The sniper saw that the boat was hauling the combined weight of ten men, who stared up at the helicopter. One had an AK-47 at his shoulder, pinging away ineffectively, far out of range. “I’m ready, Skipper.”
The pilot and the sniper had worked together for a long time as members of the U.S. Coast Guard’s Helicopter Interdiction Tactical Squadron (HITRON) and were experienced in taking down much tougher targets, such as the go-fast boats of drug smugglers in the Gulf of Mexico. Lieutenant Commander Taylor had seen the sniper shoot those quick, dancing speedboats with such precision that often only one shot was needed, because the bullet would penetrate the engine and blow it apart. Without power, the go-fasts became wallowing hulks that would stay where they were until a ship arrived to arrest the crew and seize the cargo of marijuana or cocaine. Taylor was confident that his sniper was as good as they come.
He settled the helicopter into position, and the dials were right where they should be. The big problem in flying over water was not to be fooled by a smooth, mirrorlike surface and fly right into it. “Commence firing,” he said.
The sniper shot on the command, and the web of straps bracing the Barrett took the recoil. There were two big Mercury outboards on the rear of the pirate boat, and the one on the left exploded in a shower of metal shards that wounded several pirates. With practiced ease, another bullet was chambered and fired, and the second motor was torn from the stern. The impact of the powerful shots sent the long boat into a lazy, powerless turn.
“You finished yet, Gunner?” asked Taylor.
“Yes, sir,” replied the sniper, pulling the Barrett back into the helo and securing it. As Taylor radioed the results to a French navy frigate that was heading to the scene, the sniper pushed the goggles up, took off the helmet and ran both hands through her blond hair, then pulled on a blue baseball cap with gold lettering. Beth Ledford took a drink of water and waved to the drifting Somali pirates, who began to shout and shake their fists in futile anger when they realized that they had been attacked, and thoroughly beaten, by a woman.
Once the French warship was in sight and heading for the disabled vessel, the helicopter spun out of its holding pattern and was soon making its final approach to the landing area on the broad stern of the National Security Cutter Stratton, a 418-foot-long white vessel that looked friendly to allied maritime units but overwhelmingly threatening to potential enemies. Petty Officer Ledford was looking forward to a quick debriefing, cleaning her weapons, then some hot chow and a shower, clean sheets, and sleep.
“Oh-oh.” Taylor’s voice cut into her daydreaming. “Hey, Ledford. You still awake back there?”
“Yep. Sir.”
“Look at that welcoming committee just beyond the platform. You got better eyes. Who is it?”
Beth shaded her face from the sun with the palm of her hand. Three officers in pressed khaki uniforms and blue hats were in line, watching the helo come in. “It’s the skipper … chief of the boat … and the third one is the chaplain. They aren’t smiling.”
Taylor spoke again on the aircraft’s internal network. “Listen up, everybody. The doom and gloom squad is out to meet us. The only time those three ever get together is to play poker or deliver bad news. I did not get an alert about it, so we’ll just have to wait and see. Don’t spaz out.”
The helo shifted into a smooth hover, then edged slowly forward to match the speed of the Stratton. Petty Officer Second Class Beth Ledford thought, Dang. Wonder what they want?
4
KYLE SWANSON STOOD AT the general’s window in the Pentagon, looking out over the serene park at 1 Rotary Road while the Lizard gave the office a final electronics sweep before the meeting. The crepe myrtle trees were showing signs of maturity as their roots dug deeper into the soil, a visual marker of passing time, like a child’s growth measured year by year on the sill of a door. People were strolling on the gravel and sitting on the cantilevered benches. More than a decade had elapsed since American Airlines Flight 77 was hijacked a short time after takeoff from Washington on September 11, 2001. Its captors had turned the fully fueled Boeing 757 jetliner around and flown it straight into the west wall of the Pentagon at 345 miles per hour. There were 184 benches out there now, one for each of the 59 passengers and crew and 125 military and civilian Pentagon personnel who died that day. The same day, the Twin Towers fell in New York, and the United States went to war against terrorism.
Reconstruction of the charred and gutted section of the huge building went fast, for the Pentagon had been in the middle of a renovation program. The emphasis on secrecy and going to war against terrorists also brought along a gloves-off approach, and several special offices were included in the new Pentagon, offices that were almost impossible to find on any diagram or directory. These would be home bases for warriors who prowled the dark side. One of those areas was assigned to Major General Bradley Middleton of the U.S. Marine Corps, the commander of Task Force Trident, a special operations unit that reported only to the president of the United States.
The glass through which Swanson was watching the solemn tourists was two inches thick and blast resistant. Structural steel beams encased the few rooms, the doors had combination locks and retina scans, and a polymer-mesh-reinforced fabric covered the walls. The electronics suite was state-of-the-art. Swanson was pleased that he worked right at the aiming point for the terrorists. Time might pass, but coming to work here hardened his resolve every day. His job was to fight the enemy, wherever they might be, and no one in Trident believed the death of Osama bin Laden meant the war was over. Rival sects in the Middle East were trying to seize bin Laden’s mantle of mysterious leadership. Terrorists don’t sign peace treaties.
Neither did Task Force Trident. It had only five members, but Middleton could draw as many people as needed from other services and agencies to accomplish a mission. The two-star general was the commander, and the operations officer was Sybelle Summers, the youngest female lieutenant colonel in the Marine Corps and the only woman ever to make it through Marine Recon training. Her clandestine exploits had earned her the nickname “Queen of Darkness.”
Navy Commander Benton Freedman was Trident’s communications officer, an electronics genius with a round face, round glasses, and such an incredible intellect that he had been called “the Wizard” in the submarine service. The Marines in Trident altered that to “Lizard” to get under his skin, and the nickname stuck.
Senior Master Sergeant O. O. Dawkins was the administrative chief, the behind-the-scenes operative who kept the ship running, no matter what the obstacles. A huge man with a deep voice, he wore his uniform crisp and starched, his short hair high and tight, and was one the few men to hold the Marines’ highest enlisted rank.
The final member of Trident was Marine Gunnery Sergeant Swanson, the never-miss trigger-puller, considered by many to be the best sniper in the deadly game.
“You finished yet, Lizard?” General Middleton asked loudly. He was seated at his desk, with a stack of folders before him.
“Just now, sir. We’re clean.” Freedman tapped a final key on his laptop, and the automatic sweep of the office for listening devices came to a halt. He hit one more key, and backup dead bolts slid home in the outer doors. Swanson drifted over and took the last seat in front of the desk.
The general looked at the four of them, his big brows narrowing toward the broad nose as he laid a palm on the folders. “All right, people, let’s get down to business,” he said. “We’ve got a Green Light package.” He handed out four of the five folders, keeping one for himself and opening it to lift out an eight-by-ten glossy photograph of a man in white robes, smiling through a bearded face. “Recognize this guy?”
“It’s that fuckin’ Charlie Brown.” The gruff voice of Senior Master Sergeant Dawkins rumbled.
“Score one for Double-Oh,” the general confirmed. “Abdullah al-Mohammed, born as Charles Peter Brown in Lawton, Oklahoma, thirty-five years ago. He’s our target. Most of the rest of the papers in
your folders are a compilation of what is known about him, current locations, that sort of thing.”
“How good is the information, sir?” Sybelle Summers asked as she fanned quickly through the pages. “They include newspaper clippings, for God’s sake. That’s not actionable information. Got to be some snip-and-paster over at CIA.”
“It indeed is pretty sloppy work for a Green Light, but I will do a full workup.” Commander Freedman anticipated that within a few days, he would know everything possible about Charlie Brown and could put it into coherent form. His mind was already at work, and he unconsciously started to hum the old rhythm and blues song “Charlie Brown.” Fe-fe, fi-fi, fo-fo, fum.
“Stop that,” the general snapped.
“Sorry, sir. The Coasters, 1959. King Curtis on the tenor sax.”
“Why is everybody always pickin’ on me?” Dawkins drawled the song’s most memorable line.
“All of you. Shut up. You are not a doo-wop group!”
They smiled. The tense atmosphere that usually came with an assassination assignment was broken. Now it was just a job.
“Where is he?” asked Summers.
“Looks like Yemen,” said the Lizard. “There’s a country that is going the wrong way in a hurry on terrorism.”
The general leaned back and folded his hands on his chest. “The little bastard crossed the line. It was bad enough that he went through al Qaeda training and then began those broadcasts in English to try to recruit more Americans, but now he’s really gotten big in operations. Buddies up with fanatical American kids and prepares them to return to the U.S. as his moles, just waiting for his command to blow up some shopping mall and create mass casualties.”
Summers asked, “So our leaders have decided there will be no due process or fair trials or that other stuff for him. We’re going to execute an American citizen?”
“Yes, Colonel Summers. That is exactly what we’re going to do. Several presidents have had the authority to do so. You have a problem with not giving Charlie Brown a jury trial back in Oklahoma?”
“Oh, none at all, sir. He forfeited that right, as far as I’m concerned. Just another terrorist bum now. Before, he was just an annoyance, but now that he wants to be a real player, he has to pay the price.” There was a murmur of agreement in the room.
“Well, gang, he likely is not going to be coming to us, so we will have to go after him. High-value target. Gunny Swanson, you have anything to add?”
Swanson was the sharp point of the Trident spear. “No, sir.” His eyes drifted to the window, and the memory of September 11 came back. “No questions at all.”
The general closed a briefing folder. “Right. Get to work. I want a plan within a week, and to have Swanson on the ground over there in two. Figure out what and who you need, and pull whatever resources are required. Keep it simple, because we’re not planning an invasion of Yemen, just a cleanup job on a stupid asshole terrorist. Send any questions to me.”
The Lizard shut down the security measures, the big dead bolts slid back to unlock the doors, and the five members of Task Force Trident drifted away. As soon as Sybelle Summers returned to her desk, her cell phone buzzed. She looked at the screen with a small frown, not recognizing the number of the caller. “Summers,” she answered with no inflection in her voice.
“Lieutenant Colonel Summers? This is Petty Officer Second Class Beth Ledford, the Coast Guard sniper?” The voice was hesitant and carried an undercurrent of worry. “When you lectured our special ops class about a year ago, you gave me this number to call if I needed some extra help?”
Sybelle remembered the meeting. She had felt an immediate affinity for Ledford, the lone little blonde trying to fit in among a classroom filled with tough-guy warriors from all branches of the armed forces. Everybody in the room had seemed at least a foot taller than Beth Ledford, who stood five-six and weighed about 115 pounds soaking wet, but the records revealed the young woman had the best shooting scores in the entire class. Summers had taken her out for a coffee afterward, and a sister-to-sister talk about succeeding in careers dominated by men.
“Well, hello there, Petty Officer Ledford. Sure I remember you,” Summers said, changing her tone from distant to neutral. “This is a surprise. What’s going on? You quit the military and joined the circus yet? Little Sure Shot?”
The offhand compliment did not bring the laugh that Summers expected. “I have a problem, Major. It’s not a glass ceiling thing, I would never call you for something like that, and I can’t discuss it over the phone, so can we meet up for lunch today? Please? It’s important.” The briefest of pauses. “National security kind of important.”
Sybelle sat up straight and snapped her fingers a couple of times, and Kyle Swanson looked over. “Lunch, then, Beth. Since we will be in public, drop the rank thing and come in casual civvies. I’m bringing someone else along.” She gave the name of a pub in Crystal City. “See you there in forty-five minutes.”
Swanson had wandered over to her desk by the time she finished the conversation and hung up. “Go put on some real-people clothes, Gunny. I’m taking you out to lunch with somebody I want you to meet, another sniper.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see.” While Kyle went to change, Summers briefed General Middleton on the conversation and the planned meeting. His eyes twitched when she said the words “national security,” and he nodded silent permission to meet the source.
THE UNITED NATIONS, NEW YORK
THE CLATTER OF SILVERWARE against good china was drowned out by the polyglot of voices in the Delegates’ Dining Room on the fourth floor of the United Nations Headquarters in Manhattan. Men and women in business attire that would be acceptable back in their home countries helped themselves to the cuisine served at the long buffet, which today featured a mildly spicy menu from the lower Pacific Islands. Sunlight bathed the huge room where the administrative staff workers from the 192 member states that made up the United Nations frequently had their lunches. Although the dining room was open to the public, the dress code of no jeans, shorts, or sneakers usually frightened away American tourists.
There was normally a steady flow of people during the lunch hour, and the volume of the conversation, although subdued, was enough to cover the private talk being carried on by two men seated at a table beside the glass wall that reached from the floor to the high ceiling and overlooked New York’s East River.
“You don’t enjoy the hot food?” James Doyle shoveled another fork of lamb curry and rice into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and felt a bead of sweat pop out on his forehead. He smiled. Bliss. The lanky and nondescript midlevel diplomat was enjoying the trip to New York, getting away from Washington for a day.
“Not today. I drank too much at the Danish ambassador’s party last night,” responded the heavyset Mohammed Javid Bhatti, a cultural attaché of the Pakistani Foreign Office. “In about a half hour, you’ll be sorry for eating that stuff.”
Jimmy Doyle knocked back a deep draft of cold beer. “No way, Javid. Next to a Nathan’s hot dog, this is my favorite food.”
“You should learn moderation in all things.”
“Javid, you’re the one with the hangover, and you’re fatter than me. Moderate yourself, pal.” He took another sip of beer, glanced around and saw the area around their table was clear, and lowered his voice. “So, do we have this medical team thing buttoned up on your side?”
Bhatti nodded. “We think so. My contacts assure me that, contrary to local rumors, the Taliban slaughtered them—an act of pure banditry. What probably started as simple robbery escalated when a Bible was found in their belongings.”
“Escalated, you say? Escalated? They killed them all!”
Javid waved away the protest, as if brushing away a fly. “It’s over, Jimmy. Over and done. Our army tracked down the raiders and destroyed their camp, killing four of them. We took care of it. Wars have unintended consequences.”
Jimmy Doyle pushed away his plate and put h
is elbows on the table to lean in closer. “But this wasn’t war, Javid. It was a group of trained medical professionals trying to help your country’s flood refugees in the middle of a disaster situation. Our country is pouring in aid, and we don’t like our people shot for delivering it.”
“Save the moral outrage, Jimmy. My countrymen don’t enjoy having our people attacked by Predator drones, but it happens almost every day. You didn’t even give us advance warning on the Osama bin Laden raid, and that also was on our territory. Remember that?” Javid Bhatti folded his napkin and put it beside his plate of half-eaten salad. “Anyway, we don’t want this new incident to gain any more traction in the media. There is too much at stake.”
Doyle nodded. “That is exactly what my boss in the Bureau of American-Islamic Affairs thinks, so we are in agreement. We have sent word up and down the diplomatic food chain that this was a most regrettable incident and that our Pakistani allies have taken prompt and appropriate action.”
“No American military intervention?”
“No. The sooner this goes away, the better.”
Bhatti agreed. “As a gesture of thanks to the international community for all of their sacrifices and help, we have given permission to construct a new refugee center not far from the area of the ambush, and will provide army protection.”
“You mentioned local rumors. What about?”
“The usual. Evil spirits were responsible. Some villagers take comfort in quaint superstition instead of uncomfortable fact.”
“Evil spirits with AK-47s and sharp knives. Let’s leave that out of any report. It would just clutter up the findings.”
“Agreed.”
“We bullshit pretty good for a couple of minor functionaries,” said Jimmy Doyle.
“Indeed we do,” agreed Javid Bhatti. “Indeed we do. Are you going to the party at the Colombian ambassador’s residence tonight?”
Running the Maze Page 3
