On Scope: A Sniper Novel

by Jack Coughlin

  “That’s not going to get you very far.” She twirled and the skirts flared.

  “All I have to do is get past the first sentence, then switch to grumbles and English.”

  “Remember, guys, this all holds up for only a few seconds once you are under way. Keep any contact with others to an absolute minimum. I can fool a camera forever, but not a curious human eye.” Dixon wiped his hands on a small tower. “You look great. Maestro Montaigne has accomplished another masterpiece.”

  There was a double knock on the door, and Coastie waited until Swanson and Dixon were both ready with pistols. “Who is it?”

  “Calypso,” came the challenge code word. The other spooks had arrived.

  “Broadway.” She gave the answer and unlocked the door.

  “Wow. You look great,” said the agent they knew as Bob Smith, a genial six-footer with graying hair. “Let’s leave your trashy partner and go to the fiesta.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Coastie stood aside and let him look at Swanson.

  “That will do, Gunny. That will do. All you need is garlic and onions on your breath. Good job, Montaigne.”

  Swanson put away his pistol and took one last look in the mirror. He did not like what he saw, but that was the point. “Anything new on the surveillance?”

  “Naw. They just did the shift change, and the Zombies are on deck right on schedule. The foot patrols should start in about five minutes. So, much as I hate to disappoint the lady and miss the music, we better go do our thing.”

  VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA

  ONE THING that Gary Leftwich loved about his wife, Ayla, was how proud she was to be an American. They had met in an Internet café in Turkey on a quiet night during his tour of duty at Incerlik, when the beautiful young schoolteacher with shining hair had helped the frustrated staff sergeant rescue the crashed chapter of a story he was writing. She loved the creative side of his personality, and he was enchanted from the start. Her name meant “Moonlight.” Before his time was done in Turkey, they were married in a base chapel.

  In the States, Ayla dove into becoming a citizen with a ferocious intensity and had passed all of the tests with a will not only to succeed but to master the required information. He believed that she knew more about American history than he did, and she cared just as deeply about the country that had adopted her as did her husband, who currently held the rank of master sergeant in the Air Force and worked with secret operations at Fort Bragg.

  Leftwich had arrived home tonight with a bouquet of flowers and the good news that a wonderful thing had happened: A powerful man in Washington had promised to break through the red tape of passport controls and bring Ayla’s mother over to live with their family so they could care for her and get her well again. In only two weeks!

  She brought out some wine, and they were into the second glass when she noticed a bit of worry shadowing his eyes. “What is wrong? You are thinking on something.”

  Leftwich finished his glass in a gulp. He got a kick out of listening to her accented English, which was too precise to have the sound of a native-born American. The story came spilling out in a rush, and Ayla hung on every fact, her face darkening as the minutes went by and he recounted the call from Doug Jimenez as closely as he could remember.

  “Did you do anything wrong, Gary? By talking to this man?”

  “No, I don’t think so. He was legitimate. The more I think about it, the more I think that he may have not been telling the truth. When I balked—”

  “What means ‘bawkt’?”

  “When I started to question why he wanted some specific information, he turned on me and threatened that your mother would not get the passport after all. Unless I cooperated.”

  “Did he want secret information?”

  “No, it wasn’t all that important. Just some routine material about a single flight. He kept telling me how important he was and that this was something—he didn’t say what—something he was doing as a favor for the SEALs down in Virginia.”

  Ayla’s dark eyes were reflecting heavy emotional weather inside of her. “Why could this man not just go through regular channels to obtain this valuable information, if he is so powerful?”

  “That, my dear, is one of the many things I’ve been asking myself. It was a strange call.”

  She poured another glass of wine, took a sip, and set it carefully on the glass-topped coffee table. “I do not like this man, Gary. I do not believe we should trust what he said, for if he lied to you, and you turned over secret information, then our life could be damaged, yes?”

  “I could go to prison. Yes.”

  “Then we must report the contact to your commander. Annem, my mother, will just have to wait a little bit longer. She would insist on it, if she knew what was going on.”

  They both got up and fell into each other’s arms, and Gary ran his fingers through her thick hair and gave her a kiss. “You are right. I was stupid. Look, honey, I have to make another call first, just to confirm something, then I’ll contact the duty officer. We will be OK, and so will your mom. I will work something out.”

  Ayla pushed him back and waved her hands to shoo him away. “Go and do it now, Gary. We are not traitors to our country.”

  * * *

  SENIOR CHIEF Richard Sheridan had finished the workday, satisfied that his SEALs were ready for whatever the world might throw at them. Then he signed out and went home to see his real gang—his wife of fifteen years and their four daughters and a bunch of pets. At work, he was the hard-nosed Rockhead, who never cut anyone a break. His training-ground voice could peel paint. At home, he discarded both the uniform and the granite persona and entered a special place where the ladies ruled, and he loved them without reservation. It was pizza night, and when he was cleaned up enough to be deemed acceptable, they all piled into the SUV and headed out to a cheap family-style restaurant where everybody sat at long tables and helped themselves to plates of pizza, salads, and Italian food. He was a happy man until the telephone on his belt buzzed. He looked at his wife, who stared back at him, more than aware that danger might be calling. When he read the number, however, he winked at her. Personal call. Nowhere important was blowing up.

  He unfolded the phone as he left the girls and stepped outside for some quiet space beside the beach. “Sheridan,” he said.

  “Senior Chief Richard Sheridan?” It was a man’s voice, crisp but with some stress.

  “That’s me. Who is this?”

  There was an audible sigh. “My name is Gary Leftwich. I’m an Air Force master sergeant over at Pope Field. Your headquarters gave me your private number when I convinced them this was official business. Sorry if I disturbed your evening.”

  Sheridan kicked at a rock. “OK, Master Sergeant. What’s on your mind? How can I help the Air Force tonight?”

  Leftwich gave a short laugh. He liked this guy. “I’m calling about your request to Senator Jordan Monroe, Senior Chief.”

  Rockhead felt something shift in his stomach, and it wasn’t pizza. “Let’s make it Rockhead and Gary. I haven’t asked Monroe for a damned thing. In fact, I have personally told him this very day to go to hell, not in those exact words, of course.”

  As Leftwich began to lay it out, Rockhead Sheridan staked out a place on a wooden bench away from the crowd. His wife would come looking for him in a little while, and he knew she would understand the sudden change. As if on cue, she came out of the pizza place and brought him a slice of pepperoni and a fresh beer, then left him alone.

  Sheridan pushed Leftwich for more details, breathing deeply to calm himself; the senator and his punk assistant had tried to roll a couple of patriots with a bizarre carrot-and-stick approach. Bad mistake. Instead of being a weak link, Leftwich and his wife were strong and determined to right the wrong.

  “OK, Gary. I think I’ve got it all now. The next steps are easy. This is a national security matter for real, and some shit is going to hit the fan. You and your wife don’t have to worry. You
are in the clear. You were jobbed by a big-time liar, but you picked up the smell and reported it to me almost immediately. Hell, before it’s done, you may get a commendation. Those bastards.”

  “Good to hear that, Senior Chief.”

  Rockhead could almost envision the man’s relief. “I want you to keep it under wraps for now. Don’t file an official report, because we don’t know the reach of these people. I’m going to holler up the special ops stovepipe and make this information known to those who count in the Pentagon, the State Department, on Capitol Hill, and in the White House.”

  “Jesus Christ,” breathed Gary Leftwich.

  “Yeah. Him, too,” Sheridan said. “One last thing. We have to get your mother-in-law out of harm’s way so she can’t be used to punish you. Once I get this rolling, she will be protected by the Turkish police until State can hustle her onto a plane to Virginia. That’s a SEAL promise.”

  “I owe you big, Rockhead.”

  “Bullfeathers. Your nation owes you, Master Sergeant Leftwich, and I’m buying the beer next time up in Fayetteville. I want to meet your family.”

  Senior Chief Rockhead Sheridan folded his phone and drained the bottle, then walked back to the smell of pizza and good times. His wife smiled, and he winked. Family first; calls later.

  26

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE LIZARD was running on caffeine and curiosity as he rippled through his humming network and the lights from multiple screens bathed his glasses in flashes of different colors. The Seville op was under way, and the new information from the SEALs in Virginia Beach had changed the situation with the senator from a bothersome bit of Capitol Hill chatter to outright treasonable offenses. Freedman’s machines had snared the National Security Agency’s latest alert that the tagged words of “Task Force Trident” and “Kyle Swanson” had again shown up in telephonic communications.

  It was like backtracking a trail of crumbs deep into a loaf of bread. First, the words had popped up in a call that was identified as being between this television action hero named Ryan Powell and Douglas Jimenez, the administrative aide for Senator Jordan Monroe. Soon thereafter, a JAG legal officer named Captain Howell Andrews had drafted a memo about his meeting with that same assistant and sent it up the chain of command to Brigadier General Alfred Coleman of the Pentagon’s Congressional Relations Office. The reaction ball began to roll. Now the SEALs raised a new red flag, saying Jimenez had tricked an air traffic controller down at Pope Field, and almost immediately these new mentions had fallen on the NSA Big Ears. Big Brother was indeed listening, and had been for quite some time.

  He was about to text General Middleton when the general, Lieutenant Colonel Summers, and Master Gunny Dawkins all returned to the Trident offices after an early dinner. Commander Freedman had settled for a cold turkey and cheese sandwich, unwilling to leave his electronic world because of his total fascination with the quick-moving events. He was ready with an updated report by the time the others walked in, and put it up on the big screen, his palms wrapped around a cup of coffee and his foot tapping fast with joy as he waited for Middleton to go ballistic.

  “A goddamn United States senator spilled this information? Who the hell did he call?”

  “Don’t know that, sir. Only that it was someone in France. Whoever it was probably used a burn phone and tossed it when he was done. The cell tower triangulations pinned down the number on this end with great accuracy, and the number belongs to Senator Monroe of Missouri.”

  The general rubbed his wrinkled brow. “Anything unusual in Spain?” They all had been expecting only to oversee that operation tonight.

  “No, sir. They remain right on schedule.”

  Dawkins was on his feet, pacing, then pounded his big right fist into his left palm. His face was angry. “We’ve got to stop it, sir. Bottom line is that our team is now compromised.”

  Sybelle Summers disagreed. “I don’t see that. If Liz just picked up this information, no one could possibly be in Seville right now to block them.”

  “We cannot be certain. Whoever he called in France may have some immediate way to warn the target or to intervene. We know they have guards on the premises, and they have radio communication. A warning may have gone out, or be on the way. We must consider that our own people are in danger.”

  “Our people usually go dark on comms once things are under way, right?” Freedman looked at the experts, and they nodded confirmation. “We may not be able to reverse course now, even if we wanted to.”

  The general agreed with Dawkins. Middleton would not chance letting his team walk into a trap. “We have to try. The guards and even the local cops may have been alerted. Freedman, get on the horn and tell them to abort. If they don’t answer, try something else, go directly through CIA. Bring them home, like right now.”

  He swung around to face Sybelle. “Summers, you get in touch with our friend David Hunt at the FBI. I want the pair of you to meet me in the office of the chief of staff at the White House. Brief him in the car on the way over, and I’ll arrange for the Secret Service to clear you through the East Executive Drive gate. Double-Oh and Commander Freedman can continue trying to stop the Seville operation. Go, people. The clock is ticking.”

  “The president’s chief of staff, sir? What about the Joint Chiefs?” Sybelle asked.

  The general walked over to the windows that looked down on the memorial park outside the Pentagon. He had a hard time believing that a senator in good repute would sell out to murderers such as the kind who struck on 9/11 and violently ushered America into the Age of Terrorism. “In due course. Right now, we have to go all the way to the top.”

  SEVILLE, SPAIN

  THE TEAM had terminated outside communication five minutes earlier, when Zombie One left the hacienda grounds for the long trudge up to the crest of the hill, a walk that he made every hour. The dark van was parked near the top.

  Beth Ledford had begun walking downhill on the sidewalk, measuring her steps so that she and the Zombie would pass each other at the vehicle. “They’re both on the way,” said the CIA man in back, watching his two cameras and the overhead drone feed.

  Swanson just sat there, trying to stay calm. Coastie, Mark Dixon, and Bob Smith would handle the takedown while the third spook stayed on the surveillance electronics inside. He was in the streetside passenger seat to avoid the fight, because he could not afford an errant gush of blood spoiling his makeup.

  Spain was six hours ahead of Washington time, so since it was two o’clock in the morning in Seville, it was eight the previous night back in D.C. He knew the Tridents were in the office back there, nervously awaiting word from the strike team. So far, so good; the assault team went black on comms except among themselves.

  Through the front window, he watched Coastie walking in her fancy dress, her hips making the big skirt fan side to side. That made him think of some other women, and he banished them from his mind. Torreblanca had a wife down there with him, and her mother and father, and their children. There was always the chance of collateral damage. He knew that. Innocent people die in combat all the time. His job was to go in and kill the guy and get out clean, without awakening anyone else in the house. But what if one of the kids was still up, or if the mother was watching a movie, and what if Torreblanca and his wife were making love? What if a hundred things? Coastie was a lot closer, and she had a flirtatious smile that was directed down the sidewalk at someone moving toward her. In the big side mirror, he saw the shape of the Zombie lumbering forward.

  Swanson took a few deep breaths. He could not control everything. All he could do was his job. Do not rush. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast, and stop beating yourself up over things that have not happened! With that, he wiped his mind clean as Coastie, the little Spanish temptress in the lacy gypsy dress, sauntered past.

  Zombie One had been watching his shoes as he went one step after the other up the sloped sidewalk. He knew the route by heart. All the way to the top, where the fountain was,
check that area on both sides for thirty minutes, then return in time for a brief break, and do it all again. Any sniper would have to have a hide up high, and he was familiar with all of the possible spots along this route. He was tired. He had drunk too much raw wine that afternoon, and although the noise of the fiesta had calmed a great deal, the Spaniards partied late. He still heard music and shouts and the clack of flamenco castanets. He was passing a line of parked vehicles. When he lifted his eyes, there was a beautiful young woman almost right in front of him. Dark hair, dark eyes, beautiful body beneath a fancy frock, and apparently a little drunk.

  She locked eyes with him and missed a step, falling forward. Zombie One leaned over to catch her. Coastie knocked his hand aside and dropped all the way for a single-leg takedown as Mark Dixon rolled from beneath the van and piled on before the guy could even react. Bob Smith was right there, his right hand tight around the rubberized hammer grip of a mountain climber’s ice ax. He grabbed a handful of the Zombie’s hair to steady his target, then drove with a powerful swing that buried the steel point deep through the guard’s skull. Smith had to twist to yank the curved blade free from the tight bone, and it exited with a gush of blood and thick brain matter. Then he struck again with a wide swipe into the exposed temple.

  Kyle Swanson opened his door and stepped carefully onto the sidewalk and around the tangle of bodies, then walked away, slowly assuming the shambling, disinterested gait of the dead guard. In the dim light, they would have seemed identical.

  Behind him, the team worked quickly to finish with the lifeless body, first pulling a thick plastic bag down over the bleeding head wound, then stretching the corpse out flat and rolling it into a body bag. With the corpse wrapped up, all three of them lifted the Zombie into the rear of the van, where it was pushed to one side like a rug and almost immediately forgotten. It would be dumped on the way out.

  “No reaction below, and no witnesses around here. We’re good,” said the spook on the cameras. “Swanson’s on his way.”