On Scope: A Sniper Novel

by Jack Coughlin

  “Excuse me for a moment, guys.” The pleasant voice came from the civilian visitor. He was still not thirty years old, had cut the mane of shaggy brown hair to a neat semimilitary style since Swanson had last seen him, and retained the muscle tone of his SEAL days. Polished cowboy boots added another inch to his six-foot-plus height, and he had a silver belt buckle that bore the SEAL emblem in gold. “I just wanted to say hello to Gunnery Sergeant Swanson.”

  Kyle stared at him coldly, ignoring the fake smile and the extended hand at the end of a thick wrist that carried a heavy black-faced watch that had a timing bezel, a sweep hand, and a lot of small dials. Gear queer, Swanson thought. Out of the military, unable to let it go. “Mr. Powell,” he said in a flat acknowledgement.

  “Relax, Gunny. I really want to thank you for helping convince me to leave the Teams and take a new career path. I owe you one.”

  So full of shit, Kyle thought. The last time, the only time, they had met, Swanson had intentionally forced Petty Officer First Class Ryan Powell into a series of mistakes during a close-quarters battle shootout in the ultrasecret Ghost House that the SEALs had over on the Virginia coast. Although the young warrior had been rated as a Special Warfare Operator and had a sparkling record with SEAL Team Six, he had not been picked for the Osama bin Laden takedown. His boss knew that Powell had family problems, but when it became clear that the fighter also had succumbed to a gambling addiction and was piling up debt, the SEALs grew worried about his overall effectiveness. A lone-buccaneer attitude had muddled his teamwork requirements. The confrontation with Swanson had demonstrated the final proof that Powell had lost his edge. When the SEALs reassigned him into a training position back at Coronado, he quit.

  The smile seemed almost genuine. “How are things with Task Force Trident?” Powell asked.

  The Marines at Kyle’s table stiffened at the mention of the top-secret unit that reported only to the president of the United States. Kyle brushed it off. “Oh, them? It was just an experimental thing back in the day. Never got off the ground.”

  “So you’re not a shooter anymore?”

  “Lost my edge, Mr. Powell, just like you. I push a desk in the puzzle palace these days.”

  The civilian absorbed the insult and nodded as if in understanding. “I’m taking up too much of your time, gentlemen. Gunny, perhaps you could meet me in the bar after you’re finished. We can talk about old times. Swap some lies.”

  “Thanks for dropping by.”

  “Maybe I can even talk you into being on my show. Congressional Medal of Honor winner and all that.”

  Kyle turned his attention back to the food and stabbed his knife into the thick steak. “I don’t do publicity.”

  Powell laughed, but it was a chilled sound, and he leaned in, placing his nose close to Kyle’s collar and pulling in an exaggerated sniff. “You’re still in the game, Swanson. I can smell it on you.”

  “But you’re not. So go away.” Kyle put the chunk of meat in his mouth. Delicious.

  The TV host looked at the three other Marines at the table. “You guys want to be careful around this guy Swanson. I trusted him once, and it didn’t work out so well. Don’t make the same mistake.”

  “Our food is getting cold, sir,” said Sam Smith, looking up with a face of marble.

  Ryan Powell held up a hand, palm out, apologetic, as he easily slipped back into the smooth TV persona. “You’re right. Sorry for the interruption. I hope to catch you all in the bar later and buy a round in appreciation for your service.” He spun a white Stetson hat on his finger and walked away, his star power drawing admiring looks from guests at other tables.

  Kyle and his friends finished their meal in silence, then ordered coffee.

  “Well?” asked Travis Stone. “Y’all have a history. Anything we need to know?” What he was really asking was if Powell was going to screw Kyle over, and if that would jeopardize the Spanish job.

  “I knew him for about an hour a few years ago when the SEALs brought me in as an evaluator to test him in a CQD. He was a conceited jerk then, too, although he looked like Captain America and had the record to match. Somewhere along the line, he let his personal life get screwed up, and Team Six was concerned about him. Anyway, long story short, he failed the drill and lost his job. After that, he retired. He blames me.”

  “Shit, man. Time catches up. It happens to everybody. We can’t play war forever.”

  Rick Suarez chewed his steak, then spoke. “He bounced back OK. Big book and a TV show. He should be kissing your boots in appreciation for the soft landing. Must be making about a coupla million these days.”

  “What kind of show does he have?” Swanson had never seen it.

  “Sort of like Survivor, but ain’t they all? Only he personally ‘leads’ teams from different special ops units in running around doing live-fire exercises and attacking pop-up targets and whispering to the cameras. They even—horrors—have to live off the land for a couple of nights. A bug might bite them.”

  “It’s just boom-boom bullshit, but the Pentagon loves the publicity and gives full cooperation. The reality part gives way if you remember that behind the camera are dozens of people who put it all together. Those two uniforms with him tonight are from the public relations shop, probably arranging for some new episode.”

  “Well, may God bless them all,” said Master Sergeant Smith. “My concern is how he knows about Task Force Trident.”

  Swanson toyed with the coffee spoon. “Don’t really know. I would guess that he asked around about me after the SEALs booted him and somebody mentioned it. Maybe somebody needs to remind him that he is still bound by secrecy oaths before he starts blurting out national security information that could jeopardize operations. I’ll mention that to General Middleton tomorrow.”

  “Better yet, say I go beat a reminder into him right now.”

  Swanson laughed. “That’s not worth the effort, Master Sergeant. Better if we let a team from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service deliver the message.”

  “NCIS has a television show, too. Everybody has a TV show but me.”

  “Bitch, bitch, bitch,” said Kyle. “Let’s have another pitcher, then go get some sleep.”

  * * *

  RYAN POWELL was at a back table in the bar area of the SNCO Club, chatting up anyone who stopped by, especially those wanting him to autograph his book. The base PR people had ordered two boxes of hardback copies from the publisher, but that was nowhere near enough for the demand that followed his book tour address that afternoon, and the copies had all been sold. A camera crew from a local station had done an interview that appeared on the early evening news. Now people were arriving with copies they had bought off base during the previous months, and Powell signed and signed, loving the glow of attention and trading good-natured SEAL-versus-Marine banter and insults with his fans.

  Running into that damned Kyle Swanson in the dining room had been a surprise because Powell thought he had flushed the man out of his system.

  “Who do you want me to make this out to?” he asked a female Marine noncom who handed forward a book and commented that she had just loved it.

  “Mandie, with an ie,” she replied. Their eyes locked. Female Marines were a lot cuter than he remembered. This one was standing right there for the asking, if he wanted it, but Powell avoided groupies and one-nighters, not so much because he loved his wife, which he did, but because if the girl somehow created a YouTube scandal, it could end his celebrity gig. He scrawled the autograph, and she moved on.

  Swanson was still black ops. Powell knew that in his bones. The Marine was a living reminder that Ryan Powell, star of The Elite, was not really part of the brotherhood, and that was a cold fact that time would never change. Gunny Swanson had consigned Captain America to the dust heap of hero has-beens, although Powell was able to capitalize on the past glory.

  Another copy of the book was put before him, this one by no less than a full bird colonel looking sharp in his uniform, wh
o announced, “I enjoy your show, Powell. Just sign your name, please, no use messing up the pages with personalization. I tell my men, keep it simple! That’s always the best way.”

  Ryan signed his name and thanked the colonel, thinking the man was overbearing and pompous, but still a fan. Powell got along with everybody these days. The Swanson thing still rankled, like a burr under a blanket, and was an itch that couldn’t be scratched. Or could it?

  Next up was an eager young sergeant who confided in a low voice that he had signed up to test for the SEALs. Powell complimented him, wished him luck, and ordered one of the public relations types to buy that man a beer. Making friends right and left.

  How could he take down Swanson? Another face-to-face showdown was unlikely, and realistically, Powell doubted he was good enough to best the Gunny. Back in the day, when he was running two thousand rounds a day downrange in practice, yes, and he had followed the rules that day in the Ghost House, had done everything right, but had failed because Swanson cheated. That was much too long ago in a business where the edge starts to dull in a day. Maybe The Elite could be the answer. Somehow get the Corps to make Swanson go on the show, and embarrass him before a million viewers.

  He kept signing and drinking and thinking until the last book was done, and he capped his pen and leaned back while the PR skunks closed it up for him. Pretty Mandie with an ie was near the door, watching, and Ryan thought, what the hell, and made a pistol out of his finger and pointed it at her. She smiled back, and a minute later he walked out after her, waving to some of his newest admirers. He put on his big Stetson as he stepped outside, and the fresh air triggered an idea just as Mandie grabbed his sleeve and pulled him into the shadows and stood on her toes to kiss him with a hungry mouth.

  Task Force Trident, he thought as they traded tongues. Powell had lots of media pals now, any of whom would love to expose Swanson and his secret team. He would figure out exactly how to do that later, because Mandie was going to demand his full attention.

  17

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  SENATOR JORDAN MONROE was trying to put a good spin on a bad situation that was getting worse by the minute. For the third time, he explained it all again to Yasim Rebiane, on the other end of the call. The senator was growing weary of the conversation; he had a full calendar today and wanted to clear this problem. “Look, my friend, I had a sit-down with a brigadier general sent over by the Joint Chiefs, and the general assured me that United States military forces are not carrying out any reprisals in Spain over the Barcelona incident. This man sat right here in my office and confirmed that to my face. There was no misunderstanding. He’s really plugged in, this general. If he says they are not involved, I believe him.”

  Rebiane insisted it was a polite brush-off. “Just a one-star, and you think he knows what’s really going on? I’m disappointed; I expected better of a United States senator. May I suggest that you put someone who is really in charge—say, one of the Joint Chiefs—under oath before your Armed Services Committee and ask those same questions.”

  Monroe felt the entire episode was taking too much of his time. “I also reached out to the State Department and the CIA, both of which deny any covert actions, sir. I really want to help, but there is only so much I can do on deep background, calling in favors all over Washington.”

  “Then what is stopping you from making it official? Call for a hearing. Turn up the pressure.” The voice brimmed with contempt.

  The senator fidgeted in his big chair. “Now calm down, sir. You have been a major supporter of my campaigns, and I appreciate that and hope it will continue, so I was willing to make some informal inquiries in your behalf. That being said, there is a limit to what you or anyone else can ask of me. I cannot just snap my fingers and hold a hearing without any real evidence of wrongdoing.”

  Rebiane made an impatient clucking sound. “Is it just a matter of giving you more money?”

  “Of course not! No United States senator is for sale.” Monroe was growing exasperated.

  “Well, that is too bad. Imagine the blowback from Europe when the news breaks that American assassins are running amok, killing important civilians. The president will have to answer some angry calls from other world leaders.”

  “That is not happening. It is not going to happen. Any such thing would have to be vetted and approved in advance, and it would not be because of policy ramifications. Be reasonable.”

  “You seem to lack proper motivation, Senator Monroe.” Rebiane was silent for a moment before resuming with a changed tone. “I was reluctant to supply this new information for your calculations. Are you before your computer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go online and type in this address.” Rebiane recited a dummy file that he had prepared for just this occasion.

  When Jordan Monroe called up the site, he coughed and his throat tightened. It was a photograph of a twelve-year-old girl on a school playground in jeans and a black T-shirt, with long honey-colored hair streaming behind her. “You bastard!” he shouted into the phone.

  “That, of course, is little Michelle, your daughter by a campaign volunteer whom you raped after getting drunk at a party. You pay all of the bills and give a stipend to the woman every month. This photo was taken yesterday.”

  “Don’t you dare bring her into this! All I have to do is call a press conference and notify the FBI of this clumsy extortion and bribery attempt, and you will be arrested!” His grip on the telephone was slipping as his hand sweated. His eyes couldn’t break away from the photograph of the beautiful child he had never met, joy on her face as she sailed on a swing set. Michelle. Monroe knew that if this affair was exposed, there would be a huge personal scandal, and the political fallout would be of nuclear proportions. Nevertheless, he would not back down from this Middle East bully. Persian? Iraqi? What’s the difference? “I’m warning you, Rebiane,” he hissed. “I have resources that you cannot imagine.”

  “Why, Senator, I have no intention of ruining your career. You can be useful to me not only now, but again in the future.” Yasim allowed himself a smile, knowing that Djahid, who had taken the photograph, had everything in place in St. Louis.

  “Then why—”

  “Forget about your resources, or going to the press or to the FBI. My foot is on your throat, you arrogant fool. The child and her mother both are already in my custody. Unless you are able to answer my question, I intend to kill them both.”

  CAMP LEJEUNE, NORTH CAROLINA

  RYAN POWELL lowered his binos and looked up from the dirt, straight into the television camera, and heaped praise on a Marine squad that was assaulting a ridge with maximum firepower. His words were underscored by the buzz of a Squad Automatic Weapon. The NCO in charge of the attack yelled for cease-fire, and the explosions and gunfire died away, leaving a sheen of gunsmoke hanging in the air. Powell smiled and said, “And that, my friends, is how the Marines do it!”

  The director of The Elite yelled, “Lunch break. Thirty minutes.” The two dozen Marines involved in the exercise for the reality show had earned a treat, and instead of eating military field rations today, they headed toward a pair of waiting gourmet food trucks and the alluring smell of barbecue created by an executive chef. It was cheaper for the production company to hire a top-rate food service than pay overtime to the crew, and there was still another show to finish this afternoon.

  Powell slapped a few palms, shook hands, and made his way to his air-conditioned trailer, careful not to mop away the sweat on his face and neck in front of the Marines. With his star power off the set, the boys could enjoy themselves mixing with the crew, particularly the women. Once in the trailer, he stripped away the dirty clothes and took a quick shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and went into the bedroom, where a shrimp salad and an assortment of cool beverages waited on a table. A change of clothes was on the bed. He had to appear fresh for the next episode, which would involve a new set of Marines plus some armor. A few bites of the salad and
some cold water, and he had five minutes left for a nap. His active night with Mandie had taken a toll.

  A rap on the door, and a female voice called out, “Telephone call, Mr. Powell. Somebody from Washington.”

  “Shit,” he exclaimed to himself. Probably some asshole general with an idea for a show. Then, to the assistant, “Tell them I’m not available. Take a number.”

  “Sir, I explained that we’re on a working set, but he says he’s calling for a senator and that it is urgent to speak with you.”

  Powell exhaled in defeat. “OK. Bring me the phone.” The brunette came in, appreciatively eyeing her muscular boss in the towel, and handed over the phone. “This is Powell,” he said.

  “Mr. Powell, my name is Douglas Jimenez, and I’m the administrative aide for Senator Jordan Monroe.” The aide paused, letting the name sink in. Monroe equaled the Armed Services Committee, which equaled access and funding.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” Powell slipped into the humble servant-patriot voice.

  “I’ll come straight to the point, for your girl told me that you are working. My boss has been tipped off that a covert U.S. operation may be behind the assassinations of two civilian financial figures in Spain. Both were killed by snipers, and while the Pentagon, State, and the Agency deny any involvement, we believe that where there is smoke, there may be fire. Do I have your attention?”

  “Yes, sir, you do. How can I help?” An idea was already forming in his mind.

  “I was asked to check with people plugged into the special operations community, and rather than deal with the usual chain of command, I decided to start at the top: with Ryan Powell and The Elite. You have knowledge on both sides of the spec ops fence, having been an outstanding SEAL yourself, and now doing such outstanding work on the overall military program.”