The leader stopped abruptly and held up his right hand in a fist. The rest froze but kept their eyes busy.
“Dammit, Martin, they smelled your piss.” Swanson watched as the leader put his hand to his right ear, probably communicating with the command post. Then the German slung his rifle, removed his helmet, and put on the distinctive maroon beret with the wreathed-sword badge of the KSK. The other three followed his movement, dropping their wariness and standing in place.
“Gunny Swanson!” the team leader called out. “I am Oberfeldwebel Mausch. I have just been informed that this exercise is terminated and that you are needed immediately in our command post to answer an emergency call from Washington.”
“Right here, Oberfeldwebel. We’re coming in.”
Mausch wheeled in surprise. The voice was behind him. A clump of underbrush stirred, then grew into the shape of a man as Swanson stood, shook off the hood of his ghillie, and raised his hand.
Martin also struggled to his feet, wondering how to cover the dark stain at his crotch.
“I think we would have found you,” the German said with a reluctant smile as Kyle reached their group.
“But you didn’t,” the Marine replied. The two NCOs shook hands, then walked casually down to the command center, exchanging sniper shop talk.
“What’s that awful stench?” asked another of the German soldiers as the rest of the team followed.
“I think the young American has wet his pants,” mocked another one.
“My friends, that is the sweet smell of success,” said Martin.
3
GERMANY
SWANSON WAS HUSTLED directly to the convoy’s communication vehicle, a multiwheeled armored beast stacked with small satellite reception disks and aerials. Cables stretched to generators and subsidiary radio units that were hardlined into the vehicles serving the commander and his staff. Kyle stripped off the ghillie and dropped most of the gear, but camo grease still stained his face, and his uniform was caked with dirt. The call was said to be urgent, so soap and water would have to wait.
The door opened to show a frame of red light, and an enlisted man stepped out of the comm van. “Sound and camera have been tested, and the secure uplink is ready for you. Take the first seat,” the soldier said, jumping to the ground. Kyle climbed up and in, pulling the door closed behind him. The soft red interior light automatically switched to regular lighting, and the whir of fans indicated a first-class climate control system that kept the guts of the electronics cool and provided temperate spaces for the human workers. Panels of lighted dials, knobs and switches, handsets, and a half-dozen small flat television display screens were lined precisely along both bulkheads. All were blank except one. Kyle sat down and swiveled toward the lighted unit. “Hey, Liz,” he said to the face on the screen. “What’s up?”
Navy Commander Benton Freedman was the technology chief of Task Force Trident. Marine Major General Bradley Middleton was the commander, Marine Lieutenant Colonel Sybelle Summers was operations officer, and Senior Master Sergeant O. O. Dawkins was the do-it-all administrator. Swanson was the field operator, the deadly triggerman for an organization that performed the sort of missions that would never be written about in the history books. Five people were the total complement of the unit. Trident itself did not appear on any military flow chart. It occupied a suite of offices deep inside the Pentagon, but from there, it had a worldwide reach.
Freedman was concentrating on whatever was happening, with his tousled black hair and big glasses giving him the look of a nerd on steroids. He had been called “the Wizard” by his college classmates because of his genius with electronics, but the Tridents changed that to “Lizard” and then chopped it again to “Liz.” He glanced up but did not comment on Swanson’s appearance. “Wait one for the general,” he said, and with the stroke of a key, his face vanished and was replaced by the unsmiling grimace of General Middleton. As usual, the Trident commanding officer wasted no time with pleasantries. “Gunny, there was a terrorist event at our consulate in Barcelona, Spain, this morning. The entire six-man Marine guard detachment was wiped out, the consul general was KIA, and at least ten others are dead, including the RSO. Unknown number of wounded. Heavy local civilian casualty count.”
“Yes, sir.” Swanson just acknowledged the observation, since he had not been asked to comment. The general wasn’t calling to tell him something that would be popping up soon on television news and Twitter.
“This is almost a real-time situation, Gunny, so we—the people we work for back here—want you to get in there right away and help the FBI do a tactical analysis and survey the area from a military attack standpoint. The Germans are laying on a helicopter to take you to a base large enough to handle a big plane, and you will fly directly to Rota. You will rendezvous with an officer who will give you a package of information, then get you down to Barcelona.”
“Yes, sir.” Why do I sense that there is more to this than just me jumping into Spain in such a hurry to take a look at a crime scene?
“We have six dead Marines, Gunny. I want you involved up to your neck. The frag orders at Rota will give you more details. Good luck.” The screen went blank.
* * *
ONCE HE WAS CLEANED UP and had packed his gear, the Germans got Swanson over to Ramstein Air Base, where he had a seat waiting aboard a VIP C-20 of the 86th Airlift Wing, and the Gulfstream jet ferried him to the giant naval station on the coast of Rota, Spain. The other three passengers were an admiral and his aide and an Army brigadier general, so conversation was only polite small talk and kept mostly between the two flag officers. Swanson tuned them out and used the short time aloft to catch some sleep. He had learned long ago to sleep whenever he had a chance, and since he had been awake for almost forty-eight hours during the war game, he had a dreamless, deep rest. In fact, he snored. The plane had banked and touched down with a squeal of rubber tires on hard tarmac before Kyle blinked awake again.
It rolled to an easy stop, and the copilot, an Air Force major, came back into the cabin and popped the hatch. The admiral descended the steps first, followed by his aide, and they were greeted by other staff members in sharp Navy whites throwing crisp salutes. The general, a one-star, carried his own briefcase and walked toward a waiting car. The copilot raised his hand to stop Swanson in the aisle. “You might as well stay in your seat, Gunny. A messenger is coming aboard to deliver a packet for you; then we have orders to ferry you over to Barcelona. Plenty of fuel for that hop, and it won’t take too long. Get yourself a drink out of the galley and be comfortable.”
Swanson nodded. The job, whatever it was, seemed to be gathering speed, forcing him along like a stick on a rising tide, and he didn’t know why. The supposed assignment of helping the FBI had to be bullshit, even though it had come straight from Middleton. By this time, whole teams of American investigators would be heading into Spain to tear the crime scene apart and map and photograph it to the inch. Middleton frequently left bread crumbs along the path to confuse anyone who might try to track what was really happening. Those trained forensic crews were much better equipped than Kyle for such work, for his own talent lay in killing people. The general was always testing him, and Swanson assumed that in the long run, Middleton would be satisfied that his prize shooter was still up to his unknown standard, had not mellowed out, and still had a sharp edge. Only then would he give the gunny a job and send Swanson out to take care of some violent business. Kyle got a chilled bottle of juice from the small refrigerator. Middleton is such a pain in the butt. He doesn’t do that measuring-stick thing with anybody else in Trident.
A Marine second lieutenant wearing a sidearm ducked into the cabin and snapped, “Are you Gunnery Sergeant Swanson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m Lieutenant McDougal. Your ID.” It was a youngster’s order, and he should have known better than to go pecking around with a gunnery sergeant.
Kyle fished out his military identification card but held on t
o it. “May I see yours first, sir? Some of my information is classified. I have to see your security clearance.”
The lieutenant was startled. Classified? It’s just a fuckin’ ID card. “Sure,” he said, and pulled it from his wallet. After Swanson read it and matched the picture to the man, he handed McDougal both cards. Swanson’s contained a color head-and-shoulders photo, his name and a serial number printed boldly over a gray Marine Corps eagle, ball, and anchor symbol, and a telephone number at the Pentagon that should be called if there were any other questions. Nothing more. The lieutenant had never seen anything like it.
The officer handed it back along with a tightly sealed box wrapped in dark paper. Red-ink letters declared it to be Top Secret. The lieutenant also had a clipboard to verify delivery, and Kyle signed the receipt.
Swanson put the package on the seat and laid his big .45 caliber Colt pistol on top of it. “Is there anything else, Lieutenant?”
“No, Gunny. That’s all.”
“Very well.” Swanson called out through the open door of the cockpit, “Major? If we’re fueled up, let’s get going.” He stared blankly at the lieutenant.
McDougal, fighting the urge to say “sir” and salute, retreated up the aisle and out of the door, which was secured behind him. Back in his Humvee, he paused to watch the sleek jet take off. So that’s the famous Kyle Swanson, some kind of super spook and sniper. Not much to look at. Swanson was only five feet nine inches tall, weighed 176 pounds, and wore his light brown hair short and neat. He looked like any ordinary Marine and had been militarily correct in their brief conversation. Those ghostly eyes were a great difference, though, for they had pierced the lieutenant like uncaring daggers, vacant of emotion, as if McDougal were nothing worth considering, much less worrying about.
After the C-20 settled in at altitude, Swanson used a thumbnail to pry up an edge of tape, then tore away the thick brown wrapping paper. In the box were six cream-colored folders—the personnel jackets of the slain Marines in Barcelona—and a short set of orders that directed him to identify and collect the half-dozen bodies and escort them all to Joint Base Andrews in Maryland, just outside of Washington. Strange. There were whole groups of specialists who performed this kind of duty; once you were dead, your remains entered into a realm of ritual in which every step had been preplanned with exactness. Just like with the investigators who were coming to Barcelona, this was not in Swanson’s job description. What the hell is Middleton up to?
Whatever it was, the boss had gone to some trouble to route these folders to meet Kyle at Rota, so he must want him to know this information before reaching the next destination of the trip. Swanson opened the first one and began to read as the plane roared through the Spanish sky: Martinez, Ricardo D., Corporal, and his Social Security number. O-Positive blood type.
By the time the wheels of the VIP aircraft kissed the tarmac in Barcelona, Kyle had begun to understand, as if he were breaking out of a mental fog bank. The final folder had been that of Gunny Mike Dodge, who had been in command of the consulate security detail. It contained the official résumé, and Kyle already knew all of those details. Less than an hour after leaving the plushness of the plane, he was standing in a cold morgue in Barcelona, looking down at the scarred face of his old friend.
His driver, an FBI agent, took Kyle past the demolished Marine House and the collapsed ruin of the consulate to give him an idea of the ferocity of the attack, then ran him over to the city morgue, where the six bodies he had to identify were laid out beneath sheets on gurneys. The other victims were stored elsewhere. It wasn’t the low temperature that made him shiver as he looked into the pale and empty faces of the recent dead, but a stirring of passion about how wrong this was, and growing outrage about the attack.
Then he broke investigative protocol and told the driver to take him over for what was sure to be a heartbreaking visit to the new widow. The apartment was located in a neat Barcelona suburb, and Becky Dodge flung open the door even before he rang the bell, launching herself into his arms. “Kyle! Come in! Get yourself in here!”
“Hey, Becky. How you doing?”
“Do you want some coffee? I just made some.” The dark-haired beauty with the almond eyes fled back to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Kyle, that’s Dorothy in the living room, she’s from the Red Cross. Wait a minute. I want to get Timmy. You haven’t even met him.”
Swanson looked at the Red Cross woman, a middle-aged brunette, who shook her head and whispered softly, “Total denial.”
Becky was still emotionally at sea. She swept back into the small living room, hugging a sleepy child. “This is him. Say hello to the one and only Timothy Leland Dodge.” She smiled. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
“You better keep him. I don’t do children very well.” He smiled and guided her to the sofa.
She kept talking, as if silence were an enemy. “Now tell me, where have you been keeping yourself? Mike is always talking about the things you do, mostly rumors that you go out and do stuff that nobody really knows about. He loves this embassy work, though, and we’re happy to leave the rough stuff to you.” There was a break, her eyes misting. “He says there will be no more combat tours because he’s a father now. I mean that in the past tense, of course. Mikey is dead, you know, but that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
The Red Cross lady took Timmy into her lap, and Kyle put an arm around Becky, who finally broke into a fit of tears. “Damn the Marines,” she burbled. “You goddammed Marines. He had a chance to get out and take a good job back in the States, but he wouldn’t leave the Corps. He promised me no more combat, and that nothing ever happened in a place like Barcelona.” She balled a fist and pounded Kyle on the chest.
“I came to take Mike home, Becky, and to see that you and Timmy were all right. Mike was killed by terrorists and died a hero, trying to save innocent lives. He will be treated accordingly. One of the best Marines I ever knew.”
“And what do Timmy and I do now? Our child is going to grow up without a father, and I don’t have any skills other than sewing buttons on uniforms!” He let her cry, and Dorothy from the Red Cross watched. It was a breakthrough moment, as the brave facade collapsed and Becky Dodge realized that she was no longer a wife but a widow.
He had no words for this, holding Becky and looking over at the gurgling Timmy after having just seen Mike Dodge flat on a slab in the morgue. He held her close and let the tears puddle the shoulder of his shirt.
4
PALMA, MALLORCA, SPAIN
FORKS OF CHAIN LIGHTNING clawed the night, streaking sharp and blue beyond the verandah of the big villa, and bombs of thunder fought behind huge black clouds, as if the heavens were at war. The sea around the island sighed and heaved with waves that crested white and rolled high in the shipping lanes as the storm ravaged the western Mediterranean. Djahid Rebiane was content as he watched the turmoil, satisfied that he was not out in the weather; he and his element of the attack team had safely made the crossing from Spain before the low-pressure front caught up with them. The others had scattered into Italy and France and could be reached for future operations. The 130-mile boat trip had been rough, with the bad weather coming in, but manageable. Now he was stretched out in a comfortable lounger, watching the storm rage while he savored the fruity taste of sangria in the home of the renegade banker Cristobál Jose Bello.
Rebiane had showered and shaved his beard as soon as he arrived, and removed the contact lenses that had turned his sharp blue eyes brown. The thick black hair would be cut and styled tomorrow, and he would wear European clothing. The killer no longer looked anything like the thug who led the attack on the Barcelona consulate. If anyone asked for identification, he carried the passport and press credentials of a freelance writer and magazine photographer, but people seldom asked. Posing as a photojournalist allowed him relatively easy access anywhere he wanted to go. A gust of wind blew through the arches and puffed his new shirt. He was an imposing man, tall and strong throu
gh the chest, and at only thirty-one years of age believed himself to be immortal. Death was something he served to others, usually with a smile.
“Do you believe the Americans understood our message?” His father, Yanis, asked the question in Arabic from a nearby chair.
Djahid answered in the same language. “I think so. Our strike was delivered with force and finality.”
“Enough to make them back off?”
“You know those things better than I, Father.” He watched the rain fall. “This is a wicked storm.”
Yanis made a dismissive face and lit another cigarette. “Washington has been taken by surprise and has not responded in any way, other than some rather common anger on television. Nothing has come through on the back channels of the diplomatic world.”
“Give it a little time. We will know soon enough. We killed a diplomat and a lot of other people. They cannot just pretend it did not happen.”
“And they cannot declare war on Spain.” Yasim stopped speaking when a thunderclap seemed to shake the entire island, the largest of the Balearic Islands. “Señor Bello and I will fly to Algiers tomorrow for a meeting of the Group of Six to discuss how to best take advantage of your victory, my son. I believe we are now in a position from which we can impose a deadline on the Madrid government.”
The Group of Six had stepped boldly onto the world stage a year earlier, when the European Banking Risk and Regulation Congress in London was shocked to learn that a special relationship was developing between Spain and a half-dozen investment bankers with Islamic links: a straight-up free-market business offer to the Madrid government as an alternative to the onerous economic rescue terms being presented by the European Central Bank. The five men and one woman identified as the core group represented international assets and credit worth billions of dollars, and contacts across the globe. Yanis Rebiane and Cristobál Jose Bello were two of its members.
On Scope: A Sniper Novel Page 3
