There were two options. Go or not go. Not going would result in losing visibility on precisely what was afoot. Jackie Colt and Nina Moreau were the tag-team shooters delivering vigilante justice to an apparent criminal ring. Sex slaves. Opium. The spoils of war? Privileged men using their power to serve themselves. He could get behind defeating that nexus. Going, though, meant being in the mix. Participating in murders. But justified ones, nonetheless. He wasn’t concerned about the ramifications.
He would rather die a hero than grow old.
Do the right thing, Command Sergeant Major Murdoch always advised. He thought of Lindsay again. How she had cooked, cleaned, and consoled him and the other foster children. Just seventeen years old, but already an adult mentally, emotionally, and especially physically. And then noticing their foster mother dressing her up and plastering on her makeup before sending her back to the barn apartment where some stranger would be waiting. She’d return an hour later, clutching a few twenties, weeping.
Then the pistol, the pitchfork, and the birth of the Reaper. Yeah, he could do this.
This was no longer about Jackie Colt or Nina Moreau. Plus, there were bigger forces at play. Ultimately, it was about finding the nuke … and stopping it, if it existed. Jackie led to Nina, who led to Basayev, who undoubtedly led to the nuke.
Samuelson untied the lines from the pier cleats and hopped into the Boston Whaler.
“Grew up on the Eastern Shore. Fishing was a way of life,” Samuelson said.
“Weapons belowdecks, underneath the bench. AR-15s,” Jackie said, gesturing to the port side of the boat. “Left side.”
Harwood lifted the seat pad, noticing that the middle seat compartment was locked, but the left and right compartments weren’t. He extracted two AR-15s and two magazines for each of them.
“Take the right. I’ve got the left.”
“It’s called starboard and port in a boat,” Samuelson said.
Harwood said nothing, just stared at Samuelson, who nodded and said, “Roger, boss.”
Jackie gunned the four Mercury motors as Harwood positioned himself where he could watch Nina Moreau on the monitor while also looking over the bow of the craft. He heard a helicopter pass overhead. It was the same whispering dual-bladed machine he had seen in Macon and that had fired miniguns at Lanny’s Mustang. Jackie was at full throttle on the calm river. Rooster tail was spitting high behind the boat. Samuelson instinctively took up a position on the opposite side, rifle at the ready.
The bridge loomed large before them. Nina was thigh-deep in the river beneath the bridge, waving her arms. The helicopter flared and dropped a thick rope. Fast rope. Gloved combatants began sliding down the rope onto the bank next to the river.
It had to be Xanadu, who had shot Monisha. And perhaps had run the kidnap teams in Afghanistan.
The first man off the fast rope was running beneath the bridge. Harwood led him with the iron sights of the AR-15 and snapped off two double-tap rounds. The man dropped. Harwood shifted to the next man. Two more shots. Another man down. The boat slowed beneath the bridge. Harwood lined up on the third guy. But he fell before he could pull the trigger, so he switched to the fourth guy and fired two rounds. They had just dropped the four commandos on the ground. Samuelson had repositioned to the port side. The boat idled in shallow water. Nina Moreau labored toward them, using the sidestroke until she reached the boat. She handed her rucksack over to Jackie, who put it carefully next to her feet as Samuelson and Harwood lifted Moreau over the side. Jackie was quickly on the controls. She gunned the engines to the north side of the bridge. Moreau looked at him and Samuelson, recognizing them. Then she looked at Jackie, questioning. There was no time for debate. They had helped rescue her and that counted. For the moment.
“Helicopter’s still there, waiting,” Harwood said. “They’ve got miniguns that will chew us up.”
Jackie nodded. He could tell she was ready to run the gauntlet. He could feel the boat idling, like a racehorse in the starting gate.
“Don’t do it,” he said. “Where are the flares?”
She backed off the throttle, grip loosening. “In there.” She nodded at the same bench where she had stored the AR-15s.
Moreau moved to block him, saying, “No,” but relented when he opened the bench seat and retrieved the flares and gun. He inserted a flare into the barrel. Snapped it shut.
“Wait for him,” Harwood said.
The engines thrummed, impatient, like Jackie. Her eyes were fixed on a point in the distance. She had her kill sheet to get to. More business to be done.
“Xanadu isn’t on your kill sheet, but he should be.”
“You said the magic word, Vick. It’s my kill sheet. I put on it who I want to,” she said.
This was a different, more focused Jackie than the luring, seductive woman he had first met and then dated. She was as dialed in as any combat commander he had seen. Mission first.
The pitch of the helicopter blades shifted from a steady hum to a powerful roar. It was inching its way below the bridge to bring the miniguns into play. Harwood balanced into a shooter’s stance. His left foot slightly in front of his right foot. The wheels presented themselves first. Harwood was looking east. The river spread out wide and straight for as far as the eye could see. The marina was to their two o’clock at about a half mile. The black bottom of the aircraft entered Harwood’s vision. Then he saw the cargo bay and the cockpit, which meant they could see him.
He aimed the flare gun at the crew compartment, where the miniguns would be. He needed the fire inside the aircraft. He pulled the trigger. It was awkward and clumsy. A hollow thunk sounded when the hammer hit the cartridge. The flare began burning as soon as it left the stubby muzzle. The miniguns spat back at him, but the pilot of the aircraft must have seen the flare. The helicopter banked hard left, minigun bullets chewing at the bridge.
Harwood loaded another flare and fired it at the retreating helicopter. The first flare seemed to have either missed or passed through. The second found its way into the cargo compartment and then into the cockpit, bouncing off the windshield as it burned. The aircraft began racing south, toward Hunter Army Airfield.
“Now, Jackie. Let’s go wherever you were going next.”
“Roger that,” she said.
She gunned the boat east. They sped past the marina. The shallow-draft hull glided along the glassy smooth river. The moonlight showed Jackie with her jaw set, eyes focused. She made a series of turns. Left and right and right again, then a final left. She was navigating the Bull River and its estuary. She slowed the boat, searching.
“NVGs in the bench,” she said.
Harwood grabbed a pair of night vision goggles from the same bench that supplied the weapons. He held a PVS-14 night vision goggle up to his eye like a pirate searching for land.
“Duck blind and camo net,” Jackie said. “GPS has it about twenty meters up on the right.”
“I’ve got it,” he said.
She maneuvered the boat inside the netting and shut down the engines. Nobody said anything. The engines ticked as they cooled. The minimal wake diminished into the reeds. Fish smacked at the surface of the river. Jackie stayed at the helm. Nina Moreau remained belowdeck. Samuelson secured the starboard side. Harwood stayed on port.
After five minutes, Harwood asked, “What’s above us?”
“Camouflage net and a thermal reflective blanket. Anything that has thermal capabilities will read this small patch of marsh as a small patch of marsh.”
“Okay, let’s go down below and talk. You owe me an explanation.”
CHAPTER 25
Harwood sat on the steps to the small belowdeck cabin. Nina Moreau had stood and was pacing back and forth in the cramped quarters.
Samuelson remained outside by the center console, AR-15 at the ready. The stars were brilliant. It was a perfect night for Harwood to be with his girlfriend in her boat … while she aided an international terrorist. Gallows humor, he thought. He’d break
down without it. Humor aside, what Jackie was too inexperienced to understand was that Basayev and, by extension, Moreau were unstoppable forces. Terrorists with a long list of scalps. Ruthless mercenaries that would do anything to anyone for the right payday.
“Clear her of any weapons,” he said to Jackie.
Jackie removed a small pistol from Moreau’s pocket and stuffed it in the rucksack that sat to his right on the steps into the cabin. She patted her legs, arms, and back. “Nothing else.”
Satisfied, he said, “Sit down, Moreau. Both of you, talk to me, please.”
After a deep breath and sincere look that pinched his heart, Jackie said, “Nina was kidnapped by Milk ’Em the same day you were wounded.”
“That was you being snatched by Xanadu’s team in Sangin.” Not a question; a statement.
Moreau’s face jerked up at the mention of Xanadu’s name. She locked eyes with Harwood and the memory of Xanadu slapping her in Sangin flashed in his mind. A moment passed before he nodded at Jackie.
“Walk me through how you two connected.”
The boat was perfectly still. Coastal Georgia was filled with its thrum of insects and wildlife churning nearby. Sound bounced off the glassy river and carried for miles in every direction. The drawbridge two miles away burped every time a car crossed the metal draw span. Waves breaking on Tybee Island a mile to the east rumbled faintly like distant thunder. Harwood spoke in hushed tones, knowing who might be listening and why.
Jackie looked away, toward the monitor, impatient, thumb tapping against the opposing wrist. She owed him this, though, and he knew that she would oblige him with an answer, however imperfect or imprecise.
“For me, I came to Afghanistan for two reasons. First, I’m a patriot and wanted to support you and all the other troops. I had the misfortune of falling in love with you, however.”
“Misfortune?”
“Please, just listen to me, Vick. You asked and I’m answering.”
He said nothing and nodded.
“Second, this is about Richard, as I’ve told you. My outrage and inquiries into the local investigation around Columbus, Georgia, and Fort Benning kept leading to rumors of drug smuggling from Kandahar by a private military contractor. I had already joined the USO tour and because of my status as a ‘celebrity’ I could go places in Kandahar Airfield that perhaps some others couldn’t. Cute girl. Olympic champion. The men were happy to show me whatever I wanted to see. Some even tried to corner me for a quickie. I get it. Deployed for a year. Not getting laid. And so on. So I used that testosterone momentum to my advantage. I asked to see the military-contractor portion of the base, saying that they served as well. And I wanted to thank them, which truly I did, because ninety-nine percent of them are good men and women. However, I was looking for the one percent that had supplied the opium to Richard. I asked questions. Was ushered around. Pardoned myself to the ladies’ room, which was about a hundred yards away. I was the only female, so I was left pretty much unescorted for about thirty minutes, acting as if I was lost. While I was wandering around I saw a big gray airplane being loaded with military caskets. They call them transfer cases. Some people call them coffins. I snuck over and saw a few that were still open. They didn’t have dead bodies in them. There were burlap sacks. I could smell the resin. It was fresh poppy resin. Sweet, floral, and musty all at the same time. I saw the MLQM symbol on the nearest door, like their office. Someone was in the airplane and I could see a loading crew taking a lunch break in a room glassed off with a small window.”
Jackie paused. Harwood said nothing. He sat on the steps into the cabin and watched Moreau as Jackie spoke. Samuelson was covering him from the center console. He had a direct line of fire belowdecks. Moreau was curled up on the small padded bed directly beneath the bow of the boat. Occasionally she would make a furtive glance in his direction. Shifty eyes. Scared? Calculating?
“I saw enough to convince me that Milk ’Em was running drugs. That was right before we met,” she said, pointing at him. “I genuinely liked you—still do—I mean I love you, Vick. It totally caught me off guard. When I got back to Columbus, I spent some time scouting out Milk ’Em headquarters here in Savannah. Found that they were run by a guy named Derwood Griffin. Big-time weasel. Lifer in DoD. Sucked up to every boss he ever had. Changed political affiliations as administrations changed. Finally connected with the former chief of staff of the air force, General Buzz Markham, who is the chairman of the board of directors for Milk ’Em. They were going through some tough times with the downsizing of the military and lost some of their contracts. They were thinned out. Lots of people in Afghanistan and Iraq, Syria even. Their staff back here just outside the gate at Hunter Army Airfield was thin. Like five people. For a private military security company, their security back here wasn’t great. Very strong on the private side, but not great if you were coming in from Hunter. I came in from Hunter. Same thing. Signed some books at the post exchange and then got myself lost. Got inside their warehouse one night about a week before we met up at Fort Bragg for my book signing and your sniper class. Pain-in-the-ass drive from Columbus, but whatever.”
Moreau began shifting in her near-fetal position. Her gaze was locked on to Jackie, perhaps willing her to stop talking. She clung to the bench seat as if it were a life preserver, which it probably was. Beneath the seat was a large storage compartment for things like the anchor, life jackets, and other boat essentials. It was secured with a sturdy brass lock through an industrial hasp.
Jackie continued.
“In the warehouse, my flashlight caught the glint of silver metal boxes the size of coffins. The same ones that I saw in Afghanistan.”
“As you said, they’re transfer cases,” Harwood said. “We send our fallen back in those.”
“Right. Did you know Milk ’Em has the contract to fly some of the dead personnel back home? Not many military, but some. DoD civilians, contractors, and some of the military killed or simply just died over there. Milk ’Em flew them back.”
“And loaded a few of the transfer cases with drugs,” Harwood added. “Markham helped them get the contract. That’s an air force job.”
“Exactly,” she said. She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “It wasn’t a big contract. I mean a few million, which is good, but what it gave Markham and Griffin was a way to move whatever they wanted back. I mean, who’s going to question what’s in a flag-draped transfer case?”
“Flag-draped?”
“Roger that,” she said. “I saw it. That night I opened several of the cases and all of them had drugs in them except one.”
Moreau began shifting again, sitting up. “Non,” she said. “Stop. Please.”
“He needs to hear it all, Nina. We can go from there. I’m having a watershed moment just listening to myself talk.”
“Nina was in the last coffin,” Harwood said. Not a question. He knew just by their interaction.
Jackie nodded. “Just enough room for some combat rations and water bottles. So maybe some PTSD going on here.”
Moreau looked away, embarrassed.
“Xanadu runs that operation,” Harwood said.
“Vous!” Moreau shouted, and pointed at Harwood.
“No. Not me. I had nothing to do with it,” he replied.
“Liar.” This time she spoke in accented English. “Every time girls were kidnapped, you were up in the mountains. Khasan tells me so.”
“Khasan is wrong. I was doing my job.”
But he had a lightbulb moment, as Command Sergeant Major Murdoch called it. Could the Ranger commander or some of the generals have been directing him where to fight based upon Xanadu’s snatch teams? Had he been inadvertently providing cover for them?
Moreau must have seen the doubt in his eyes.
“Oui. Even if you didn’t know. That’s right.”
“It was Xanadu. Every one of my kills is legit. Taliban commanders. A few Al Qaeda. And unfortunately, I’m missing one foreign fighter from Chechnya.�
�
Moreau leapt at him, but Jackie used her body and strong arms to stop her.
“We don’t have time for this bullshit,” Jackie said, pushing her into the padded bench. Moreau sat upright on the cushion facing Harwood, eyes boiling.
“Anyway, I agree. It’s Xanadu. He’s bad. But what Nina saw was other women at the point of kidnap,” Jackie said.
“They’re smuggling women and drugs. We’ve established that,” Harwood said.
“Right. I went to the local county sheriff. He buried it. I’m guessing Markham paid him off. Then I went to the DoD inspector general hotline. I got some initial interest, but it suddenly got sucked into a black hole. There was no sense of urgency.”
“So you develop a kill sheet with Nina Moreau out here on your boat, where she stays while you meet me at Fort Bragg?”
“Yes and no. I had names for the kill sheet and Nina had names. She’s the shooter. I’m the logistics.”
“You’re still an accessory to murder, Jackie.”
“So are they,” she said, softly. “They killed Richard.”
“Why make it look like it’s me? I mean, come on. I’ve been on the run with the police thinking I’m killing all these people.”
“Well, that wasn’t on purpose, at least from my end,” Jackie said, now looking at Moreau with suspicious eyes.
“Oh, please, you knew all along,” Moreau said.
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t know about the sports drink until later. The bottles are different. And I didn’t know it was your rifle until after General Sampson was shot and there was all the coverage. Then it was out of my control. Things were moving too fast.”
Harwood looked at Moreau and asked, “How did you even get my rifle?”
Moreau shook her head.
Instead, Jackie answered. “I used a drone to follow her the night after I rescued her. We were near here at a marina. She left and went to the Oatland Island Wildlife Refuge.”
Moreau’s eyes shot daggers at Jackie. “You bitch.”
“Vick deserves to know, Nina. Anyway, she went to the aviary where the hawks and falcons are. And she came back with a rucksack. I’m pretty sure the rifle was in there.”
Ghost Target Page 23
