Kill Zone: A Sniper Novel (21 page)

SWANSON WIGGLED FROM
beneath the truck and rolled into the flatbed, unzipped the dragbag, rested Excalibur on the rear gate, and brought the scope to his eye.
Good as fuckin ‘ daylight.

He recognized the telltale four big wheels on each side of the vehicles, and the BPU-1 turret machine gun mounts. The Russians had been selling these relics all over the world for years, but the old dogs still had a lot of bite. His mind turned up the information on the weapons systems faster than a Google search: each carried a 14.5 mm KPTV heavy machine gun with five hundred rounds and a range of two kilometers, and a smaller 7.62 mm PKT machine gun with 2,000 rounds that could reach one and a half kilometers. Smoke grenade launchers were mounted on either side of the turret, and their beefy engines could shove them along at speeds of up to about 50 miles per hour. The lead vehicle bristled with the antennas that indicated a battalion commander might be leading the mission.
Is a whole damned battalion on the way?

An officer climbed from the command vehicle, walked directly to the front door, and pounded hard. Lights came on, the door was thrown open, and the hulking Victor Logan stood there, wearing only a T-shirt and boxer shorts but carrying a pistol in his right hand. The Syrian was about half Logan’s size, but had an air of authority that made him immune from threat. They spoke for a few minutes, and Kyle saw Logan nod in agreement, go back into the house, and return moments later, fully dressed. He climbed aboard the lead BTR-80.

The officer waved his hand and sergeants barked orders. Logan climbed awkwardly into the front vehicle with the officer and the other soldiers hustled back aboard. A single man was left behind as a sentry and the BTRs pulled out, heading toward the crash site.

The soldier stood at attention beside the front door of the house, his AK-47 at the ready, as the carriers growled off into the darkness. Swanson held his breath as they went past the Zeus and the apparently dozing guard taped to it, but they did not slow down.

The lights in the house were turned off and the soldier by the door relaxed. He unslung the automatic rifle and rested it against the wall, then sat on a wooden crate, leaned back, and made himself comfortable, arms on knees. Through the scope, Kyle watched the man reach into a chest pocket and get a cigarette. A match flared.

As the soldier inhaled the first puff deeply, Swanson lasered the range, and when the man exhaled, Kyle shot him beneath the left arm. The bullet tore out the heart. There was only a slight twitch of the body on impact; then it toppled from the crate onto the dirt. Kyle put a second bullet through the head to be sure he could not cry out a warning.

Swanson had to move fast because those BTRs would be coming back. He returned Excalibur to its bag, climbed from the truck bed, and transferred his primary weapons to the passenger compartment. Then he slid behind the steering wheel and cranked the Toyota, which started with a reliable, deep rumble.

He did not have to disguise it, because that was the essence of this “announced attack.” By imitating the previous incident, and with the familiar sound of the Toyota in the neighborhood, people would think that he was either the Frenchman or somehow related to the arrival of the army unit. With any luck, Jimbo Collins would be trying to get back to sleep, not alert.

Kyle stopped in front of the house and, mirroring the actions of the Syrian officer, marched directly to the front door and pounded on it with his left fist as he pulled out his pistol with his right hand. Inside, the lamp snapped on again. He heard Collins curse aloud, “Oh, what the fuck do they want now?”

When the door opened, Kyle extended the big pistol and put one round right in Jimbo Collins’s chest, knocking him backward, and fired another into his surprised face. He gave the collapsing body a hard shove so that it fell away from the door and did not block the exit. He stepped fast into the room with his pistol held straight out with both hands to scan for targets. There were none, and he closed the door.

There were two more doors in the rear and he chose the one on the left, stood with his back to the wall, and pushed it open with his left hand, the pistol pointing inward. No reaction, but there was a horrible stench, and enough light for him to see the defiled body of a young girl tied to a bed.
Sick bastards!
He did not have to feel for a pulse.

Swanson spun and kicked in the second door. A man wearing only boxer shorts lay handcuffed to a filthy bunk. He was unshaven, and the room stank. The man blinked in disbelief. All he saw was a silhouette until Kyle flipped a switch that turned on the bulb hanging from the ceiling.

“Hello, General,” Swanson said, moving around the room, searching for unseen dangers, the pistol out, ready to shoot.

“What?” The voice was firm but raspy. Only moments ago, Bradley Middleton was thinking about having his head chopped off by lunatics, and now an escape was possible? “Who are you?”

“Take it easy, sir. It’s Gunny Swanson.”

“Swanson? Two hundred thousand Marines on active duty, and
you
are the first asshole through the door? They sent
you
to rescue me?”

The silenced pistol waved loosely between them. “Well, that’s not exactly accurate, General,” replied Kyle. “Actually, they sent me to kill you. Orders are orders, and a good Marine always follows orders.”

FOREIGN GOVERNMENTS THROW
parties, receptions, or formal dinners every night in Washington to promote goodwill and develop Beltway contacts. Tonight the Embassy of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan was honoring a young filmmaker who was creating a stir in Hollywood with his latest effort,
The Arab Street.
Some of the invited guests arrived at the embassy’s ornate gates at 3504 International Drive NW in limousines, while others, mostly staff members from Capitol Hill, came by subway or walked, intending to let the Jordanians feed them. Invitations to such parties saved on their food bills.

Shari Towne found a guard at the front gate and asked him to page the head of the public relations department. Within five minutes, a slim and elegant woman walked down a sculpted path toward the guard post. A snowy-soft Chanel blouse contrasted perfectly with the black pantsuit and the full dark hair that was cut to frame her face. A loose scarf of white Belgian lace wrapped her shoulders, and her long legs were accentuated by sharp Roger Vivier heels.

“Shari? Darling!” the woman exclaimed in a burst of surprise, opening her arms and wrapping her in a hug. “I didn’t expect you come to our vapid little event tonight. Why didn’t you call?”

“Hi, Mom,” Shari responded, and tightly hugged her mother.

Layla Mahfouz Towne whispered, “This little movie director is simply awful, but he’s signed a deal with Paramount, which gives us an excuse to throw another ‘We’re Not All Terrorists!’ party.” She detected the strain coursing through Shari. Her daughter seemed to be a brittle piece of glass that was about to shatter. “What?”

“I’m in trouble,” Shari whispered back. “Can we go inside?”

Layla lifted an eyebrow, then told the guard, “She’s with me.” He nodded, looked at Shari’s U.S. Navy uniform and identification card, and wrote out a pass. He thought they almost looked like twins. Very attractive twins.

Her mother led the way through the swirl of people who were washing down tiny pieces of food with liquor from an open bar, as a Jordanian-American oud player easily plucked the stringed instrument to provide classical Arabic music in the background. Layla said hello here and patted a shoulder there as she smiled a path through the crowd. Shari, although in a crisp white uniform, felt positively early Banana Republic beside her. Women usually felt frumpy in Layla’s manicured presence. They went into her private office on the second floor.

As soon as the door was closed, Shari collapsed onto a big, soft sofa and stared at her mother and tears welled in her eyes. She began to cry, angry at herself for doing so. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m really sorry for barging in like this.”

Her mother kicked off her high heels and put an arm around Shari, rocking her back and forth, smoothing her hair and dabbing at the tears with a tissue. In Arabic, she said, “What’s going on, Little One?”

The gestures were as comforting to Shari as they had been years ago when her father died in a plane crash. “Something big and complex and dangerous is going on and Kyle and I somehow got dragged into the middle of it,” Shari sobbed. “I have to hide for a while, which is why I rushed over still dressed like this. The embassy, thank God, is foreign soil. This is Jordan. They can’t touch me here.”

“Who can’t?”

“The United States government.”

Layla gave her another little squeeze, and then put on her high heels again. “My, oh my, Little One. Just like your father, bless him. You never do things by half-measures, do you? I’d better go get the ambassador,” she said. “He’s an old Rolling Stones fan, and will welcome the chance to avoid having to listen to any more oud music. You, my dear, don’t leave this room until I get back.”

HOW FRESH IS THIS MATERIAL?”
National Security Advisor Gerald Buchanan asked as he scanned the computer-generated transcript of the conversation between Shari Towne and Master Sergeant Dawkins.

“Almost real-time,” said Sam Shafer. “Thirty minutes max.”

“Fast,” said Buchanan with a nod of approval. He loved, and
love
was not too strong a word, to see the giant security apparatus of the United States bend to his will like a whipped puppy. The sheets of paper before him proved his reach and his power. He held a big whip.

“It’s a pretty easy catch on the intercepts when the NSA has exact names and numbers, like her cell phones. She was near the White House when her call pinged the system. The computers automatically translated the audio into printed text.”

Buchanan read the conversation again. Kyle Swanson was alive. The man he had sent to make sure Middleton died had almost been picked out of a damned hat, and not only had he turned on them, he had also had a link into this office! “So now we know what she saw, and the sniper is alive out there. What is this relationship between Towne and Swanson? Why should we care?”

“According to the gals in the secretarial pool, Commander Towne has kept it under wraps because she is an officer and he is an enlisted man. That kind of fraternization is against military regulations, although it is violated all the time.”

“Ahhhhh!” Buchanan gave a grim smile. “One and one finally equal two. She had thought him to be dead, but the photos proved that he is not. She calls a mutual friend and realizes she has stepped in shit. Right?” He smiled with tight lips. “You have a chat with the secretaries?”

“Yes, sir. The ones whom we identified as her friends, or worked with her. Took them all to the safe house in Falls Church in a darkened van, had agents perform cavity searches to break their spirit, then put them one by one under the kleig lights, just like in the movies. They were most cooperative once I explained that it was a matter of national security and they would be held incommunicado under the Anti-Terrorism Provisos until we cleared this thing up. I pointed out that Section C states that if a White House employee is found to be an accomplice, that employee would face a secret military tribunal. They gave up everything. We also searched their desks, and the whole thing took less than an hour.”

“There’s no such Anti-Terrorism Provisos,” said Buchanan.

“They didn’t know that.” Shafer wore a look of satisfaction.

Buchanan grunted a small laugh. “Where are they now? I noticed some new faces out there.”

“Still up in Falls Church. Can’t let them go until it’s done. You know women can’t keep secrets, and one of them would most likely confide in their husband, boyfriend, or particularly with a close girlfriend. Actually, I believe they feel kind of important right now, helping catch a possible terrorist. They were already whispering together about Commander Towne when I left. Probably guessing who will play who in the movie.”

“So no one was hurt?”

“No. Just threw a scare into them is all. Time is of the essence.”

Buchanan made a note. “When they come back to work, I’ll put a confidential ‘Attagirl’ letter into each of their files and have it signed by the director of Homeland Security.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Shafer. “I pulled the Marine personnel jacket on Gunnery Sergeant Swanson and confirmed he has no identifying tattoos.”

“So she called this other guy, who must be a close friend because they are on a first-name basis, and they agree that Swanson escaped the crash.” Buchanan steepled his fingers beneath his chin as he thought out loud. “This Sergeant Dawkins also saw my letter and gave it to his commanding officer, a Colonel Sims.” He hunched his fat shoulders and stared hard at his aide. “That is not good. You told me you destroyed the letter, did you not, Sam?”

“Absolutely, sir. After having Swanson open and read it, I then personally read, burned, and flushed it. Somehow while this big guy Dawkins was pulling me around the carrier on a wild goose chase, Swanson must have gotten to a copying machine. He’s a resourceful son of a bitch.”

“Not good. Not good at all. We must contain this circle of knowledge to only those four people. Where’s Swanson?”

Shafer shook his head. “We don’t know. In Syria somewhere, disobeying your order and apparently on a one-man raid to pull out General Middleton. He has shut down all electronic contact.”

“And Lieutenant Commander Towne. Why do we not have her in custody?”

“Can’t find her. Her apartment was locked, no lights or music on. The cell phone and her beeper were in a garbage can outside Starbucks. The gate log shows she never showed up at Quantico.”

“At least the master sergeant is confined to a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean, so I can safely assume that Dawkins is now in the brig?”

Shafer was clearly uncomfortable as Buchanan led him on, pounding with question by question like a criminal prosecutor, knowing the answers before he asked. “No, sir. He’s still on the carrier, we think, but the Naval Criminal Investigative Service agents have not found him yet. Dawkins is another one of those Special Ops types, and if he does not want to be found, we won’t find him. Plus he has a lot of friends on that ship who probably are helping him stay hidden. And it’s a really big boat.”

Buchanan doodled on a white legal pad. “Send an instruction to the
Blue Ridge
captain to make a shipwide announcement ordering Dawkins to report the bridge. He won’t disobey a direct order.”

“Good idea, sir,” Shafer responded. “But I think he will stay hidden if he considers the order to be illegal. Sooner or later, we’re bound to find him.”

“So that leaves us with Colonel Sims, the one carrying the letter itself.”

“Another blank, sir. We have him arriving at Andrews Air Force Base a few hours ago, but then it’s like he fell off the planet. The aircraft crew dropped him off at the dark end of the runway, didn’t see anything, and assumed it was part of a clandestine operation. No records in the tower of any military or civilian planes taking off from Andrews at that time. The only thing that left was an experimental NASA scramjet headed for California on a test flight. So we can assume Sims is still around Washington trying to contact somebody at the Pentagon. The phone call mentioned that he would deliver the letter to ‘someone higher up.’”

“Very well, Sam. Keep pulling out all the stops, on my authority. All four of them are now to be treated as national security risks. I want that letter back before the circle expands.” Buchanan waved his hand and Shafer took the hint to leave. “Don’t fail me, Sam. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get them.” Shafer left the office feeling small saddlebags of sweat growing in his armpits. A White House assignment was always a prestigious stop on the career path and usually paid off with a lucrative K Street lobbying position, but his job was falling apart.
Damn that fucking Marine to hell!

After his aide closed the door, Buchanan went to the wall safe and opened it. A hundred thousand dollars was in a padded envelope along with a valid Canadian passport, birth certificate, international driver’s license, and authenticated work history under a false name, and several one-way airline tickets abroad with the flight dates left open. After making sure all was in order, he put the big envelope into his briefcase to keep it close for the next few days. He had no intention of letting these four small people ruin his lifetime plan to become the most powerful man in the American government, a strong Caesar needed for troubled times. Lock up Shari Towne, Swanson, Dawkins, and Sims in four prison cells, with no charges or trials or lawyers, and it would all be over. At least Gordon’s people still had Middleton and he would be killed and done with. That led him to another idea:
Can I have them all executed, or killed while resisting arrest? Something to look into.
It was comforting to know that his documents and the cash were at hand.

Back at his desk, he punched a button on a red telephone, an encrypted line, and automatically dialed the private number of Gordon Gates. It was time to get some help.

“Yes, Gerald,” Gates said in a calm voice, personally picking up the receiver after reading the identification number of the caller.

Without preamble and keeping his own voice as smooth as possible, Buchanan reported, “Gordon, it seems that we might have encountered some difficulty.”