On Scope: A Sniper Novel

by Jack Coughlin

  Swanson went back to the front. “Through the authority of Task Force Trident, I can order each of you to carry out this mission, and you would not have the right of refusal. However, we don’t do that. I don’t want anyone along who has any qualms about the job; too much is at stake. If you have doubts, get the hell out of this room right now and keep your mouth shut about what is going to happen.”

  Smith’s deep voice boomed again. “Hey, Shake. You promised not to make a speech. We’re all in, OK? So give us the fucking brief.”

  15

  PARIS, FRANCE

  LIEUTENANT COLONEL Sybelle Summers of the Marine Corps and Petty Officer Second Class Beth Ledford of the Coast Guard meandered along the Left Bank of the Seine, tourist booklets in hands. Summers was admiring the massive Gothic Notre Dame Cathedral, its impressive history challenged by Gen X skateboarders clattering in the front plaza. Ledford was awed by the herds of artists encamped all along the broad sidewalks, who were casually sketching and painting and displaying their works, a riot of color and form in chalk or pencil or paint—little masterpieces made in minutes. Although wearing casual clothes to blend with the crowds, the two women were doing a slow recon of the busy streets, settling into the attack environment, and developing a cover, for they were not on vacation; they were there to kill Mercedes Sarra Bourihane.

  “I wish I knew more about macro-economics,” Summers said. “Then I might be able to penetrate that conference.”

  Coastie tucked a stray lock of yellow hair behind her ear. “It’s like the weather, isn’t it? Low-pressure front moving in, or high-pressure front moving in, and bad things are going to happen. Stock market up, stock market down, bad things are going to happen.”

  Sybelle gave a laugh. “You may have it. In two days, our esteemed Ms. Bourihane will be one of the plenary speakers at the Twelfth Annual Conference of the International Society for the Advancement of Economic Theory, and her topic is ‘Economics in Modern Transitional Societies.’ Judging by what she is trying to pull off in Spain, bad things are going to happen.”

  She closed her book and stood in thought looking at the blocky cathedral. “We cannot hit her while she is outside. April in Paris brings too many crowds, and her protective detail will be drawn in tight. The conference itself is out of the picture because we would stand out like sore thumbs.”

  “Plus there is the minor point of us getting away. Let’s go shopping. Maybe we can dream up something while we look at French stuff.” Coastie grinned, and they walked away from Notre Dame and its mysteries, took a Metro to the Boulevard Haussmann, and in minutes were deep into the Galeries Lafayette and Printemps. “I don’t imagine she would come out here, huh? Too common?”

  “Not even,” Sybelle replied, stopping before a stunning collection of baubles resting on purple velvet in a window. “This would be too downmarket for her. Our girl is a fashion plate and probably buys her burkas in a designer rag shop along the Avenue Montaigne.” She checked the reflection in the window but saw nobody watching them.

  They wound through aisles of fashion, touching the fabric, checking prices, wanting to try on clothes but remembering they were on the job, and promising to come back sometime with Lady Pat and her credit cards. “And Bourihane’s home in Algeria is out of the question?” Ledford asked again.

  “That is probably a fort by now. Her team will be looking for snipers there. We have to take advantage of that.”

  “I don’t get it, Sybelle. This woman is totally against type in the Muslim culture, yet she is successful beyond measure. She never married, refuses to bow down to the men, and although she’s somewhat gaudy, in my opinion, they treat her as an equal.”

  “As long as she can further their ideological goals and make them money, she will be accepted. She started off ahead of the pack, you know, as the sole heiress to a fortune created by her French grandfather and increased by her parents. It is lucky for the Group of Six that she has chosen to remain a Muslim at all. They need her more than she needs them.”

  Coastie held up a trim white blouse before a mirror. “Makes me look too pale. So she has goals of her own?”

  “Probably, but that’s not our concern.” She handed Ledford a light blue top that picked up the color of her eyes. “Try this one. Commander Freedman is all over her schedule, and we know for certain that she is going to be here in two days. We know where, and when, and why. So that leaves us with coming up with a how.”

  “Look at the price of this thing! I could buy ten of these tops at Target for less than this.” She checked the mirror and felt her wallet getting lighter. “Got to get her alone, and she’s never going to be alone.”

  The dark-haired Summers picked at a rack. “We have an expense account, girl, and nobody cares as long as you don’t overdo it. Buy the damned thing, not because you will look great in it, but because we have to blend in with the local fashion set. People in stores are supposed to buy things. We probably will need new shoes, too.”

  “She has to eat sometime,” said Coastie. “She probably won’t be alone then, either. Some fancy restaurant instead of room service, surrounded by people. Security in the corners.”

  Sybelle stopped. “Good idea, and better than our other options right now. Maybe the Liz can find out if she has reservations at some gourmet food cart, or if there’s going to be a big dinner at the event. Something will turn up, Coastie. We’ve just got to keep looking.”

  “No matter what, a cold front is moving in.”

  “Got that right.”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE YEARS in the Congress of the United States had given Senator Jordan Monroe a position of power, which he enjoyed immensely, for he was courted like a prince by lobbyists. This Yasim Rebiane had seemed a likable enough fellow and was a very generous donor, but Monroe would have to put a lot on the line to work with him. Rebiane had made it sound simple enough; he had come across information that the United States had conducted two covert assassinations of innocent civilians in Spain as revenge for the tragedy in Barcelona. That had grabbed Monroe’s attention. Was the administration launching its own little war inside a major allied nation?

  The accursed Washington Post would have a field day if they discovered that story, so a gentle touch was required all around. The White House would not want the exposure, and neither would the senator. Mr. Rebiane, after all, was a Muslim from Algeria and a member of the Group of Six that was trying to steer Spain onto a new economic path, one that would benefit Islam in the long run. The two assassination victims were both members of that group, so a concerned Rebiane, who was also a member, was reaching out to see if he was also targeted for elimination by the Americans. The senator had said the idea was preposterous, and that Rebiane should not worry. Senator Jordan promised to take care of it.

  Once back in his office, Monroe instructed his administrative aide to request a background briefing from the Department of Defense concerning what, if any, military actions had stemmed from the Barcelona incident.

  The following day, Brigadier General Alfred Coleman of the U.S. Air Force was in a chair facing the senator across a small table that was polished to a high gloss. Handsome, with silvering hair, and totally at ease, Coleman wore an immaculate and tailored blue uniform bedecked with honor ribbons and the wreathed star and silver wings of a command pilot. He had squared off against America’s enemies in combat in foreign lands until it was discovered that he was even more valuable in handling the political tempests of Washington, for he was as comfortable at a Georgetown soiree as he was in a cockpit. Old South manners and a laconic speech pattern with a slight accent clung to him like kudzu vines. It was that combination of assets that had drawn Coleman the DOD assignment of paying a friendly, informal visit to Senator Jordan Monroe in an attempt to plumb the lawmaker’s Machiavellian mind. Coleman did not really have any new information on Barcelona—a bit more than CNN, Fox, Al Jazeera, and the BBC, but not much. He would go with the flow.

  They fenced politely fo
r a few minutes before Senator Monroe began showing irritation. If he asked a question, he wanted an answer, not evasive, politically correct bullshit, which was what he was getting from the one-star whom the Pentagon had dispatched over to him.

  “Nothing?” The senator couldn’t believe his ears. “American citizens are dead in the rubble of a terrorist attack, and we’re doing nothing to pursue them?”

  The tall general crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. Stay cool. “Senator, the internal investigation is being conducted through the State Department. Pentagon involvement in the incident was limited to the six Marines on the interior guard detail.”

  “And all of them are dead, right?”

  Coleman agreed. “Yes, sir, and it is a damned outrage. I repeat, however, our military presence was only a standard package for interior security. The State Department was in charge of exterior protection there through their RSO, the regional security officer of the Diplomatic Security Service, who coordinated with the local police. He died, too.”

  Jordan recognized a brush-off. “General, you are artfully avoiding my concern, so stop sounding like a public relations flak when I ask again, more directly, What, if anything, is the American military doing to avenge that attack? Are uniformed American troops involved in what appear to be coordinated assassinations by snipers of important Spanish civilians?”

  The brigadier general’s surprise was evident on his handsome face. He hadn’t heard about any special ops doing any such thing, and anyway, he was a pilot, for Chrissakes, not some rat-chewing commando. A briefer is only as good as what he has been told, and Coleman was never told much of anything happening below the public radar. However, the senator’s use of the term “uniformed” provided convenient wiggle room. If there was a black op going on in Spain, the shooters sure as hell would not be wearing uniforms. He shook his head. “No, sir. The Pentagon has nothing to do with any reprisals that may or may not be under way, to the best of my knowledge.”

  The two men stared at each other without expression until the briefer broke the uncomfortable silence, and the southern drawl was grating like sandpaper on Monroe. “As you know, senator, the security situation in global hot spots is very complicated. The State Department uses local cops but also hires private security companies to handle force protection. Then there is the CIA, which fields its own agents and pulls in military help when required. The military chain of command gets murky, for neither State nor the Agency reports to us.”

  “I do not need to be lectured by you about who does what, General.”

  “Of course not.”

  The senator, although ready to pounce with another sharp response, felt the general might just be telling the truth. It might not be military at all. The CIA had talent, money, and manpower to spare, and police usually had excellent snipers. Then there were the mercenaries, who usually came out of elite military units to do the same work for much higher pay from private security companies and were regularly hired for support assignments. “Contractors?” he asked, hunting for the weak link.

  “That might be something you can ask State or the CIA about, Senator. I cannot speak for other agencies, sir. Is that all for me today?” The one-star got up at a nod from the great man.

  “Yes. Thank you for coming over, General Coleman. I wanted this to be an informal inquiry, but a word of caution: My colleagues on the Armed Forces Committee will be very disappointed if you have not been truthful in this briefing. You would not enjoy being subpoenaed before our full panel. Good day, sir.”

  The general gave an uneasy laugh. “It was good to see you again, Senator. If I discover any new and relevant information, I will get it to you promptly.” As Coleman walked out, beneath the wings and ribbons, his heart was beating like a trip-hammer. His bosses would not be happy that the senator had taken a sudden interest in Barcelona, with the veiled threat of a Senate hearing. The stench of Benghazi and Tehran and various banana republics down south still hung in the institutional memory of Washington, and if Coleman was hauled over the coals by Senator Jordan, he might never get that second star.

  The senator went to the sideboard in his office and poured himself a stiff drink, then walked around in silence, lost in thought. The idea floated by Rebiane that the American military was hitting back didn’t seem to float very well. The dandified General Coleman obviously didn’t have a clue about what was going on, and although the brigadier had been the Pentagon’s designated hitter for today’s meeting, he did not seem cut out for the heavy lifting of special operations. Some deeper digging would be needed.

  A double knock on an inner door was followed by the appearance of his administrative aide, Douglas Jimenez, a shrewd lawyer and an ambitious political viper. “How did the meeting go, Senator?”

  “They sent me a pretty-boy public relations type, Doug. He tap-danced his way out of the corner without admitting, denying, or even saying anything. Reminded me a lot of you. Help yourself to a drink.”

  Jimenez chose Scotch. “Should we reach higher up the food chain? Just the threat of a press conference would shake them up and force a response.”

  “Good idea, but let’s do more homework first. I want you to touch base with some of our friends over at State to see if they know of any armed response on their end. After all, their people got killed, too. And put together some ideas on who else might be responsible. Are we the only ones in the world who are pissed off with what is happening in Spain?”

  “State is licking its wounds on this one, Senator. Guaranteeing the protection of every U.S. diplomat and building in the Muslim world is impossible, and anyway, their job is to build diplomatic relations, not to get into the revenge business. I’m pretty sure they are not running anything, much less targeting Spanish civilians.”

  “Right. I still need to clear them and other possibilities before moving hard on to the CIA, which is more likely to be behind this sort of shit.”

  “Good point, sir. We don’t know for sure if there even are any reprisals. Our friend Mr. Rebiane is probably acting on a hunch, that’s all.”

  “Nevertheless, we have to either get him an answer or at least show that we have made a reasonable effort. I want his PAC on board for the next election cycle. So you get over to the State Department, Doug. I’ve got to get up to the Capitol for a floor vote, then a subcommittee meeting.”

  “I’ll try to have something by the time you get back, sir.”

  16

  CAMP LEJEUNE, NORTH CAROLINA

  KYLE SWANSON was famished. He had been fueled only by coffee since the long drive down from Washington, and since his arrival at the huge base, he had done a six-kilometer run to stretch out, then spent hours with the guys in the cramped conference room doing initial planning for the Spanish mission. The other members of the special operations team also were ready to call it a day and pick it up again tomorrow. Some had personal things to do, but three joined him for an early dinner at the Staff Noncommissioned Officers Club in Building 825 just as the sun went down and the residents of Tobacco Road wrapped up another day. Everyone in the state was still arguing about whether the impossible three-pointer that had won the NCAA basketball championship for Duke over North Carolina had really been launched before the buzzer.

  “Screw basketball,” said Staff Sergeant Travis Stone when they had been escorted into the dining room, seated, and given menus. They ordered a cold pitcher of draft beer.

  “That is traitor talk and can definitely get you lynched in these parts. Anyway, you don’t like basketball because you’re so damned short,” drawled Master Sergeant Sam Smith. “The refs gave that damned game to Duke. No way that shot was in time. ESPN has it in slow-slow motion.”

  “You’re still mad because you lost money on the game, Sam. I tried to tell you never to bet against Duke in b-ball.”

  “Don’t spat in public,” said the fourth member of the group and the only one who was not a Marine. Rick Suarez was a Navy corpsman who trained with the MARSOC team and, i
n addition to attending to their combat medical needs, also served as its demolition expert. He poured beer into the cold mugs the waitress had placed before them.

  The tension that filled the world outside the SNCO Club melted away as the conversation at their table, and at those around them, fell into quiet and polite tones, highlighted by the clink of silverware and some laughs. The rowdy bar time could come later, if they wanted it, but behavior in the club was mandatory on self-control. Kyle ordered a medium-well steak, mashed potatoes with brown gravy, and veggies, with a house salad sprinkled with vinegar and oil to start. Spain would not be mentioned.

  “Hey, look. We got a visiting celebrity over there.” Suarez motioned toward a table against the far wall where three men were finishing their meal. Two were Marines in uniform, and the other was a civilian in a Texas-cut sports coat over pressed jeans. “It’s that TV guy.”

  “What are the Panthers going to do with their first pick in the draft?” Kyle asked, to steer the conversation onto a new track. He had recognized Ryan Powell right away—former SEAL, author, movie actor, and now host of the popular military television reality show The Elite. Also an asshole. “You Carolina guys need help everywhere.”

  “They ain’t my guys. I’m 49ers,” replied Stone. “The Panthers will probably try to improve the defensive line, but they really need another pass-catcher for Cam Newton. That man can cold play ball.”

  The first pitcher of beer was finished, and they got a new one just as the meal was served. As usual, Kyle had praised his New England Patriots and then stopped talking to dig into the feast. Nothing wrong with the world that a juicy steak couldn’t cure.