Reaper: Drone Strike: A Sniper Novel

by Nicholas Irving

  “I came to you first, Commander,” Padarski said.

  “I appreciate that. I would know if you hadn’t. What is it that you want to show me?”

  Padarski motioned him to the back of the truck, where one of Padarski’s men, a medic judging by the black cross on his sleeve, was kneeling next to a woman and two bodies covered by a tarp. The woman had a sandbag on her head and was cuffed with flex ties.

  “Two dead American soldiers and one Italian United Nations worker,” Padarski said. “The woman you asked about yesterday, that you saw from your bird.” Padarski pointed skyward.

  Tankian held up his hand to silence Padarski. He certainly didn’t want the United Nations individual hearing his voice. He retrieved his phone and texted his interior team. Three men bolted from the compound and sprinted through the side gate, running over the dusty terrain to his location. Tankian walked to meet them twenty meters from the truck.

  “Two dead American soldiers and one live UN worker. Place the woman in a cell and the dead men in the freezer.”

  The men nodded and jogged to the back of the truck, nudging Padarski out of the way. They ferried the dead soldiers first and then came back for the woman. As they carted her away, Tankian sighed and said to Padarski, “For me to take these people off your hands, tell your general I’ll need one hundred thousand euros.”

  “But, Commander—” Padarski began.

  Tankian held up his hand. “I know, it’s a friends-and-family rate. You can thank me later.”

  “I was thinking that you would pay me,” Padarski said.

  Tankian shook his head. “And what would you do with them had you kept them? Start World War III?”

  “You should pay,” Padarski said. “There was risk in getting them to you.”

  “There is also risk to you if I show your commander and wife the pictures of you with some of the whores.”

  Padarski’s face flushed red. Prostitutes were another service Tankian provided—with hidden cameras, of course. To lessen the blow, Tankian said, “Your secrets are safe with me if you do not cross me.”

  Padarski didn’t budge. Tankian lifted his hand and put it on Padarski’s shoulder.

  “There’s an American sniper somewhere in the valley. He could be close enough to hear this conversation or he could be five miles away. If you and your men find him, I’ll pay you one hundred thousand euros.”

  Padarski’s face brightened. “Where can I get the details?”

  “My man Shakir is inside. He has all the information you’ll need. Maps. GPS coordinates of where he parked the Suburban he stole. The pictures of the three men he killed. The crash site of the airplane. Everything. Instead of just protecting UN supply convoys, perhaps you can have your men also search for this very dangerous man. But be careful. He’s already killed three of my best men.”

  “I’ll bring my tanks in. We have night-vision and thermal sights. When the night comes, we will easily capture your sniper.”

  Tankian was doubtful but shook Padarski’s hand. It was soft, and he could tell that the man did not do the fieldwork; rather, his soldiers did. He was a perfumed prince, attempting to rack up points and get promoted. Nonetheless, he could give orders and his men could perform the heavy lifting. Tankian didn’t care. He just wanted the sniper captured.

  “We have a deal,” Tankian said.

  He dismissed the captain and made a second call to Germany.

  “Go secure,” Wolff said.

  “Secure,” Tankian said.

  “Why the sudden call?”

  “In Lebanon, we have a saying, ‘When the star Suhail shines, expect rain.’ Suhail must be shining, because it is raining good luck.”

  “Explain.”

  “Americans say, ‘When it rains, it pours.’”

  “Ah. Better news, then?”

  “We have a second prisoner. And two dead American soldiers.”

  A deep sigh over the phone, then, “Details?”

  “A UN worker. Female. Alessandra Cavezza.”

  “Cavezza?”

  “Yes. We will have more information for you shortly.”

  “I still want the live American first, but don’t deal away the Italian. And keep the dead Americans handy. They’ll be useful.”

  “Understood. Compensation?”

  “I’ll move a half million to your account now, and upon successful delivery, a full million euros for a total of one point five million euros.”

  “I usually don’t quibble, but I’d like a million up front and a million on the back end,” Tankian said.

  “There’s a saying about not looking gift horses in the mouth also,” Wolff said. “But I’ll accommodate your request based upon our prior strong relationship if, and only if, the soldier is confirmed as Ian Nolte. And in the meantime, I’ll do a little research on my end.” Wolff hung up.

  Tankian whispered to himself, “Two million euros.” He summoned Khoury, who appeared dutifully from the kitchen.

  “Commander?”

  “The two dead Americans. Take them to Tripoli and keep them in the morgue. It’s near the airport. We may have a buyer.”

  Khoury nodded, retrieved his personal mobile radio, and barked out instructions.

  Tankian climbed to the deck of his home and stared into the valley. Tanks roared north and south. Drones buzzed the skies like circling hawks looking for a rabbit. His guards manned the firing parapets in each cardinal direction.

  Shakir had wisely put his men on secure footing. Defend the compound while conducting reconnaissance.

  Feeling good, Tankian walked down the steps, into the back of the house, through the kitchen where his staff worked preparing this evening’s meal, and into the basement where the prisoners were being held in two of eight available cells. There were four on each side of a narrow hallway. The cells had heavy steel doors with sliding rectangular portholes that opened just enough for a guard to see in or pass food through.

  The basement was dark, wet, and cool, smelling of fresh concrete. He opened the slider on the woman’s cell door. She was standing in the middle, arms hanging by her side, fists balled, wrists bleeding from the flex-cuffs Khoury had removed.

  “Why am I here?” she said. Her voice was calm, devoid of fear.

  Tankian was impressed. He figured the metal manacles on the wall might scare her, but evidently not.

  Tankian just nodded and closed the slider.

  He walked to the soldier’s cell and opened the slider. The soldier was sleeping on the metal bed that protruded from the left wall. Tankian closed that slider. He walked past the two dead soldiers and inspected their wounds and gear. They’d been stripped of anything valuable, but he noticed the uniforms were the same as the captive’s.

  Walking to the stairs, he felt a text buzz on his phone.

  Confirmed. Prisoner is son of U.S. Senator Ian Nolte.

  Another text followed.

  Army Ranger. 24 years old. Partner is deadliest sniper in Special Forces history. They call him the Reaper.

  He texted Wolff: Confirmed.

  CHAPTER 12

  Max Wolff

  Max Wolff set down the phone after texting Jasar Tankian and made a temple with his fingers under his chin as he stared at the video feed. The ship was doing just fine, but now he had an entirely new dimension to add to the mix.

  Leaning back in his chair, he sighed and ran a hand along his silk black-and-blue-checked sport coat. Wolff stared at the gold-plated Daimler logo on the wall next to the display screen in the conference room. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided him a panoramic view of the German Alps. From the Daimler retreat near Garmisch, Germany, the jagged, whitecapped teeth of the Alps crawled south through Austria and into Italy.

  The big takeaway from the phone call? Ian Nolte Jr. was in the basement of his Lebanese logistician’s compound. The opportunities were limitless. With Andrea Comstock, the CEO of General Motors and presidential candidate walking up the steps to the mountain retreat, he had little tim
e to process all the ways he could use the information.

  What he did, though, was arrange Tankian’s pictures of Nolte into a quick presentation. He spent a minute reading about Nolte online. Notre Dame. Basketball. Famous senator father.

  His security at the front door welcomed Comstock into the retreat, and he met her in the lobby.

  “Andrea, welcome.”

  “Max. I don’t have much time, but thank you for the invite.”

  She was dressed in an open-collar blouse with the sleeves rolled up on her forearms. Her brunette hair was clipped just below her collar and parted on the left side. Her blazer hung over her shoulders perfectly; its dual Comstock–American flag pin stuck to the left-side lapel.

  “Please, have a seat.” They walked into the conference room and chose facing leather chairs separated by a wide oak conference table.

  Her toned calves showed as she crossed her legs. Her silk navy-blue skirt made a whishing sound as she shifted in her seat and gave Wolff her signature campaign smile. Wolff thought about her résumé and his play here.

  Comstock had played basketball at Dartmouth and attended Harvard Business School. After that, she had joined a private equity firm in Manhattan that led to a series of opportunities in management. Thin and wiry, she was nearly a half a foot shorter than Wolff’s six-and-a-half-foot frame. She was polling well through the primary season and had a slight advantage over her nearest competitor. There seemed to be some appetite for a businesswoman with progressive values to challenge the businessman in the White House. She had taken a short break from the campaign trail to meet with major donors in Europe and attend her first-ever Bilderberg conference, which she described as a NATO fact-finding mission. Wolff had lured her to the Garmisch ski resort with the tantalizing whiff of dirt on her primary opponent. A full dossier, Wolff had told her. So, here she was.

  A beautiful view and all he could think was, Just kill the bitch now. But that wouldn’t win back his $1 billion DoD deal. His board could understand that the Persian failure was beyond his control, but the DoD deal they attributed directly to him.

  Now that he had Ian Nolte as a hole card, however, he had the perfect play.

  “I’m concerned,” Wolff said. His voice was guttural and deep, sounding like it passed over gravel every time he spoke.

  “Can you be more specific, Max? I understand you’re on the ropes with your board. Is that what this is about?” Comstock asked.

  “I think I’ve got that about worked out. As I was saying, your president’s withdrawal from the Iran deal hurt us.”

  Comstock nodded and pursed her lips.

  “If I’m elected, I’m going to turn that around. Not for you, per se, but for our country.”

  “I’ve been following your platform. I want to support you. If you win, I’m back in favor with my board. We will have five billion in deals lined up for Daimler alone. Probably the same for GM. There’s maybe fifty billion to be had in trucks, cars, maintenance, and service in Iran. It will be life changing. We’ve tried everything under the sun to have the United States change. Open dialogue. Closed dialogue. Bilateral meetings. Multilateral meetings. Opinion pieces in the world’s major newspapers. And nothing. You think I’m going to sit here while China and North Korea work that market?”

  Comstock shrugged. “Support me, then, and you have a chance. This isn’t about the defense deal we beat you out on, is it?”

  Everything was about that deal. He was losing his job because of that and Iran!

  Wolff tried to hide his fury and thought his passive expression provided no tell of the thoughts raging in his mind. His team had lost a $1 billion contract with the United States government to General Motors for the construction and delivery of new cargo trucks. GM’s version was a complete rip-off of Wolff’s new truck line. Comstock had led the charge to Congress, proclaiming that America could not turn over its defense needs to a German company. These were trucks, not rockets, yet the U.S. Congress quickly added a line to the National Defense Authorization Act, which prevented the foreign acquisition of products for defense purposes that could be replicated in the United States. Comstock had snatched the already awarded contract from the hands of Wolff and Mercedes-Benz.

  “That, my friend, is water under the bridge. You know I’ve been passionate about this Iran market for a long time.”

  “Okay, then, you invited me here, Max. Said you had something urgent. Maybe about my opponent in the presidential race. I understand you may want something from me first, but eventually, I want to get to that. I have a campaign to run. Let’s get to it.”

  “In due time, Andrea. Hear me out.”

  “I’m open to conversations about how to move forward, but there will be no change until I’m elected president.”

  Wolff smirked. While Comstock actually had a chance, he didn’t think she would be around to accept the nomination. If it weren’t for Comstock’s maneuvering after the U.S. DoD had awarded the contract to Daimler to get that award held in contractual quarantine, he would actually support her for president. After all, she had leaped to the forefront over the career politicians by being the most electable candidate. Her business acumen garnered the support of the moderates happy with a strong economy and faithful that she would be a good steward. The simple fact that she was a woman CEO in a tough business won her props with undecided voters. She was consistent on all the standard party platform planks, such as being pro-choice, having a plan for the environment, and common-sense gun control, whatever that meant. She steered away from far-left kindling, such as the Green New Deal, Medicare for All, and sanctuary cities. She was a moderate in a field of panderers outracing one another to the far end of the spectrum. Comstock positioned herself as the winning alternative. And while she despised the current commander in chief, Comstock chose to focus on her policies and agendas as opposed to joining the incessant Pickett’s charges on the man’s every move. She played her game, not his, Wolff noticed.

  “Well, your president and his administration have destroyed this opportunity for the time being, and they’ve lost sight of what’s important.”

  “No argument there, Max.”

  “I’ve always struck back if someone has gotten in my way. That’s why I convinced Rouhani and Assad to attack Israel. Not that they needed much urging. A few new up-armored cars and a couple of million in cash and, presto, we have a new incursion in the Golan. There is no ideology in the world today. Even groups like ISIS only pretend to be concerned about ideology. They’re just one big gang on the biggest, most badass street corner in the world—the Middle East. Syria needed to stoke those embers anyway. Had been too long since Israel annexed the Golan and no response from Syria? Now we turn that screw and get the Americans looking at Israel to sharpen the divisions in your country. It helps you, correct?”

  “Perhaps, but I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

  “I’m thinking like Machiavelli. ‘The safest course is to destroy. Otherwise, if you only harm a man, he will seek revenge.’ Or words to that effect. Conversely, this president of yours. He has harmed me. You. Many others. He did not kill us. Are we to lie down and accept it? Or seek our revenge?”

  “My revenge is destroying him at the polls. That’s how we do it in America,” Comstock said.

  “Don’t be naive, Andrea. A few very powerful people run this world. We both just came back from Bilderberg. Welcome to the club. Not sure I can do another of those, by the way. I only go for the distraction and business development. You really think the American people choose their own president? Or is it people like us? Without Google, Facebook, Amazon, YouTube, Instagram, and Twitter all pulling for you, writing algorithms that favor you, do you really think you’d be where you are?”

  Comstock shifted in her chair. Wolff imagined that the prospect of becoming president was like the proverbial rabbit in front of the greyhound at the racetrack for her. Always teasing and always a few steps away. He could see that Comstock’s mind was considering
the question. Where would she be without the influence of a very few people?

  Wolff’s experience had taught him that a man or woman properly incentivized would rarely turn down an opportunity to either get rich or seize power, preferably both. An animal sports enthusiast, Wolff recalled his recent visit to Nîmes, France, where he had spent the day watching the French version of bullfighting. Purportedly, the bull had an option not to fight, but rarely took it. It was an instinct in both animal and man to fight. Comstock was a fighter. He was in the political ring scratching his hooves and aiming at the matador. Wolff imagined himself waving a muleta in front of Comstock, the red cape fluttering with a flick of his wrist.

  “I like to think the people are responding to me based upon my vision for America. My business approach. My values. My background.”

  “Of course. All of that is the baseline. The bare minimum. Anyone who can walk and chew bubble gum could contend against your current president. But what is it that makes you different? It’s your access to people like me.”

  “Yes, and I appreciate that, Max.” Comstock looked at her watch, impatient.

  “Just stay with me for a moment, Andrea. You’re polling dead even with your challenger, but both of you are polling ahead of your president. Living in Michigan, a battleground state, your worst case is that you could be the vice president.”

  “Or best case is president.”

  “Yes, that, too. Either works for me, actually. While you are ahead in the polls, nothing is a sure thing. And you and your party need a sure thing, right?”

  “I’m sure they—we—would like one, Max, but again, that will be solved at the ballot box, not by way of whatever manner you’re suggesting.”

  “Are you so sure?”

  “Last time was a fluke. The entire country is polarized. He’ll be gone.”

  “And last time he had a two percent chance and won?”

  Comstock paused. No response, just a shrug. The actual number was less than 2 percent.

  “In America, we have a process.”