The Long Shot (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  “And we’ve nothing on him?”

  “Not as Damien O’Brien, that’s for sure. And we haven’t got a match with any photographs yet. We’re trying to get a new face from the Academy to go in and get a glass for prints, but it’s taking time to arrange.”

  Clutesi nodded. “Yeah, but those Paddies can smell a Fed a mile off. We need a youngster, someone fresh. We can’t rush it.” He watched as the man in the pea jacket pushed open the door and went inside, then turned round to face his colleague. “What do you think?”

  Sullivan shrugged. “Could be on the lam from the Brits. We’ll know soon enough.” He slid the headphones back on and leaned back in the deck-chair.

  “I’m going,” Clutesi mouthed, pointing at the door. “See you tomorrow.” Sullivan gave him a thumbs-up. He was listening to Shorty tell a particularly dirty story about two Protestant farmers and a sheep.

  Andy Kim drove the red Cherokee Laredo up to the barrier and wound down his window. “I can’t believe this, I really can’t believe this,” he said to his wife.

  “I know, I have to keep pinching myself,” Bonnie whispered. She giggled, but stopped abruptly when a guard appeared at Andy’s window, a clipboard in his hand.

  “Andy Kim and Bonnie Kim,” said Andy, before the guard could speak. “We’re expected. We’re supposed to go to the West Wing.”

  Bonnie leaned over and showed her FBI credentials to the unsmiling guard. He nodded and consulted his clipboard and then waved to a colleague to raise the barrier. “Park in bay 56, someone will meet you there,” he said brusquely and handed them both temporary visitor badges.

  Andy nudged the vehicle down the driveway and wound up the window. “Friendly,” he said to Bonnie.

  “They’re not paid to be friendly, I suppose,” she replied.

  They both looked to the left as they headed slowly down the driveway. The White House gleamed in the afternoon sun as if it had been freshly painted. The grass surrounding the building seemed unnaturally green, like Astroturf, though the operating sprinklers suggested that it was the genuine article. “My parents brought me here as a kid, just after they got citizenship,” said Andy. “We queued for two hours in August, so they could see the house where the President lived. ‘Our President’ they kept saying, as if he was their personal representative. They were so proud that they could finally call themselves Americans.” He saw the bay where they were to park and he edged the car between a convertible white Saab and a black Lincoln. “We were herded through the public rooms like sheep, they barely gave us time to see anything because of the lines outside.” He switched off the engine and looked across at his wife. “They’d have been so proud of what we’re doing now. Actually working at the White House, helping the President.”

  Bonnie wanted to take her husband in her arms and squeeze him. His parents had died in a car crash shortly before his seventeenth birthday and she knew that the thing he missed more than anything was not having them there to see how successful he was becoming and how all their financial sacrifices had paid off. He wanted so badly for them to be proud of him, but the drunken driver at the wheel of the overloaded truck had robbed him of that. “They’d have been proud,” she said, reaching over to hold his hand.

  “I hope so,” he said. He held her gaze for a moment and then winked. “Come on, let’s get to it.”

  They climbed out of the four-wheel drive vehicle and Andy began pulling the cardboard boxes off the back seat. They’d brought several hard disks, Bonnie’s CD and back-up copies of all the programs they’d been using. As Andy stacked the boxes on the asphalt, a thin young man with a military hair cut and pockmarked cheeks, wearing a blue blazer and grey slacks, walked up. He introduced himself as Rick Palmer, a former Army programmer on attachment to the White House, and he helped them carry the boxes. He’d spoken earlier to the Kims to ensure that there would be no equipment compatibility problems, but this was the first time they’d met. He took them through a side entrance, past a uniformed guard who scrutinised their badges. “I’ll have personal IDs fixed up for you by this evening,” Palmer promised as he took them to the sub-ground level of the West Wing. They walked by signs identifying the White House Communications Centre and the Situation Room. Palmer pushed open a door with his shoulder and led the Kims into a white-walled office. “This is home,” he said, placing the boxes he’d been carrying onto one of the four desks in the room. Each of the desks had an IBM computer and a telephone. “It was part of the secretarial pool but Bob Sanger had it requisitioned for you. Well, for us, actually, I’ll be working with you.”

  “Great,” said Andy.

  “We’ve another five programmers coming,” said Bonnie. “We’ll have to bring in more desks. And terminals.”

  “Let me know what you need,” said Palmer. “These terminals are hooked into our mainframe, I’ll take you along to see it later. I think you’ll be impressed.” He rubbed his hands and nodded at the CD which Bonnie was unpacking. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Cole Howard flew from Phoenix to San Diego and drove a rental car south to Coronado. It was warm and sunny and he had the windows down as he drove along Highway 75. The buildings which housed the Naval Amphibious Base were south of the town. Across from the base were more buildings and as Howard drew closer he could see an obstacle course made up of various log structures like half-finished mountain cabins, and beyond it a long ribbon-like stretch of beach. A group of men in white T-shirts and shorts were running along the beach with what appeared to be a telephone pole held above their heads.

  The rating who checked Howard’s credentials at the gate looked to be about sixteen years old, tall and gawky with a bad case of acne. He cross-checked Howard’s name with a list of approved visitors and directed him to the visitors’ car park.

  Rich Lovell’s former squad leader was a big man, well over six feet and built like a heavyweight boxer. When he shook hands with Howard, the FBI agent felt like a child being gripped by an adult. The features on his egg-shaped head all seemed larger than life: big blue eyes, a wide forehead and thick lips which covered gleaming, chunky teeth. His name was Sam Tucker and he spoke with a slow, Texas drawl. He was wearing immaculately pressed khakis and a dress blouse with his single bar ensign tabs on his collar. He took Howard through to a cramped office and waved him to a chair.

  “I mentioned you were coming to my XO, and he said he’d like to be present, Agent Howard.”

  “XO?” said Howard.

  “Executive officer,” explained Tucker. “Lieutenant Walsh. I said I’d call him when you arrived.”

  “Sure, that’s fine by me,” said Howard.

  The ensign picked up the phone and called the lieutenant. After saying “Aye-aye, sir” crisply a few times he replaced the receiver and stood up. “XO said you might appreciate an orientation tour, and then he’d like to see us in his office.”

  Howard nodded. He told Tucker that he knew little about the work of the Navy SEALs and he’d appreciate the background. They decided to use Howard’s car and they drove out of the base and across Highway 75 to a cluster of concrete buildings which Tucker said housed the SEAL training centre. They parked and Tucker led the FBI agent to the Phil. H. Bucklew Centre for Naval Special Warfare and into the main hall. Tucker waved at a collection of photographs on the walls. “These are all the classes that have graduated from Coronado,” he explained. “You’ve chosen a good time to visit. We’re halfway through Hell Week.”

  “Hell Week?”

  “Yeah, the first phase of SEAL training is a seven-week conditioning programme – mainly running and swimming. The fourth week is where we push them to their limits – we call it Hell Week. If they get through Hell Week, they’ve a good chance of making it. By the end of Hell Week, two out of three have dropped out.”

  Howard’s jaw dropped. “That’s one hell of a cut,” he said.

  “It’s worse than that,” said Tucker, grinning. “Only one in five actually graduates from the full tw
enty-six-week course. We only take the best of the best. You can easily spot the ones who have still to pass Hell Week – they’re wearing white T-shirts. Once they’re through Hell Week they wear green.”

  The two men walked through to a central courtyard of asphalt. “We call this the Grinder,” said Tucker; “it’s where we do our drills.” He took Howard over to a brass bell which was fixed to a post. “All the men are volunteers,” he said. “Any time they want to drop out, all they have to do is ring this bell.”

  “How tough is the training?” Howard asked.

  “By the end of the first phase we’ve worked them up to running four miles in under thirty-two minutes, swimming a mile in the bay without fins in seventy minutes, a two-mile ocean swim with fins in ninety-five minutes, and they can swim fifty yards underwater. We keep them going twelve hours a day. The academic work is tough, too, we teach them first aid, reconnaissance and lifesaving.”

  “I saw some men running with a telephone pole on the beach.”

  “That’s right, we do a lot of log work. It builds team spirit. Same with the IBS, we make them take the IBS with them wherever they go.”

  “IBS?”

  “Inflatable boat, small,” said Tucker. “It weighs almost 300 pounds and is twelve feet long. The men have to carry it wherever they go and make sure it’s not damaged or deflated. Teamwork’s probably more important in the SEALs than any other branch of the services. Your life can often depend on the man next to you. One mistake when you’re a hundred feet underwater in a war zone and you’re dead.”

  “Rich Lovell, was he a good team player?” Howard asked.

  Tucker shaded his eyes with one of his big, square hands. “XO said we should wait until we get to his office before we discuss the reason for your visit, sir,” he said.

  Howard nodded and realised it wasn’t worth pressing the ensign. “There’s another SEAL base in Virginia, right?”

  “That’s right, at Little Creek. SEAL Teams One, Three and Five are here, Two, Four and Eight are at Little Creek.”

  “With SEAL Team Six?”

  “The Mob, you mean,” smiled Tucker. “They’re a law unto themselves. Even their manning levels are classified. They train separately, and they report directly to the Secretary of Defence and the White House.”

  “Counter-terrorism, right?”

  “That’s it, and other dirty work. They were originally taken from SEAL Two, but now it’s only their admin which is at Little Creek. They spend a lot of time playing with Delta Force. You interested in Six?”

  Howard shrugged. “Just curious. You read about them occasionally, I just wondered what they were like.”

  “Mad bastards, most of them,” said Tucker. “You wouldn’t want your sister to marry one.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Howard. “What’s the operational set-up here?”

  The ensign headed towards the tallest building in the compound. “The basic unit is a platoon, twelve enlisted men and two officers. A platoon has two squads of six men each with an officer. I’m a squad leader. Each SEAL Team has fourteen platoons, plus a headquarters platoon.”

  They reached the building and Tucker led Howard inside. “This is our dive tower, which allows us to train our divers down to a depth of fifty feet,” the ensign explained. They watched a group of SEALs practising swimming up from the bottom without their tanks. “Our motto is ‘The only easy day was yesterday’ and that’s the truth,” said Tucker. “It was the hardest six weeks of my life, believe me.” Tucker looked at his watch. “XO’ll be waiting. We’d better go.”

  They drove back to the camp and Tucker led the way down a battleship-grey corridor to the executive officer’s office, which was several times larger than Tucker’s own, and considerably tidier. Walsh was in full naval uniform, with not a speck of lint on the dark blue material. He was a complete contrast to the squad leader, about five feet nine with swarthy skin, dark, hooded eyes and a clipped New York accent. He seemed eager to help, and sat back in his chair with his fingers steepled under his chin as Howard explained that he was trying to track down Rich Lovell. As he talked, Tucker stood with his back to the wall, almost at attention.

  “Can you tell me what the FBI’s interest in Lovell is?” asked Walsh.

  “At this stage we’re just making preliminary inquiries,” said Howard.

  “Which is as polite a way of stonewalling as I’ve heard,” said Walsh, with a smile. “Anyway, as Ensign Tucker has already told you, Lovell left SEAL Team Three some eighteen months ago.”

  “How long was he with the SEALs?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “On what basis did he leave?”

  “I don’t follow you,” said Walsh.

  “Honourable discharge?”

  “Ah, I see what you mean,” said Walsh. “The decision to leave was his; can I put it that way?”

  “Which is as polite a way of stonewalling as I’ve heard,” said Howard.

  Walsh laughed, and Tucker smiled. “Touché,” said Walsh. He fingered a class ring as he studied the FBI agent. “Seaman Lovell left with an honourable discharge, but we didn’t try to dissuade him from leaving. You know that he was a sniper?” Howard nodded. “Lovell was trained in all aspects of SEAL work: underwater demolition, parachuting, reconnaissance, the works. But his speciality was sniping. He was the best sniper in the SEALs. He served with distinction in Operation Desert Storm, but he found it harder to function efficiently in peace-time.”

  Howard nodded. “There wouldn’t be much use for his skills, I suppose,” he said.

  “That’s the case with all our men,” said Walsh. “Ensign Tucker gave you the tour, right?”

  Howard nodded.

  “We give them the most testing training exercises you can imagine,” Walsh continued. “We keep them at the peak of their abilities, but we can’t give them the real thing. It’s not like the British SAS, they can keep their skills sharpened by taking on the IRA. The Germans have the Red Army Faction and what’s left of the Baader-Meinhof gang, the French have to deal with Basque terrorists, the Italians have the Red Brigade. We don’t have home-grown terrorists, during peace-time our men are like Formula One racing cars with the engine running and nowhere to go.”

  “And Lovell couldn’t cope with it?”

  “Ensign Tucker can brief you on that better than I,” said Walsh. “I’ve only been with SEAL Three for eighteen months.” Walsh looked over at the ensign, who nodded curtly.

  “In my opinion, he was finding it progressively more difficult to cope,” said Tucker. “Snipers are a breed apart. It’s like no other form of warfare. Killing in the heat of battle isn’t difficult, Agent Howard. The body’s self-defence mechanism takes over and you kill without thinking. It’s kill or be killed. It’s easy to stab a man in the stomach if he’s coming at you with a knife. But a sniper kills from a distance, he’s usually in no danger himself, yet he gets to see the victim close up. The sniper looks through his scope and sees the eyes of his victim. You have to be a special sort of man to kill like that and to stay sane. Seaman Lovell, like all of our snipers, underwent regular psychiatric evaluation, and it became clear from them that he was no longer performing effectively. That’s not to say he wasn’t as accurate or as effective a sniper. He was. If anything, he was getting better.”

  “So what was wrong?”

  Tucker sucked air in through clenched teeth. “I think he missed it.”

  “Combat?”

  Tucker shook his head. “The killing. Combat we could offer, even if it was make-believe, but we couldn’t allow him to kill.”

  “But how was that a problem?” asked Howard.

  Tucker smiled tightly. “Shooting targets wasn’t enough for him any more,” said the ensign. “He’d developed a taste for hunting humans. He kept talking about it, describing kills he’d made, relishing the details.”

  “War stories?”

  “More than war stories, much more,” said Tucker. “He was becoming obsessi
ve. Don’t take it from me, take a look at the psychiatric reports.”

  Howard looked across at the lieutenant. “Can that be arranged?”

  “I’ll have the BUPERS file sent to you,” said Walsh.

  “BUPERS?” Howard felt that he was constantly having to ask the SEALs to explain their jargon. Like most groups, they used a verbal shorthand to exclude outsiders. He understood, and didn’t object, because that was exactly the way FBI agents and cops operated.

  “Sorry, it stands for Bureau of Personnel. Their file should have everything you want.”

  “What sort of operations was he involved in? You mentioned Desert Storm?”

  Tucker took a step forward. “Lovell was in one of two platoons of East Coast SEALs who were sent into Kuwait prior to the invasion by the Allied Forces. He recorded twenty-eight confirmed hits, but much of the time he was working alone and so many went unrecorded. He claims to have killed more than fifty, most of them high-ranking Iraqi officers.”

  “What weapon did he use?”

  “Barrett Model 82,” said Tucker.

  “Was it after Desert Storm that he began to have psychological problems?”

  Tucker looked uneasy. “I think it would be safer to say that Desert Storm opened a door for him, and he didn’t want to close it. It was the first time he’d actually killed a man with his rifle.”

  “And he enjoyed it?”

  “I don’t think enjoy is the right word. It was a challenge, a way of testing himself. And after the Gulf War, he no longer felt his abilities were being tested to the full. On his return to California he made several requests to be transferred to Seal Team Six. He was refused. There isn’t much love lost between SEALs on the West Coast and those on the East Coast. That’s when the psychiatrists began to express concern about him continuing on active service.”

  “Was he especially close to anyone in the SEAL unit? Someone I could talk to?”

  “His dive buddy was Lou Schoelen, another sniper,” said Tucker.

  “Can I see him?”

  “He quit, about two months after Lovell left.”