Academy at Quantico.
“The Shooter is highly skilled,” Resnick said, draining the last from a cup of coffee, her fourth of the morning. Tasting acid, she squelched the urge to belch. “And indiscriminate.”
They’d spent two hours from six a.m. onward reviewing the case file. Expression blank, eyes fixed on the photos of the victims, Mathias said, “Skilled, ma’am, but not indiscriminate.”
Watching him from across the table, Resnick tried to read the man who—according to Dabney Berkshire—was seeking to atone for past sins. But how to read a man with a face like a jigsaw puzzle assembled by a dyslexic grade-schooler?
“Just Mathias” he’d said to her by way of introduction the previous afternoon exiting the jetway leading to the terminal at Reagan International Airport.
Though offered a private Gulfstream from Provo into DC, he’d declined, choosing, instead, to fly economy aboard Frontier. Refusing the offer of a luxury suite at the Mandarin Oriental nearby, he’d opted for a Days Inn.
To prepare for Mathias’s arrival, Resnick had reviewed his file. Like Lazarus, he was a man risen from the dead. Looking perpetually quizzical and bemused with the piercing gray eyes of a wolf, Resnick couldn’t help but find the man inexplicably attractive.
American Sniper Page 4
