SILVER-2 (NORRIS FILES)

by Marshall Huffman

  "A true politician."

  "Better. He can't be bought by the promise of the White House. Few today could resist such an offer."

  "Good. Actually that is great. If he had of caved in, would he have been any more respectable than LBJ? No, this just confirms it, we have the right man in the right place. It's up to us to provide the right time. If I get the proposed schedule of visits by the White House, can you get him to at least point us in the right direction as far as which ones the President will be actually visiting. I remember from the old days that the list is much greater than the actual travel plans."

  "Yes, I think so. He may be skeptical, but I think he will do that for me. I'll have a good enough reason for wanting to know."

  "What about after the event? Will he ask questions?"

  "He may doubt, but you leave that part to me. This is something I can deliver on," Linden said firmly.

  "I have no doubts about that."

  "Well, I may have failed on my part but the rest seems to be coming along."

  "Linden, you did not fail. Actually you succeeded in testing the mantle of Robert. We can all look forward to his being in office. You did a good job Linden."

  "When will you be able to obtain the initial list?"

  "Since the ball is now in my court, I will have it very soon. I will activate the backup plan immediately. I will call you as soon as it is in my hands."

  "And Mr. Red? I see he tested the weapon. It didn't make much of a splash except to say the case was being investigated by the F.B.I. as a possible homicide. Any reaction from Tim and Mike?

  "Not a peep. If they know they are not making a fuss. The F.B.I. has done a good job of keeping the details bottled up for a change."

  "Talk of OPS3 and the F.B.I. working on this together are starting to surface. If it's true, you’re in for some tough times. OPS3 is the best the country has."

  "Yes. I'll take care. I've been up against the best before,” he said tensely.

  "I know. I'm just concerned for you."

  "I appreciate that. I'll be fine. Linden we will pull this off and all go on our ways. Don't worry, but stay alert."

  "I will. I had better go. I'll wind down my pressure on Rob, except for the conformation. I'll be waiting. Take care."

  With that he turned and went back out the door and up the drive. He walked a block to his car and sat and looked around. Nothing looked out of place. He started the car and returned to his home. Well's watched his old friend leave. He too continued to look around for movement but saw nothing.

  "You did just fine," he muttered to himself as she let the curtain fall in place again.

  He picked up the phone and dialed.

  "Hello?"

  "Uh. Is Tom in?"

  "Sorry, you must have the wrong number. No one named Tom lives here," came the calm reply.

  "I must have dialed wrong."

  "No problem," the voice said and hung up.

  Harmon hung up and frowned. Someone was there and he didn't like it. Now what in the heck had gone wrong he wondered? There was little he could do except to wait and see what the latest development was. He fixed himself a stiff single malt scotch and did the only thing he could do. Wait.

  Ten minutes later the phone rang.

  "Yes?"

  “NT visitor."

  "25F. Tomorrow."

  "25F."

  The line went dead.

  The meeting was set for 5:00 P.M. tomorrow in Fairfax, Virginia.

  CHAPTER TWENTY -THREE

  Giovanni had been almost out of control ever since he saw the good Judge disappear in a red mist. He had picked the site with care. The distance was already dialed in. When the Judge came down the street he had watched him walk slowly along. Through the scope, he even noticed the Judge was overdue for a haircut. He watched the Judge place the brief case in the back seat after nearly forgetting he had sat it on the ground beside the car. 2,552.8 Feet. He allowed for distortion from the windshield. Make it 2,553.4 feed he decided.

  The Judge was just setting there, as if he could see him looking through the scope. It was strange. He released the button. A red mist filled the inside of the car. That was it. No one even looked around. It was weird.

  After he broke down the weapon he returned to the motel room that he was holding up in. He was wired. Later that night the news had a small report but very little in the way of detail was given out. What the hell, Giovanni thought. They should have been jumping all over this.

  CNN carried a story the following day but it had virtually the same information. Giovanni was beside himself. This should have made every news program across America. They were treating it like just another murder. What was wrong with those fools? He was in a controlled furry for almost the entire week.

  It soon disappeared from the papers altogether by the end of the week. Giovanni took this to mean that he had somehow screwed up and they were on to him. He became paranoid.

  By the middle of the following week, he was sure they were closing in on him. He waited until dark and went to the address of a safe house that he had been given in case anything went wrong. He found Zane, the guy that had delivered the weapon and the target information to him in New Mexico at the ranch.

  "What in the hell are you doing here?" Zane demanded.

  "Something went wrong. I think they are closing in on me," he said looking out the window frantically.

  "Mr. Red, you need to get a grip on yourself man. Here let me get you a drink. You’re losing it pal."

  "I ain't you pal, pal. Got it? I’m telling you, something went wrong."

  "Red. Nothing went wrong. What did you expect to happen? A banner saying that someone blew the hell out of Judge Del Ray Brooks? Shit man, get real."

  "Right, but nothing? I mean they had to of seen what was left of him. Why in the hell didn't the media pick up on that?"

  "I don't know for sure, but the F.B.I. or whoever, must have put a lid on it. Can you imagine the lead story? Judge Brooks explodes while setting in his car. Film at 11:00. Red, they had to cover it up. They don't even know what they are dealing with here. The F.B.I. has enough of an image problem without that. We anticipated this. Everything is exactly as it should be. You made the hit, you’re in the clear. It was a well-executed plan. You need to get in control of yourself."

  Giovanni sat down and slumped back in a chair. Neither man said anything for a long time. Zane went to the refrigerator and got them each a beer.

  "Here," he said handing Red a Double Diamond.

  "What the hell is this stuff?" Red said taking a big swallow.

  "Double D. English beer. Great beer," Zane answered.

  "Stuff ain't half bad," he said taking another swig.

  "I've just been setting here thinking. You're right. I've been an asshole. Man, I guess I came unglued a Little. It was just such a sight. One second he is right in the crosshairs. Just looking in space. Like he was lookin' at me, ya know? Then he's gone. You ever see what that thing can do? Its unfrickin' believable."

  "No. I've seen a lot of people killed in a lot of different ways, but nothing like you’re talking about. I guess that would unnerve anyone. You're gonna be fine. Everything is going as planned."

  "I guess you're right. If they had anything, they would have pulled the plug on me before this. Look, do you mind if I change motels? I've about had it with that one. I got so strange for a while it might have caused some attention."

  "Did you?"

  "I don't know. Maybe a little. I just need to move, alright?"

  "Under the circumstances I think that would be a good plan. You head on back to the ranch. Take your time and obey every law. Drive slowly, and don't make any mistakes. I'll pass the word on that I sent you back. It will be fine. Where is the SILVER now?"

  "Locked in the truck, just outside. Do you want me to leave it with you?"

  "Good God, no. Take it back to the ranch and put it in a safe place. No more targets until the main mission. Understand?"


  "No problem. I'm under control. I know what to do. No more weird shit.”

  "Good. You take off and I'll take care of the rest. It will probably be me or the 'fixer' that brings you the final instructions. You just stay cool and out of sight until you get the call."

  "Got it," he said. He finished off the beer and drove off into the night. Zane waited a few more minutes before calling Wells back. He let him know that there was no threat by saying 'NT'. He knew that it would make Wells feel better. The meeting was arranged for the following day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY -FOUR

  While the drama at the safe house between Zane and Mr. Red was being played out, PJ and Sean were making their way toward San Diego.

  Once on the ground they rented a car and followed the directions they had been given to the home of the ex-Top Sargent, USMC, Leon Brown. Trainer of some of the finest snipers ever produced. The small neatly kept house was just a stone throw from Imperial Beach. Leon was just what you would expect from a former DI. Tough as nails and as crusty as ever.

  "Come the hell in," was the greeting as they knocked on the door.

  "So. You’re from the F-B-frickin’-I?" It was all one word coming from Leon, "So what brings your sorry asses all the way out here to see me?" he asked, heading for the kitchen.

  "It's about the Marine Sniper School," they told him.

  They went over the details that they had, leaving out the part about the possibility of an attempt on the

  President.

  "Don't surprise me none. You train them frickin' guys to kill and turn them loose to kill. What the hell do you expect? Boy Scouts? Shit I'm surprised one of them guys hasn't taken out one of the Presidents. Hey, wait a frickin' second. Is that what this is all about?"

  "Easy Sargent. No one has made an attempt on the President. What we think is that an ex-sniper has gone into the killing business for hire. We have seen a string of, what looks like related, assassinations taking place over the past few years. We’re just checking out leads. We thought this seemed like a logical place to look as well."

  "You ain't frickin' lookin' at me are you?"

  "Hell no Top. We’re looking for someone you may have trained at Sniper School. This guy ain't a run of the mill shooter. This guy is possible the best. All of the shots have been from over a 1100 yards out. No clues. Just lines em' up, drops em', and takes off."

  The Sargent handed out beers all around, keeping two for himself. He popped the top of one and downed it in one long gulp.

  "Good frickin' stuff."

  "How would you know? You never had time to taste it?"

  "Well hell boy, that's what makes it good. Stuff taste like piss if you let it set in your mouth too long."

  He popped the top on the second beer and went through the same routine. A loud disgusting burp ended the beer.

  "Sorry. Didn't get any on you did I?" he asked not really caring.

  "Look Sargent, we need to you to take a look at this list and tells if you remember anything about those guys," PJ said handing him the list.

  Leon looked at the list a minute and headed back to the refrigerator.

  "Gonna' need a few more frickin' beers boys. Drink up. Don't be a wuss."

  He came back with four more beers and handed one to Sean and PJ.

  "Now," he said opening a beer, "Let’s see what you have here."

  He held the paper at different distances trying to read the names.

  Finally he said, "Shit. I need my reading' glasses. You say one word and I'll bust your asses."

  "Not a word," PJ promised.

  "That's better. Let’s see, ya' got Jim Peters. Hell of a good shot. Tough little shit. Real fighter. Didn't like to quit. Got weird in the end. Hell, most did. Saw God in the crosshairs one night. Was never the same after that. Hell of a nice guy. After that mission, he never went out in the bush again. Rotated back to the States and got married. Got involved with the church or so I heard. Don't think he is your man."

  He downed his beer and went on to the next name.

  “Ralph Larson. He was a good shot alright but seemed to top out at about 1200 yards. His proficiency rate really fell off after that. He was a jerk to boot. Don't think anyone liked him ten minutes after meeting him. Got shot in the back on a mission. Most thought it was by one of the other snipers. Could be. Don't know what happened to him after that. If you’re lookin' for a good long range shooter time and time again I don't think he would be your man. Not the cream of the crop. Tim Sparks. Ol' Sparky. He was a good one. Up to 1600 yards he was hard to beat. Lined up the shot well. Learned well too. Smart. Not a smartass like Larson. Street smart, ya' know? Anyway, he would be a top ten guy if it wasn't for the fact that he didn't like to go after the target. He just wanted to sit and wait for it to come to him. Hated to leave the compound. Or so I was told. Quick kill artist I guess you would call him. Line em' up in the crosshairs, pop em' and go home."

  "But you would place him on the ten best list?"

  "Ab-so-frickin'-loutely."

  "Next?"

  "Ah. DeRosso, the Wop. Hey, this guy is good. I expected to see his name if you’re looking for the best. Maybe the best I ever trained. Cool and calm. He loved it. Didn't see him in Nam but I heard stories about him. Had more confirmed kills than anyone, taking into consideration time in field. Never in a hurry. Could track a man, or woman for that matter, for days. He didn't care who the target was. If you were his mission, he would get you. One bad sucker. An asshole buddy of mine, Sargent Jimmy Johnson was his boss in the frickin' Nam. He could tell you stories about this guy that would set your hair on end."

  "Number one on the hit parade?"

  "If not number one, he is sure near the top."

  "The others?"

  "Hey, this next guy. Ted Rafferity. He was right up in the same league as the Wop. Wilder for sure, but had the same skills. Didn't calculate as much as DeRosso. Hurried it a little more but the results were the same. Pop. Your head is missing."

  "So, he goes at the top with DeRosso.”

  "And Tim Sparks. Sparky. He could shoot, make no mistake about it."

  "And the others on the list," PJ asked, sipping his beer. The Sargent just gave him a pitiful look and downed his last beer.

  Leon went through the list one by one. He remembered something about each one. In the end the list of top notch shooters stood at three. Tim Sparks, Giovanni DeRosso and Teddy Rafferity.

  "That's about it boys? Care for a beer? I'm about to die of thirst."

  They both declined.

  "You boys need to get your butts over to see JJ. He knows a lot more about those three than I do. He was with then in the bush in the frickin' Nam. Hell, he may even know where you can find them."

  "Who is JJ and how do we find him?" PJ asked.

  "Jimmy Johnson. JJ, I told you that. Just don't call him Leroy. He just lives up the road a ways."

  "What's a ways?" Sean wanted to know.

  "Del Mar. Just off Camino."

  The looked at each other a second.

  "What the hell, we have come this far. Would you call him and see if he can see us now?"

  "Hell yes. If he's home, he'll see you. Sucker loves to talk. Not shy like me."

  Leon went into the kitchen and called. They could hear him bantering with JJ in a loud voice. In a few minutes he returned with two beers.

  He opened one, downed it and said, "JJ will be happy to talk to you. Said to just haul your lily white asses up to his place. He’ll be lookin' for you."

  Leon gave them the directions to JJ's house.

  “Hey, JJ is a good guy. One of the best. Put his ass on the line for this country a thousand times. They don't come any better. I'll kick your ass if you tell him I said so."

  "It's safe with us, Sargent,” PJ assured him as they drove off towards Del Mar.

  They drove along I-5 until they came to the turnoff. It was easy to find. They did a double take almost. He was the spittin' image of Leon Brown, except black. Leatherneck, Simp
er Fi and all that crap. He walked with a limp as he headed back into the house after meeting them in the driveway. Even the decorations in the house were the same.

  "Frickin' pungi stick," he said as he walked along. Once inside he headed straight for the kitchen and returned with four beers. He handed one to each of them without asking. Popped the top and guzzled down half the beer.

  "Frickin' Brownie ain't civilized when he drinks. No class. Sorry ass sucker. Now boys, what's got you asses so uptight?"

  "Well Gunny, we need to ask about some of the snipers you were with in Vietnam."

  "Frickin' Nam," he corrected.

  "Ted Rafferity, Giovanni DeRosso and Tim Sparks," Sean repeated from the list.

  "Pop Top, The Wop and Sparky. If you boys is lookin' for them, you got a hell of a mess on your hands. Three of the best in the killing business I ever saw. You boys are in a world of shit."

  "What can you tell us about each one? This is really important."

  "Sure, I know. It’s always important with you guys. Brownie filled me in some. Said it was important shit."

  He finished off his first beer and started in.

  "Pop Top. Rafferity on your list. He had something like 85 confirmed kills and 40 Probable. About 90 per cent were head shots. That's how he got his name. Always going to pop some tops, as he like to put it. Hated the VC as much as any man I ever saw in the frickin' Nam. Pop Top was always getting into a pissin' contest with someone. Hot headed prick. Asshole shot the control stick right out of the hand of some flyboy one time over some stupid argument they had. Frickin' chopper plopped right on its side. The flyboy walked away but never made an issue of it. Never screw with a sniper. You can't win. Flyboy learned that lesson the hard way."

  "How was he in the bush?" PJ asked.

  "Not bad. Didn't love it, but would do whatever it took to get the job done. He could track good but didn't like setting in one spot too long. Shit, I don't blame him. Them gooks could smell our nasty asses a mile away."