Target America: A Sniper Elite Novel (23 page)

56

MONTANA

Akram radioed to Abad that they were going up the hill to make sure that Shannon was dead and to shoot anyone coming out of the house. He and Duke climbed down from the loft at the back of the stable and made their way up the hill.

No one had heard Marie’s scream over the driving rain.

After the climb, they came to stand over the more or less headless corpse of Glen Ferguson, still zipped up in the ECW sleeping bag with his arms sticking out through the improvised holes.

Duke kicked the Mauser downhill and raised the infrared binocular up onto his head, shining a Tactical Touch flashlight onto the bloody mess at their feet with a derisive chuckle. “Nice of him to provide his own body bag like that. Whattaya say there, Akram? Think he’s dead?”

Akram couldn’t help smiling. Now, no matter what happened to him, the fiend murderer Gil Shannon was dead, destined to fuel the fires of
Jahannam
for all eternity. “I think he’s burning in hell.”

“Good. Now let’s get the fuck outta this rain and head back to the hotel to square up.”

“How do I know you won’t kill me the moment I transfer the rest of your money?”

“Because I ain’t no fourteen-carat son of a bitch like you—
that’s
how.”

“Forgive my bluntness, Duke, but you are a traitor to your own people.”

“That’s between them and me. I put in nineteen goddamn years of loyal service, and they kicked me to the curb. Now what’s it gonna be, tough guy: do or die?”

Akram felt something hot and wet spatter his face, followed by the distant echo of a rifle shot.

Duke dropped his flashlight, and the strap of the TAC-50 slipped from his shoulder. He put a hand to his stomach, where his fingers found a gaping exit wound the size of a baseball. “Fuck,” he muttered, and dropped dead to the ground.

Akram dove between the rocks as another round ricocheted off a boulder. He grabbed the strap of the TAC-50 and pulled it to him while radioing Abad that Shannon was firing from inside the house.

Automatic weapons fire broke out down below, and Akram pulled the infrared binocular from Duke’s head, snatching the dog tags from what was left of the body, before scrambling back down the trail on the eastern side of the slope. He radioed for the men to cease fire, and ten minutes later linked back up with them in the stable, where they all stood around in a heated frenzy.

“Where’s Duke?” Abad asked.

“Shannon shot him,” Akram said, throwing the dog tags at him. “He tricked us!”

Abad shined a red penlight on one of the tags, reading Glen’s name and seeing the “USMC.” The idea of killing Marines was distasteful to him, and he was ready to be done with the entire mess. “Uday is missing.”

“What do you mean he’s missing?”

“Just what I said. He’s missing. He was under the horse trailer covering the front of the house. Now he’s not there, and we can’t find him. I told you we needed more radios.”

“Have you tried his phone?” Akram asked testily.

“There’s no damn signal out here.”

Akram combed his fingers through his wet hair. “So what are you saying? That someone came out of the house and dragged him inside?”

Abad may have been a devout Muslim, but he’d been raised in America, and the American in him didn’t have the patience for Akram’s condescending Arabian bullshit. “I’m saying he’s
missing
! Open your ears!”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“I’m talking to you,” Abad said, stepping forward. “And I’m telling you one of our men is missing. We need to end this, Akram, and we need to end it soon.”

 • • •

WHEN THE FIRING
had died off, Buck crawled down the hall with the Winchester into the bathroom, checking on Janet, who was curled up beneath a blanket in the cast-iron bathtub. “You okay in here, Jan?” Lighting flashed, and he saw a big chip in the porcelain where a bullet fragment had struck the side of the tub.

“Fit as a fiddle,” she answered. “How are you men doing?”

“We’re okay,” he said, pulling himself up against the tub. “I got one of ’em up there on the ridge.”

“Good for you!”

“Jan, I think Glen and Roger might be dead.”

She peaked over the edge of the tub. “You can’t know that.”

“Two of them godless sons a bitches were just standin’ up there with a flashlight, like they didn’t have a care in the world. They were lookin’ down at somethin’. I think it was one of my boys.”

She reached out, touching his face in the darkness. “If it was, Buck, he’s in a better place now. But don’t give up hope.”

57

LANGLEY

When Pope at last broke through the firewall on Kashkin’s hard drive, gaining full access to the encrypted data, it wasn’t necessary for him to translate the Chechen text in order to know which city had been targeted. The myriad photographs of Washington, DC, were obvious in any language.

He grabbed for the phone. His call to Edwards was answered on the first ring. “White House Chief of Staff Tim Hagen speaking.”

“This is Pope. Get the president.”

The president of the United States came on the line. “What do you have, Robert?”

“Mr. President, you need to order an immediate evacuation of Washington, DC. I still have to translate the Chechen text to English”—he was rapidly paging through a series of JPEG files—“but I’m looking at dozens of photos taken in and around the capital. All of our most important buildings have been photographed in detail; multiple telescopic photos of security points around the White House and the Capitol building.”

“How fast can you remit those files for evaluation at our end?”

“I’ll translate them immediately and send them within the half hour, Mr. President, but in the meantime, sir, I strongly recommend you order the evacuation.”

“I’ll do it immediately. Now, forward those files as soon as you can.”

“Yes, sir. There’s something else, Mr. President.”

“What is it?”

“Our interrogation of Haroun al-Rashid revealed nothing,” Pope said, “but his sister-in-law told us that her husband, Akram al-Rashid, is on his way to Gil Shannon’s place in Montana to assassinate him.”

“Okay,” the president said. “Then it’s lucky that Shannon is with you. I assume his wife is moving to a safe location?”

“Not exactly, sir. She’s still on the ranch, and she’s not answering the phone. I’ve cleared Shannon to fly to Montana in the Gulfstream V.”

There was another typically long pause at the president’s end before he made his reply. “To be frank with you, Robert, I’m getting tired of losing my temper—especially with you. So let me make something perfectly clear without shouting . . . Shannon and his team are not your personal army. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Are they in the air now?”

“They are, sir. I’ve already alerted the Montana Highway Patrol and the local FBI office in Helena.”

“Excellent,” the president said. “In that case, we’re going to allow the local authorities to do their jobs. You do realize that Shannon’s team gunned down six off-duty police officers and a young woman during the Vegas operation.”

“Mr. President, the young woman was shot by one of Faisal’s men, and there was no way we could have anticipated out-of-town law enforcement getting involved. It’s the fog of war, sir.”

The president grunted. “Well, fog or no fog, Shannon and his team have served their purpose. I’m going to order them back on the ground and fully debriefed.”

58

MONTANA

Marie and Oso arrived at the Chatham ranch looking like a couple of drowned rats. A bed-headed Dusty Chatham answered the door in his bare feet, naked to the waist in a pair of blue jeans. He was forty-five with a black beard trimmed close to his face. The Chathams and the McGuthrys had a long history of bad blood dating back to the late forties, all of it over land disputes. There had never been any rancor between Marie and Dusty, however, the trouble having always been between their fathers and grandfathers.

“Marie?” Dusty’s face was a mask of disbelief.

“Dusty, I’m really sorry to bother you so late, but I’ve got big trouble. Can I use your phone?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping back to let them inside. “Hey, that’s a big dog.”

“He just saved my life.”

He shut the door. “How’d he do that? What’s going on?”

“You won’t believe it, but Al Qaeda just tried to blow up my house.” Her cracked rib was making it painful to breathe, and she was using
both hands to apply pressure to it. “They came for Gil, but he’s not there, and we think they’ve already killed Glen and Roger Ferguson.”

He gaped at her. “What? Marie, slow down and tell me what’s really going on.”

“I swear it’s the truth.”

“Al Qaeda? Here? How many?”

“About twenty, I think. I snuck off to find a phone, and Buck stayed behind with Hal to protect my mother. She’s hurt. I gotta call Gil so he can get us some help out there before it’s too late.”

“Sure, there’s the phone over there on the wall, but how do you know it’s Al Qaeda?”

“I don’t have time to explain, but I swear to God it’s the truth. They put a price on Gil’s head right after he won the Medal of Honor.”

There was almost no one in the state of Montana who didn’t know about Gil being a war hero. “Make your call. I’m gonna get dressed and grab my rifle.”

She moved toward the phone. “Dusty, I can’t ask you to get involved in this.”

“Don’t be silly, Marie. I never had nothin’ against you. It was our dads who didn’t wanna get along.”

She took the receiver from the hook on the old push-button phone. “Gettin’ along is one thing, Dusty, but gettin’ shot at is another.”

“Just call your old man,” he said, trotting upstairs. “I’ll be right down.”

Gil answered a minute later. “Hello?”

“Gil, it’s me!”

“Thank God!” he said. “I’ve been calling the house, but no one answers. Are you guys all right?”

“No. Al Qaeda’s back, and there’s about twenty of ’em. I think they’ve already killed Glen and Roger. I’m at Chatham’s place now with Oso. Buck and Hal are still back at the ranch lookin’ after Mama. She got hurt when they tried to blow up the house, Gil.”

“How bad are
you
hurt?” Gil’s tone was hard and deep, very soldierly. “And don’t tell me you’re fine. I can hear it in your voice.”

“I got a cracked rib, but I’m okay. One of them caught me trying to escape in the storm, but Oso saved me.”

Gil dominated his terror. “Are you safe now?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’m already in the air with my team and headed that way. You stay put.”

“Dusty’s getting his rifle. I think he means to go help Buck.”

“You’re kidding! He hates Buck.” Dusty and Buck had gotten into huge festering arguments at nearly every cattle auction for the last ten years, each regularly accusing the other of intentionally driving up the bid just to piss off the other. “Talk ’im out of it if you can. He’ll only get himself killed. Either way, you stay put. Hear me?”

“But Mama’s—”

“Mama’s in good hands, Marie. I mean it! You stay put!”

“Okay.”

“I gotta go forward and talk with the pilot. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

She was hanging up as Dusty was coming down the stairs dressed in his Carhartt rain gear, toting a scoped .30-06 bolt-action hunting rifle.

“Dusty, Gil doesn’t think you should go over there. He’s on the way with his team now.”

“What team?”

She pulled her wet hair back from her face. “Navy SEALs. They’re on a plane headed this way.”

“Well, I ain’t no SEAL, but I can shoot, and if two of Buck’s boys are already dead, he’s gonna need help holdin’ the fort until the cavalry shows up.” He took a black cowboy hat from a peg on the wall and put it on. “Ya know, your mama picked me up at school once when I was little. My stepmom flipped her car over in the blizzard, and with everybody busy trying to find her, they all sorta forgot about me. But not your mama. I remember her tellin’ me on the way home that cattle folk gotta look after one another, even if they don’t always get along. I reckon she was right.”

“Dusty, she wouldn’t ask you to risk your neck because she gave you a ride home in the snow.”

“I know it.” He took a box of cartridges from a drawer. “I’m gonna get saddled up. You make yourself at home.”

He pulled the door open.

“Dusty, wait!”

He looked at her.

“You got an elastic bandage?”

“All horse people got elastic bandages. Why?”

“Help me wrap this cracked rib, and I’ll go with you. You’ll need me to point out who was where when I left.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Marie. No offense, but you’re a woman, and you’re hurt.”

“How many Al Qaeda have you killed, Dusty?”

“None, but that’s not what I’m talkin’—”

“Well, I’ve killed two already, so round me up a goddamn bandage, will ya? I’d like to get back in this thing before it’s over.”

59

IN THE SKY OVER WYOMING

“Master Chief, I’m sorry as hell,” the pilot of the Gulfstream V was saying. “I really am, but I’ve been ordered to divert to Creech AFB, and that’s what I’ve got to do.”

“My hearth and home are under attack,” Gil said. “Do you understand what that means? Al Qaeda is on the ground trying to kill my family.”

“I understand,” said the pilot, an air force captain. “But my orders come straight from Colonel Bradshaw, and his orders are straight from the president himself. What can I do?”

“You can stay on course!”

“No, I can’t. I’d be flying straight into a court martial.
You
may not have a problem disobeying orders, but I’m not wired that way. Besides, the FBI and the Montana State Police are both en route to your ranch. I’m sure everything’s going to be okay.”

Gil knew he had to get to Montana. The Helena office of the FBI didn’t even have a helicopter at its immediate disposal, much less any kind of hostage rescue team. And as for the Montana State Police, they were good guys, but most of their training was traffic related, and Gil
knew they’d be no match for a trained Al Qaeda hit squad—especially if they were AQAP operators.

He shifted his gaze to the copilot. “How about it, Lieutenant?”

The copilot pointed at the pilot. “My orders come from him.”

Gil left the cockpit mad enough to shoot somebody, pulling the door closed after him.

Crosswhite was waiting there. “What did they say?”

He shook his head. “They aren’t
wired
like me.”

“What about John Brux?” Crosswhite suggested. “Think he could help?”

Gil cocked his eyebrow. “You got ’im in your fuckin’ pocket?”

“Look, these fuckin’ planes will damn near land themselves,” Crosswhite said. “We’ll just get Brux on the phone, and he’ll tell us how to program the computer.”

“That’s a pretty good idea.” Gil chuckled. “Once in a while, you’re almost worth having around.”

A few minutes later, they had John Brux on the sat phone, and Gil broke the situation down for him. Brux was the former air force pilot who had flown topcover for Gil’s unauthorized mission to rescue Sandra Brux, Brux’s wife.

“We owe you everything,” Brux told him over the phone. “So, yeah.
Hell
, yeah. If you can get in the pilot’s seat, I’ll tell you how to program the computer.”

“Stand by.” Gil looked at the rest of the team. “Any of you guys have a problem taking the cockpit if the pilots won’t give it up?”

The SEALs all popped out of their seats.

Crosswhite put his hand on the cockpit door. “Just give us the order, Chief.”

Gil nodded reluctantly. “Take the plane.”

Crosswhite opened the door and stepped into the cockpit. “Excuse me, Captain.”

The pilot looked back at him. “What now?”

Crosswhite placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Well, you can put this plane on autopilot and vacate the cockpit. Or you can try to resist us and probably end up crashing the goddamn thing. Which is it gonna be?”

“Bullshit! You’ll kill us all if you try landing this thing yourselves.”

“We’ve got a G-V pilot on the phone who says he can talk us through the landing. So get outta the goddamn seat.”

The pilot looked at his copilot. “See? I told you these crazy fuckers would pull something.”

The copilot shrugged. “I don’t recommend a fight, sir.”

“No shit!” the captain said bitterly, turning to Crosswhite. “I’ll land in Bozeman, but every fucking one of you is gonna swing for this.”

Crosswhite grinned. “If I had a quarter for every time somebody said that to me.” He kept Brux on the phone so he could tell him how to verify if they were flying in the right direction.

Ten minutes later the radio came to life . . . “Air Force Flight One Sixty-Eight. This is Nellis AFB. Please advise as to why you have not corrected course.”

Crosswhite put his hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “Don’t give them a reason to shoot us down, eh?”

The pilot gave him a look. “This is Air Force One Sixty-Eight. Nellis, we are continuing to Bozeman Yellowstone International.”

“Standby, One Sixty-Eight.” There was a ninety-second pause. “One Sixty-Eight, that’s a negative. You are ordered to divert to Creech AFB.”

“Tell them we’ve got engine trouble,” Crosswhite said.

The pilot advised they were having hydraulic trouble and that Nellis was too far.

“Um, stand by, One Sixty-Eight.”

Three minutes later . . . “One Sixty-Eight, you are clear to proceed to Bozeman Yellowstone. Be advised you’ll be catching the tail end of a cold front coming down from the northwest, so expect chop.”

“Roger that, Nellis. Thank you.” The pilot looked back at Crosswhite and smirked. “You think you’ve won, but they’re gonna have every cop in Montana waiting there to greet us. You wait and see.”

Gil cleared his throat from where he leaned in the doorway. “Which is why we’ll be landing ten miles away at a private airfield.” Gil handed him a slip of paper. “Those are the exact GPS coordinates.”

The pilot took the paper and passed it to his copilot. “Enter the coordinates, Lieutenant.”