Sniper Elite (18 page)

“Gimme a fuckin' smoke,” he said, putting out his hand.

Crosswhite took a crinkled pack of Camels from his ACU and shook one loose. “How'd it go?”

“Fuckin' shitty.” He bummed Crosswhite's lighter and fired up the cigarette. “They're gonna ground me.”

“You sure?”

“Writing's on the fuckin' wall.” He took a long drag from the cigarette and stood fuming. “Sonofabitch!”

The other SEAL bummed a smoke as well. His name was Leskavonski, but his team members called him Alpha—short for Alphabet. He was young, only twenty-four with blond hair and blue eyes. “Is it because of the Sherkat woman, Chief?”

Gil nodded.

“Why'd you bring her back? She go into labor or something?”

“Because she'd seen my face.”

Alpha's eyebrows soared. “They're pissed because you brought her back instead of wasting her ass?”

“You shoot an armed
haji
walking in the wrong direction, and it's off to fuckin' Leavenworth for twenty years,” Gil bitched. “But refuse to shoot a pregnant woman, and you can kiss your fuckin' career good-bye. I'm fuckin' done.”

Alpha exchanged looks with Crosswhite. “Fuck, I guess we know what's in store for us if Bank Heist doesn't come off.”

Crosswhite grimaced. “Was it that fucker Lerher?”

“Who the fuck else?” Gil took another long drag.

“I never trusted that prick.”

“Yeah, well, Metcalf had his fuckin' back.” He spat in disgust. “I can't figure it out. He never struck me as a company man.”

“Maybe he's looking to retire,” Crosswhite ventured. “Get himself a job in the private sector with the big money. I hear Lerher's got real connections.”

That made Gil's blood boil all the more. “I might just pay his ass a visit when we're both civilians again.” Of course, he was only running his mouth. There was nothing to be done about the crooked machinery of government or the infinite supply of bastards looking to exploit it. Over the years, Gil had had his own opportunities to take advantage of it, and he'd let them all pass. So maybe he had only himself to blame, but he didn't want anything he hadn't earned for
himself. And he sure as hell wasn't the kind of man to elevate himself on the corpse of a woman with a baby in her belly.

So let Lerher strut around like king shit—Metcalf, too, for that matter. At least the spook cocksucker hadn't gotten his way this time. This time he'd had to answer for himself, even if only in some small way, and by the time Crosswhite and Alpha got finished spreading the story, the sorry prick would be lucky to find anyone within SOG willing to work with him.

“So how the fuck are you guys set?” Gil flicked the cigarette away. “Ready to rock and roll those motherfuckers in the Waigal Valley?”

Crosswhite dropped his own smoke and stepped on it. “We got a six-hour hump just getting up to that fucking village. You seen the sat photos? Fucking place is built on a mountain ridge. Looks like a scene from Lord of the fucking Rings.”

Gil had been over the entire op with Steelyard. The rescue team would dismount the helos at the bottom of the valley where the enemy couldn't hear the rotors—and even if they did, the helos would be far enough to the south not to cause suspicion; Army helicopters frequently passed through that region. If all went according to plan, the ten-man team would arrive at the village just before dawn, giving them time to reconnoiter the target area and make whatever tactical adjustments necessary.

The plan itself was relatively simple: silently neutralize any sentries, move into the village, kill any and all Taliban fighters stupid enough to show themselves, secure Sandra Brux, and call for evac. They expected a few dozen fighters max, because the village wasn't exactly large or easily accessed, but there was no way to be sure. They might well walk into the village entirely unopposed and find that Sandra had never been there. Then again, they might be going up against Fortress Waigal.

The greatest risk of all, of course, was that Sandra would be executed before they could reach her. If that happened, everyone involved
would likely face a court-martial for acting without orders. Crosswhite and Steelyard had offered to take full responsibility if that happened, but none of the SEALs or Night Stalkers would likely allow it. They were determined to succeed together or stand trial together.

Gil knew they might well stand trial even if the mission was a resounding success. If the dead Taliban's DNA results had been sent through the proper channels, this mission wouldn't be getting the green light for at least another few days—if at all. The coneheads in the State Department had some kind of magic mathematical formula they used for weighing confidence against the potential for failure, and they got cranky whenever they weren't allowed to apply it.

Had Sandra been a politician or a civilian journalist, neither DEVGRU nor SOAR would have considered putting together an unauthorized rescue mission, but Sandra was one of their own, and she was a woman . . . and the Jessica Lynch story was evidence enough that captivity for a woman went above and beyond what any soldier should be forced to endure for his or her country. Every man involved in this mission was fully prepared to give his freedom and or his life in exchange for even the chance to bring her out.

One thing was certain: no matter what the result of Operation Bank Heist, everyone from the Head Shed on up would know and understand that the special ops community would not hesitate to take care of their own, and their attempt alone would be enough to send that message loud enough and clear enough to leave a lasting impression on future generations of State Department coneheads and politicians.

A Humvee pulled up in front of the hangar. Chief Steelyard got out on the driver's side. He came stalking in from the dark looking like he had a very definite purpose, the cherry of his cigar glowing bright red. “Alpha, get the men assembled in the briefing room.”

Alpha said, “Aye, aye,” and turned on his heel.

Steelyard turned on Gil. “I need you to run that Humvee back to Operations for me. Then find something to do for the next four hours while we get this mission off the ground.”

Gil cocked an eyebrow, instantly pissed. He was not a valet, not even for Chief Steelyard, and especially not in that tone of voice.

Steelyard took the cigar from his mouth and stuck out his chest. “Don't make me pull rank on you, Master Chief.” Even though they were the same grade, Steelyard had held that grade far longer than Gil, so technically he outranked him.

Crosswhite took a subtle step back, thinking the two might finally come to blows.

Gil held Steelyard's gaze for a long moment, thought better of a confrontation, and left the hangar angry enough to kill somebody. Word must have already come down that he was to be rotated back stateside, and it never took long for a body to become
persona non grata
in this man's Navy.

He walked out onto the tarmac and jerked open the door of the Humvee to see Captain Metcalf seated on the passenger side. For a moment, he didn't know what to do.

“Well, don't just stand there, Master Chief.”

“Sir!” Gil mounted up, sitting painfully on his ass and shutting the door as Metcalf struck a match to light up one of Steelyard's fine Cuban cigars.

“You understand,” Metcalf remarked casually, “that I am not here. Correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

Metcalf motioned for Gil to pull out.

“You won't be disappointed to learn that Mr. Lerher has elected to leave the ATO,” Metcalf went on. “Your mission into Iran will be listed as complete, and your kills will be credited to your tally.
Beyond that, there will be no more talk of what never took place. I'll recommend you for the Bronze Star to make it look good, but I don't expect it to be approved, nor should you.”

“Thank you, sir, but I don't understand what—”

“I know you have questions, Gil, but you're going to have to live without the answers. I walk a very fine line sometimes, and how I choose to walk that line is my own damn business. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. The bottom line in this instance is that only a fourteen-carat son of a bitch gives the order to assassinate a pregnant woman, and I won't have a man like that in my theater. Now, you can drop me off at Operations and then head back to your quarters for some sleep—that's an order. This jeep is mine, so you hang onto it until tomorrow. You'll be my aide de camp for the next couple of days while your ass heals up. Can you live with that?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Good.” Metcalf puffed at the Cohiba. “My aide is on his way to Kabul for some oral surgery, and I don't much feel like doing my own dog robbing while he's convalescing. He's having four wisdom teeth pulled at once. Can you imagine that? Jesus!”

Gil laughed. “My wife had it done that way, sir. It's a bitch, no two ways about it.”

Gil parked the Humvee in front of his quarters and went inside. The bullet wound to his ass was throbbing like hell, and he was still smarting over the bullshit debrief with Lerher, but this was mostly due to a bruised ego now that Metcalf had fixed the problem. The incident with Steelyard was already forgotten. SEALs were harsh with one another from time to time, like wolves in a pack snarling over a fresh kill. It was rare that anyone was ever bitten, and hard feelings rarely endured. Steelyard had his reasons for the way he handled certain situations, same as Gil. They were warriors, not grade school teachers.

He found his satellite phone and sat down on the edge of a chair, debating whether to call Marie, debating because he didn't
want
to talk to her—he
needed
to, and he rarely felt that need while on deployment.
Such a need bespoke of an emotional vulnerability, and a man couldn't afford emotional vulnerabilities in this environment. Still, a need was a need, and unfilled needs could fester into larger problems. He made the call, knowing it would be about nine o'clock in the morning back in Montana.

“Hello?”

“Hey, baby, it's me.”

“How are you?” she asked, sensing at once a heaviness in his voice.

“It's been a rough day.”

She knew better than to ask specific questions, but she didn't much care. “You didn't lose anyone, did you?”

“No, nothing like that,” he said, his voice sounding thin to him.

“Well, I'm glad you called,” she said, giving him time. “Oso just came into the kitchen. I think he can tell from my tone when I'm talking to you.”

“I refused to carry out an immoral order.”

“Well, good for you. I'm proud of you.”

“I never thought I'd . . .” He gritted his teeth, hard put to conceal his emotions.

“It's nothin' to be ashamed of, baby.”

He gripped his temples. “Listen, baby . . . you may hear somethin' on the radio tomorrow . . . or see somethin' in the paper . . . I dunno . . . but don't worry. I ain't involved in anything right now . . . not for at least the next forty-eight hours.”

“I never listen to the news when you're gone. You know that.”

“Well, in case some dumbass calls or somebody says somethin' at the store. Humor me a little, will ya?”

She laughed softly in his ear. “Aye, aye, sir.”

He simmered down at the sound. “I just don't want you to worry.”

“Well, that's an easy fix,” she said helpfully. “Take an assignment at Hampton Roads until your enlistment's over.”

He lowered his head, knowing he'd walked right into it. “I've got three more years until my twenty, baby. I'd lose my mind at Hampton Roads.”

“All right,” she said evenly, “then stop sayin' you don't want me to worry. A forty-eight-hour reprieve ain't nothin' to me, Gil. I don't take no comfort in it. If there's an emergency ten minutes from now, you'll be the first one on the damn helicopter, and you know it.”

“Damn, woman. I called you 'cause I was feelin' down.”

More of her gentle laughter. “How ya feelin' now?”

“Like paddlin' your backside.”

“Then I guess it's a good thing you're callin' me from the moon,” she said breezily.

He laughed. “I ain't
that
far.”

“Well, you're far enough all the same. What time is it where you're at, anyway?”

“Nice try,” he said.

She laughed again, enjoying teasing him. “I'm a trier, you know that. Mama says hi.”

“Give 'er my love.” He glanced up to see Steelyard through the window, coming toward the building with his cigar glowing. “Listen, baby, I gotta go. I love you.”

“Got your boots back on the ground now?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“All right then. Love you, too.”

He was off the phone a few moments later and opening the door for Steelyard. “They about ready to go over there?”

Steelyard grunted as he stepped into the room. “Nothing left to do but roll the birds onto the tarmac. You don't have any booze hidden around here anywhere, do you?”

“Ain't I in enough trouble?”

“Shit, Gilligan, you came out of this smelling like a rose.”

Gil put his hands in his pockets. “Would you have shot 'er, Chief?”

Steelyard snatched the cigar from his teeth and looked him in the eyes. “I'd have blown her shit away.”

Gil nodded and looked at the floor.

“And then I'd have spent the rest of my fucking life waking up to her face,” the older man went on. “So what's that tell you? Anyhow, you made sure that's not going to happen to you. Listen, I support whatever keeps my SEALs alive and out of trouble. That's what I told Metcalf, and that's what I'm telling you. So let it go—it's over. I told Crosswhite what's up, and he understands why I jumped your shit. I didn't want him thinking you'd gone soft.”