The time was ten eighteen. The journey overland through hilly terrain, rocky outcroppings, and potentially impassable obstacles would take no more than four hours. An hour to target and exterminate the opposition, fifteen minutes to deal with the woman, thirty minutes either way for contingencies; they’d return to Provo before sunrise.
EIGHTY-EIGHT
Antimony, Utah
LESS THAN FORTY-EIGHT hours after taking Chief Bohannon’s call, Hathaway found himself dropping from a nylon zip-line into hostile territory reminiscent of an exercise he vowed to never again repeat.
After arriving in East Harlem, he was hustled by Bohannon and Chan into a waiting Cadillac Escalade. There, they joined two shady-looking Asians, one riding shotgun, the other at the wheel. Crossing over the Hudson River into New Jersey under cover of darkness, they arrived at a remote airstrip where a Gulfstream G550 sat on the tarmac, twin engines revving. In minutes, they were airborne.
Delirious with fatigue after the twenty-three hour non-stop drive from Big Pine Key, immediately upon takeoff Hathaway crashed. Four hours later, the G550 touched down in Provo, Utah. Before Hathaway had time to wonder or even to ask, the door opened, and Bohannon and Chan deplaned. He followed them down the steps to the tarmac where a nondescript white transit van with tinted windows waited.
They entered the van through the rear door. Other than the driver, the van was empty. Together with Chan, he sat opposite Bohannon on bare metal jump-seats. Bohannon remained mute while beside him Chan twitched. As a former addict, himself, Hathaway wondered if Chan might be taking drugs.
Exiting the airfield gate, they drove for twenty minutes through a series of mixed-use commercial, industrial, and residential neighborhoods. Eventually, the suburbs gave way to a flat, dry, stony landscape with mountains in the distance on all sides. Thirty minutes later they turned off the main road onto a gravel side-road. Bouncing over the uneven surface, Hathaway’s spine ached. Soon, they arrived at a set of ten-foot-tall security gates topped with barbed wire. Lowering his window, the driver spoke Spanish into a microphone mounted on a pedestal.
The gate opened.
A short journey along a paved drive brought them to a hacienda-style home, in Hathaway’s world what passed for a mansion. When the van reached the carved-wood double front door, the van stopped. The trio exited the vehicle, Hathaway squinting against a high sun.
Turning to Bohannon, he ventured, “Too soon to say what this is all about, Chief?”
As if reading Hathaway’s thoughts, Bohannon said, “You’re tired, you’re hungry. First, you eat, then you sleep. We reconvene at sixteen hundred hours in the dining hall. Then, you learn what this is all about.”
EIGHTY-NINE
Antimony, Utah
“DOUBLE-TIME,” THE CHIEF SAID, startling Hathaway back into the moment.
Watching Hathaway closely, Chan said, “Easy does it, Sarge, just like we talked about back at the Ponderosa.”
Ignoring the jibe, Hathaway shouldered his weapon, a Remington M24-A3, an upgrade on the standard M24 used by snipers in the U.S. Army. The A3 had chambering for an ultra-powerful .338 Lapua Magnum long-range cartridge designed to engage targets up to four thousand yards away.
Oh, to have had such a weapon in Iraq! Hathaway mused.
Knowing the night-time desert temperature would drop thirty degrees from the daytime high, each man wore an insulated neoprene wet suit beneath a black, zip-front jumper. Form-fit insulated gloves would keep fingers warm to below twenty degrees Fahrenheit. To communicate, each man carried a two-way wireless radio with earbud and microphone; to see, night vision lenses. A digital heat sensor was able to map a target to a distance of one hundred yards.
In addition to the M24s, they carried a silenced Glock sidearm. If things got up-close-and-personal, there was a six-inch blade with a serrated edge and a garrote. Footwear was Kevlar-reinforced ankle-high combat boots with a metal shank; strong enough to protect against the rocky landscape or repel a snakebite, light enough to walk for miles on end.
Speeding the journey over the rugged landscape, Bohannon used hand-held GPS to plot the course, sonar to detect unseen hazards.
Eight miles to ground zero.
Bohannon estimated the opposition at between five to seven men.
Would they meet with resistance?
He certainly hoped so.
NINETY
Provo, Utah
THE GULFSTREAM WAS GROUNDED in New York for repairs. It was three hours before mechanics decided the problem couldn’t be fixed, two before a second plane could be delivered.
In the meanwhile, Mathias waited, talking to Tara by phone. She’d arrived back at the ranch the evening before.
Unapologetic, she’d said, “It doesn’t mean I approve of your decision. Only that I shouldn’t have left. It was weak.”
“No, Tara. I’d prefer you to stay with Allison until I return,” Mathias said, tone neutral.
“The ranch is as much my home as it is yours. Whatever we are, Mathias, we are together.”
Unable to argue the point, Mathias said, “I’d planned to be home for dinner tonight. At this rate, it could be breakfast tomorrow.”
“Cupboards are bare, sport. Could do breakfast in the morning; haven’t yet checked the coop for eggs. But dinner tonight? Not a chance.”
Unwilling to annoy her, Mathias didn’t mention the Agency security detail.
“I’ll charter a plane in Provo, fly it in myself. With luck, I’ll be there in time to tuck you in.”
“Tuck me in? Miss me that much, do you?” Tara said, teasing but lighthearted.
“You have no idea,” Mathias said, before ringing off.
As it happened, the second plane, too, was delayed. By the time Mathias touched down in Provo, it was after midnight. Unable to charter a small craft at that hour, Mathias spent the night in an airplane hangar tossing and turning on a hard metal bench, travel bag tucked beneath his head cold comfort.
NINETY-ONE
Antimony, Utah
AGAIN, THEY’D UNDERESTIMATED the drop in overnight temperature. At sixty-five hundred feet, Antimony was a no man’s land of extremes straddling the Colorado Plateau of the southeast before rising into the central Rocky Mountains of the west.
“I’m freezing my nut-sac off, Alpha-one,” said Alpha-two, complaining. “Fingers get any stiffer, I’ll need a pair of vice-grips to press down on the trigger.”
Alpha-one checked the time: two twelve a.m.; six hours to relief.
“Shove your hands down your pants, Alpha-two,” suggested Alpha-three. “Kill two birds with one stone.”
“Wise-ass.”
“Suit yourself. I’m wearing wool mitties.”
“How are you going to fire your weapon wearing mitts?” said Alpha-two.
“Not like anything gonna’ happen out here quickly or unexpectedly, is it?”
Though non-essential radio-chatter among team members was forbidden, Alpha-one declined to comment. Anything to take their mind off the cold.
Tonight, he, himself, had come better prepared. An insulated vest, insulated gloves with open fingertips, and insulated, sturdy hiking boots. He’d filled a thermos with steaming chicken broth, packed a half dozen power bars laced with caffeine. So far, so good. Too bad he couldn’t say the same for his team.
“Time to say goodbye, Alpha-two, Alpha-three. Out here, sound carries.”
“Nearest road is two miles away,” said Alpha-two. “It’s black out here as my ex-wife’s heart. A vehicle approaching the ranch? I’ll clock it from five-miles-out.”
Though not technically a superior officer, Alpha-one had been designated agent-in-charge of the surveillance operation.
Accustomed to safeguarding the lives of visiting dignitaries and heads of State, turncoat Narcos, various scumbags and spies in densely populated urban settings, Alpha-one had never worked security for a nobody in a no-place such as this. To their advantage was the only access point to the property; a county road
leading to the long dusty drive to the home.
He agreed with Alpha-two; if the bad guys came, they’d see them coming for miles.
Removing the cap from the thermos, Alpha-one sipped chicken broth, savoring the warmth.
NINETY-TWO
Antimony, Utah
FOUR HOURS LATER, from the summit of a hillock, Bohannon spotted the ranch house two miles out. Leading to the ranch was a mostly flat expanse of hardscrabble plain glittering beneath the light of a three-quarter moon. Dotted with boulders, sagebrush, yucca, and prairie grass, it descended steeply before leveling off at a dry gulch. In springtime, Bohannon imagined the gully would be swollen with runoff.
The home was a decent size structure having two distinct wings, broader than it was long. From a distance, it resembled a flying-V. Moonlight reflected pale off a tin roof sloping down to wrap-around porches either side. Access to the home was via double-French doors off the verandas.
Bordering a flagstone pathway leading to the home was prairie grass, a collection of spindly-looking shrubs, saguaro and prickly pear cactus. Illuminating the front porch was a single hanging lamp with a perforated tin shade. Inside, the home was dark. Fifty yards to the northwest was a clapboard barn, beside the barn a lean-to storage shelter. Feed for the horses, Bohannon assumed.
A nice set-up. Very Little House on the Prairie: bravo fucking Mathias.
To Bohannon’s left, Chan twitched. To his right, Hathaway remained still as a sandstone sculpture carved by a relentless wind.
“Fan-out at fifty-yard increments,” Bohannon said, keeping his voice low. “Take note of any sentries but do not engage; maintain a perimeter at three thousand yards out. I want to know what we’re in for before we commit. Let’s not spook the woman. When you move, it’s on my say-so only.”
Hathaway nodded. Chan seemed disappointed.
After which, his men evaporated like phantoms into the gloom.
NINETY-THREE
Antimony, Utah
CRAB-LIKE, CHAN SKITTERED over the hard-pack. Defying Bohannon’s order to hold and maintain the perimeter, he’d closed to within a distance of two thousand yards from the ranch-house. Using night-vision, he scanned the broad slope leading down to the home. The enhanced view revealed a sparsely populated landscape of sagebrush, yucca, odd-shaped cactus, native shrubs, and rubble ranging in size from small stones to large boulders. The boulders—some standing alone, many arranged in clusters of three or more—offered perfect cover. An enemy could remain hidden while keeping watch on the home and the lone access road.
Chan exchanged the night-vision goggles for the heat sensitive. With a range of only one hundred yards, he detected no visible sign of life.
Cautiously, he inched forward foot by agonizing foot. Once, his earpiece chirped: Bohannon.
“Jackie, see anything?”
“Negative,” Chan replied, bristling at hearing Jackie.
“Max?”
“Negative, Chief,” came Hathaway’s indifferent response.
“Advance five hundred yards, hold and continue to observe,” Bohannon ordered.
Having already advanced thirteen hundred yards, Chan again moved forward. Five hundred yards ahead, off his right flank, he detected a faint but undeniable reddish-yellow halo emanating from his viewfinder. One moment there, gone the next. Continuing his slow but steady advance, Chan adjusted course, moving in a direct line toward the light source.
Four hundred yards…
Two hundred yards…
At one hundred yards, the heat signature glowed distinct enough for Chan to detect the shape of a man. A sentry seated motionless among a trio of fair-size boulders. Well-hidden from view from the ranch-house and an approach from the county road.
But from Jackie Chan advancing from the rear?
Not so much.
Chan licked his lips.
NINETY-FOUR
Antimony, Utah
HAVING SOUGHT SHELTER from a bitter northwest wind among a trio of fair-size boulders, Alpha-two nodded-off. Despite the chill night air or because of it? The makeshift hiding-place of hard-pack dirt allowed a clear view of the ranch-house and the county road but was also comfortable enough to induce sleep.
Startled awake by an unknown screech, Alpha-two shivered. He checked the time: ten-of-three. Shaking loose the cobwebs, he reached for a thermos. He unscrewed the lid and poured coffee. He sipped. Thankfully, it remained gloriously hot. From his backpack, he retrieved a mixed cold-cut sandwich prepared by the woman at the ranch where days earlier, the handler had negotiated a home base. On leaving for his shift, the woman had tut-tutted his choice of outerwear.
“No matter how cold you believe it’s gonna’ be out there, Hoss, when the sun drops, it’s gonna’ be ten times colder’n you expec’,” she’d said.
Recalling her words, he regretted not heeding the advice.
Counting the minutes to sunup, Alpha-two waited, a gallon of steaming coffee at hand to keep him alert.
NINETY-FIVE
Antimony, Utah
NEAR ENOUGH TO SMELL the aroma of coffee; Chan enjoyed the smell but never the taste. He’d muted his earpiece. Anticipating hand-to-hand combat, he withdrew his blade with the vicious-looking serrated edge.
For Jackie Chan, it had been far, far too long.
NINETY-SIX
Antimony, Utah
THE MAN’S EYELIDS drooped despite the injection of caffeine. To stay awake, he needed conversation. One last cup and he’d contact Alpha-one and Alpha-three to gab.
NINETY-SEVEN
Antimony, Utah
ALPHA-TWO TIPPED back his head for a final sip. Chan moved. Lunging from the darkness like a panther, he pinned the man to the rock where he sat. Placing a hand to the man’s forehead, he drove a forefinger and thumb deep into his eye sockets, blinding him instantly. At the same time, he thrust a knee powerfully into his groin, crushing the testicles about which the man earlier complained. Before Alpha-two could react or call-out, Chan had sliced through his windpipe with the serrated blade, eviscerating the vocal cords, making them useless. Severing both the external and internal carotid arteries and internal and external jugular veins, the man bled-out in only moments.
Stoic, Chan remained still as the warm blood oozed over his hands. A messy job needing considerable strength.
Thankfully, Jackie Chan was strong and didn’t mind getting his hands dirty.
NINETY-EIGHT
Antimony, Utah
“NO CHOICE, CHIEF, but to make it up-close and personal. Was on top of the man before I knew it.”
Bohannon stared, skeptical of Chan’s explanation. “You’ve lost your touch, Jackie. Never would have happened in the old days.”
Chan shrugged, offered Bohannon a sheepish grin. “Maybe, Chief. But I’m a man in a ten thousand dollar suit these days, not a grunt in shit-stained skivvies.”
“You pushed Hathaway and me into a forced decision. I prefer to choose my own moments.”
“Yes, sir,” Chan said.
“So long as we’re on the same page, Jackie.”
Hathaway said, “You have blood spatter on your face, Chan.”
Chan rubbed at his cheeks with a gloved fist, leaving a bloody smear.
“And, Jackie?” said Bohannon. “You leave the woman to me. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Chan said, flipping Bohannon a crisp salute.
Had Bohannon thought him mocking, he’d have dropped Chan dead on the spot. As it was, he returned his own half-hearted wave.
Hathaway watched the interaction. Chan was nuts. The only man in the world he knew nuttier than Chan was Bohannon.
“Move out,” Bohannon said, tone soft but determined.
Three abreast, they moved together down the slope toward the ranch-house where the woman lay sleeping.
NINETY-NINE
Antimony, Utah
RESTLESS AND UNABLE to sleep, Tara tossed and turned in bed. She’d sat up to well into the night, propped by pillows arranged against th
e headboard, reading a coma-inducing groaner of a novel. (Mathias teased her relentlessly over her effort to organize the pillows only to fall fast asleep after reading only a sentence.) Though the book was a certifiable yawner, she did not drift off. Finally, nearing one a.m., she put out the light, closed her eyes, hoped for the best.
Now, reading the digital clock display, she lamented that her best was not good enough. Three forty-five a.m. In an hour, the sky would lighten. In two, the sun would rise.
Needing to pee, Tara kicked back the bedsheet. In bare feet, she crossed the floor to the en suite bathroom. Outside the bathroom window, blanched by the light of a three-quarter moon, she could see the outline of the broad stony slope rising to a series of low hills leading to the higher elevation of Table Mountain. Often, Mathias would disappear into those hills on horseback, not return for days. At first, it alarmed her. Later, she realized it was just Mathias being Mathias.
Mathias, just Mathias, as if dropping the surname could erase the history attached.
American Sniper Page 15
