Target America: A Sniper Elite Novel

by Scott McEwen

  Both men shook their heads.

  Gil nodded with satisfaction. “I didn’t think so.”

  “Are we sure about this suitcase nuke?” Crosswhite said, all business now. He was back where he belonged, and he could feel the capillaries expanding throughout his body as the blood once again began to pump with true military purpose. “I thought the RA-115 was a ghost.”

  “All the isotope readings from the New Mexico Event remain consistent with this scenario,” Gil said. “So, yes, confidence is very high. Pope’s doing what he can to get us the original schematics from his Russian counterpart, but for the time being, we will be operating mostly blind where the device itself is concerned. All we know is that it probably isn’t any bigger than a footlocker and shouldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. We can assume a two-kiloton yield.”

  “The damn thing could be anywhere,” Tuckerman said.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Being the only man in the helo qualified to wear the green beret, Crosswhite leaned across to pick it up. Then he put it on and smoothed it into shape. “Do we have half a chance of finding it before it goes off?”

  “I have no idea, but Pope thinks 9/11 is their target date. That gives us less than three days.”

  “So how’s this work?” Tuckerman asked. “Are we back on the payroll now, or what?”

  Gil shook his head. “Pope’s gonna cover your tracks and make all this Chicago shit go away. In exchange for that, you two are gonna lay it back on the line for your country. If we survive, you get to return to your lives. And you will get your ass back to the VA for treatment.”

  “Yes, Master Chief!”

  “So where were you when this shit kicked off?” Crosswhite asked. “Before you became Barry Sadler, I mean.” Staff Sergeant Barry Sadler, a Green Beret during the Vietnam War, was famous for cowriting and singing the ultrapatriotic hit song “The Ballad of the Green Berets.”

  Gil took a moment to unpin the Medal of Honor ribbon from the army jacket and slip it into his pocket. “I was in Morocco—and that’s all you get to know.”

  Crosswhite wrinkled his brow. “After the medal ceremony at the White House, I thought you went back to Montana to stay with Marie for good.”

  A shadow of pain fell across Gil’s face. “We’re separated at the moment. And I don’t wanna talk about that either.”

  • • •

  A SHORT TIME later, the helo set down at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. They loaded into a Humvee that took them across the tarmac to a waiting Lockheed Martin C-5M Super Galaxy strategic airlifter, a giant US Air Force transport powered by four General Electric CF-80C2 turbofan engines. The nose assembly was in the up position, allowing the Humvee to drive directly into the cargo hold.

  “I take it you flew in on this thing?” Crosswhite asked, clearly impressed.

  “Pope’s hunting a loose nuke,” Gil said. “So he gets whatever the fuck he asks for. All of our kit is aboard—anything we might need—so get familiar with where everything is. And get out of those goddamn PMA clothes.” PMA stood for paramilitary asshole. “The rest of the team will meet us in Vegas.”

  Crosswhite and Tuckerman exchanged glances. “Who’s the rest of the team?”

  Gil chuckled. “All the rest of the Bank Heist misfits who got run out of the navy.” Operation Bank Heist had been the unauthorized rescue mission that Crosswhite had led in an attempt to secure the release of Warrant Officer Sandra Brux from Hezb-e Islami Khalis forces in Afghanistan the year before.

  “You mean you actually managed to find them all?”

  “Yeah, and believe it or not, you two ass clowns are the only ones I had to break out of jail.”

  23

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Pope ordered a chai latte in the Starbucks on Connecticut Avenue in Washington, DC, and then crossed the shop to take a seat across from an elderly gentleman named Iosif Hoxha.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet, Joe. It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, it has. You’re looking well, Robert.”

  Hoxha was seventy-six years old, a former KGB agent, swarthy and bald with a gray beard and dark brown eyes. His upper lip was clean shaven below a bulbous red nose—the nose of a man who drank too much vodka. He had immigrated to the United States a couple of years before the fall of the Soviet Union, having seen the writing on the wall from a distance. No one in the States other than Pope had any idea that he was former KGB because he was not Russian. He was Albanian, a former Soviet spy whom Pope had brought over from the dark side in the early eighties as a CIA field agent working in Europe.

  “You’re aware how cliché we both must look,” Hoxha said, unscrewing the lid from a sterling silver flask to add a shot of vodka to his coffee. “Two old spies meeting here in Washington under imminent threat of nuclear destruction.”

  Pope chuckled. “I was hoping it would be cooler out so I’d have an excuse to wear my trench coat.”

  Hoxha laughed, proffering the flask.

  “Why not?” Pope added a dribble to his latte.

  They both lifted their paper cups. “What should we drink to?” Pope asked.

  “To the women we will never know,” Hoxha said with a slight smirk.

  Pope smiled as they touched cups.

  “So,” Hoxha said with a sigh. “You have very serious troubles these days, no?”

  “I’m in a tough spot, Joe. I admit it. The kind of spot a man like me knows better than to let himself get into.”

  Hoxha nodded grimly. “It happens to those of us who stay too long in the trenches.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Pope said with a sense of melancholia. “The White House chief of staff is setting me up for the fall, and I have no choice but to step forward.”

  “You know, I’ve heard things about Hagen,” Hoxha said thoughtfully. “But nothing of use to you, I’m afraid. No one passes me that kind of information anymore.” He chortled. “No one passes me anything anymore.”

  The corners of Pope’s mouth turned downward. “I haven’t come to you for that kind of information, Joe. The kind of information I need is older than Hagen, much more valuable, and much harder to come by.”

  Hoxha sat watching him across the table. “I’m sure it is.”

  “I need to know about the RA-115.”

  Hoxha stiffened slightly.

  Pope caught the momentary lapse of composure in the eyes and realized with relief that he’d gambled his very limited time on the right man.

  “The White House thinks the Russians are stonewalling,” he went on, wanting to keep Hoxha off balance for the moment, “but I don’t think that’s it. I think they’re afraid to admit that nobody in their present administration was aware the RA program was even real before we brought it to their attention. Is that possible? Is it possible even the Russians thought the damn thing was nothing more than a rumor?”

  Hoxha took a gulp from his coffee, and then set it down and laced his fingers around the cup as if to warm his hands. “I am an old man, Robert, but there are still people in Albania who would kill me if I was stripped of my citizenship here and sent back to Tirana.”

  Pope realized that Hoxha must know even more than he had hoped. “Rest easy, Joe. This isn’t that kind of meeting. I’m not here to threaten you with ultimatums. I’ve come as a friend to ask you for your help. No one will ever know we spoke about this.”

  Hoxha drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “How sure are you the device in New Mexico was an RA-115?”

  “Very.”

  “And of the device you’re searching for now?”

  “Even more so.” Pope was stretching the truth slightly, but he felt it necessary.

  Hoxha pulled nervously at his ear. “Well, you’re probably right about the Russians. I doubt there’s anyone left alive at the upper levels who wo
uld know anything about the RA series. They were all old men like I am now when those debates were taking place.”

  “Debates? What debates?”

  “On how best to wipe you all out,” Hoxha said. “The Soviets were scared to death of your nuclear rockets lining the German frontier, convinced you were just waiting for the right moment to launch your surprise attack. You have to remember, Robert . . . these were old military men who had experienced Hitler’s surprise attack as junior officers. They had no other frame of reference from which to view the world.”

  “I understand,” Pope said patiently, resting his chin on his palm to appear the perfect listener.

  Hoxha vacillated a while longer but then seemed to finally come to terms with the situation. He shrugged and said, “I only ever handled one of them—and it was only for a few days.”

  “So you’ve seen one with your own eyes,” Pope said, some of his excitement showing. “You know what it looks like.”

  “I know what the RA-100 looked like.” Hoxha took a drink of his coffee. “It was a one-point-five-kiloton weapon with a plutonium core, but it was never deployed outside of Europe. They believed the implosion detonator to be flawed, because the test unit fizzled. There was talk the flaw was intentional and that the designers were executed, but I never knew if that was true. The RA-115 was the last of the series, the most reliable, and the only one ever deployed outside of Europe. It was a two-kiloton weapon with a gun-assembly detonator and a uranium core.”

  “Can you sketch the device for me?” Pope pushed a brown napkin across the table, offering the pen from his shirt pocket.

  Hoxha met his gaze and then took the pen, roughing out a quick cutaway sketch of the RA-100. It looked like a miniature version of the twenty-one-kiloton Fat Man bomb dropped on Nagasaki, Japan, in 1945, minus the stabilizing fins. “This would fit into a large suitcase and weigh roughly thirty-four kilograms.”

  Pope approximated the weight to 75 pounds. “And the RA-115?”

  Hoxha stared at him some more, saying finally, “Again, I never saw one, but if I had to guess—” He flipped the napkin over and roughed out another cutaway sketch. Not surprisingly, it resembled the sixteen-kiloton Little Boy bomb dropped on Hiroshima, three days before the United States targeted Nagasaki. “It would be bigger and slightly heavier than the RA-100, longer because of the gun assembly . . . bulkier but more reliable.” He took another drink of coffee and cleared his throat, sitting forward to rest his elbows on the table. “I was told that it would fit perfectly into a US Army duffel bag—‘like a glove,’ they said.”

  Pope’s scalp began to tingle. “How much heavier?”

  Hoxha shrugged. “Forty-five kilos, perhaps a little more.”

  “So around a hundred pounds.” Pope sat back, running his fingers through his thick head of white hair. “That’s light enough for a strong man to carry on his back if he uses the shoulder straps.”

  “Yes, it is.” Hoxha lifted his eyebrows and let them fall.

  “Is it complex? Difficult to disarm?”

  Hoxha shook his head. “Not unless it’s been modified. You knew the Soviets. They weren’t big on complexity.”

  24

  CALIFORNIA,

  San Diego Bay, Naval Air Station North Island

  Petty Officer First Class Adam Samir was a US Naval Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) specialist stationed at Naval Air Station North Island (NASNI) in San Diego Bay. He was a second-generation Iraqi American who spoke no Arabic, but that didn’t prevent him from receiving suspicious glances from time to time. He handled it well enough. If he noticed anyone looking at him a little too long or a little too hard in the grocery store, Samir would smile and say, “I’m as American as apple pie and Chevrolet.” His perfect English and good nature were usually enough to put the wary person at ease.

  There were two fleet aircraft carriers based permanently out of San Diego Bay: USS Carl Vinson (CVN-70) of Carrier Strike Group One and USS Ronald Reagan (CVN-76) of CSG-7. But NASNI was home to a great deal more than just a pair of carrier strike groups. The complex covered five thousand acres and encompassed more than 130 vital US Naval Commands (ashore, afloat, and airborne), including Naval Special Warfare Group One (SEAL Teams 1, 3, 5, and 7); Naval Special Warfare Group Three (SEAL Delivery Vehicle Teams, or SDVTs, 1 and 2); more than fifteen different helicopter commands, eight attack submarines, and the tenant commands of CSG-3 and CSG-11, built around the carriers USS John C. Stennis (CVN-74) and USS Nimitz (CVN-68), permanently based out of Naval Base Kitsap, Washington, and Naval Station Everett, Washington, respectively. On any given day, there could be up to two hundred aircraft of all types on the island.

  All of these assets in one place meant that a tactical nuclear strike on San Diego Bay would be devastating to the combat readiness of the US Pacific Fleet as a whole. This was not at all a comforting prospect in the face of intensifying nuclear ambitions on the part of North Korea, particularly if one paused to consider the North’s increasingly aggressive rhetoric toward South Korea and Japan.

  Near the end of his shift, Samir walked into his CO’s office and came to attention. “You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?”

  Lieutenant Roy Potts looked up from his desk. “At ease, Adam. I’m afraid I’ve got shitty news for you.”

  Though Samir had been expecting this, his heart still sank. “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m afraid I have to cancel your honeymoon plans.”

  Samir was getting married the next day, and the honeymoon was set for Jamaica.

  “It’s not just you,” Potter continued. “All leaves are being canceled, and everybody’s being recalled because of the nuke. The wedding’s tomorrow, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why don’t you two stay at the Hotel del Coronado for a few days? I’ll clear you to stay off the base, if you promise to remain on the island and report in once a day.”

  Samir smiled. “Thank you, sir. That’ll make things a lot better, sir.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Potter said with a chuckle. “If you have any trouble getting a room over there, let me know. The hotel manager owes me a pretty big favor.”

  “I will, sir. Thank you again, sir.”

  “You’re welcome. Dismissed.”

  25

  LAS VEGAS

  A US government hangar at the Las Vegas airport had been turned over to SEAL Team VI/Black for the duration, and all civilian personnel were ordered to stay away. Air Force MPs ringed the perimeter at one hundred meters. The rest of the eleven-man SEAL team was there waiting for the C-5 upon landing and set about at once unloading the kit, which included all weapons and equipment Gil thought it might conceivably need during the search for the RA-115. He had left virtually nothing to chance, as was made evident when a SEAL everyone called Alpha pried the lid from a crate containing two deflated CRRCs. These were Combat Rubber Raiding Craft manufactured by Zodiac Marine & Pool.

  Alpha stood looking at them. “Know something we don’t, Master Chief?”

  “I’d better,” Gil remarked offhandedly. “Make sure the men know we’ve got stand-to immediately after the cargo is unloaded. I want everything assembled, loaded, and ready to go to war immediately that it’s needed. Understood?”

  “Aye, Chief.”

  “Once that’s done, I want everything practical loaded back aboard the aircraft and stowed for immediate access.”

  “Aye-aye.”

  Gil went forward and up the ladder into the cockpit to speak with the pilots.

  “You’ll taxi for refuel yon side of the tarmac between a pair of yellow strobes,” he told them. “You’ll be able to see them when you put the nose assembly back down. When that’s completed, you’ll taxi directly back here to remain on standby for the duration of my mission.” He took a sheaf of folded papers from his back pocket and handed them to the pilot, an air force major who was
patiently waiting for Gil to finish so he could remind the navy man exactly who was in command of the aircraft. “These are your orders, Major, signed by the president and giving me tactical command of your aircraft. This supersedes your rank and puts you at my indefinite disposal. Simply stated, Major, this aircraft and its entire crew will go where I say, when I say, and do exactly as I say.”

  The major glanced at his copilot and unfolded the orders, flipping to the last page to verify they had been signed by the president. He looked up at Gil and nodded. “I guess this pretty well designates where the bear shits in the woods.”

  Gil smiled. “Now that the formalities are out of the way, Major, let’s hope those orders are worth the paper they’re printed on and that this isn’t just a big waste of avgas.”

  The pilot decided he liked Gil and returned the smile. “Any idea what our chances are?”

  Gil shook his head. “None, but we go until the president says quit.”

  “Roger that,” the pilot said. “We’ll be ready when you need us.”

  Gil gave him a salute and disappeared back down the ladder.

  • • •

  TWO HOURS LATER, the equipment was ready and much of it stowed back aboard the Galaxy. The men were assembled in the ready room for mission brief when Gil entered and stood before them dressed in blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a black Under Armour compression shirt.

  “Gentlemen,” he said grimly. “It’s good to see you again. I’m sorry the circumstances are what they are.”

  “We’re just glad to be back aboard,” Alpha said. He was twenty-nine years old and built like an outside linebacker.

  Gil nodded. “About that . . . I don’t know how this is going to play out. Right now we’re obviously very important, but none of us in this room is exactly popular with the present administration, so I want it understood there are no guarantees about the future.”

  “Fuck the present administration,” growled a SEAL named Trigg. “We’re here to do what we were trained to do.”