Target America: A Sniper Elite Novel (24 page)

60

MONTANA,
Private Air Field

The pilots stared out the windshield as they taxied the G-V toward a waiting midnight blue Douglas DC-3 twin-prop transport plane waiting at the end of the runway. Stenciled on the fuselage in bright yellow was the slogan “Dive the Sky!” One of the DC-3 pilots stood beside the aircraft next to a pile of parachutes and jump harnesses. The night was still heavily overcast, but the rain had ceased, leaving the air cold and damp.

Gil gave the pilot on the ground a thumbs-up. A few seconds later, the DC-3’s engines coughed and the propellers began to turn.

“Who’s C-47?” the lieutenant asked. This was the military designation for the twin-prop transport.

“Belongs to a buddy of mine,” Gil said. “A retired airborne Marine. He gives skydiving lessons now.” He looked into the back. “Gear up, men! He’s got our chutes laid out on the deck beside the plane.”

The air force captain applied the brake and killed the jet engines, and then turned around in his seat. “I seriously doubt anybody anticipated this move. I guess it helps having home field advantage.”

“We’ll see,” Gil said grimly.

He left the cockpit, accepting his .308 Remington MSR (Modular Sniper Rifle) from one of his SEALs and trotting down the stairs to greet the DC-3 pilot on the ground. Crosswhite and the other eight SEALs were quickly shrugging into their jump gear.

“Jack,” he said, offering his hand. “I can’t tell you how fucking much I appreciate this.”

“Bull butter,” replied fifty-year-old Sergeant Major Johnathan Frost. He had gray hair and a mustache, and he spoke with a Missouri accent. “Got an extra M4? I’m jumping with you guys. Bart can bring the plane back himself.”

“I can’t let you do that, Jack. You’ve got a wife waiting at home.”

“Then it’s a good thing I brought my AR along.” Frost grinned. “You can’t keep me from jumping outta my own plane, Gil.”

“Fuck,” Gil muttered. “Clancy! Get Jack an M4 outta the kit!” He turned back to Frost. “You’re an irresponsible husband, Jack Frost.”

Frost clapped him on the back. “I guess it takes the pot to call the kettle black.”

“Eat me, jarhead.”

Six minutes later, they were loaded onto the DC-3 and roaring down the runway.

61

MONTANA,
Five Miles South of Gil’s Ranch

Special Agent Carson Porter had been with the Bureau for five years, chasing bad checks all across the Big Sky State, and though he had arrested one or two tough hombres in his limited tenure, this was his first time leading an operation where gunplay was
expected
, and he was finding the pucker factor to be greater than he had previously anticipated.

The Highway Patrol’s local post commander, Lieutenant Quentin Miller, was just pulling up with four other cruisers in tow, and so far no one from the Gallatin County Sheriff’s Department had arrived.

Porter got out of the unmarked Ford Crown Victoria and stepped across the road. The rain had recently abated, and a chilly fog was quickly setting in. “Quentin, how are you?”

The post commander sat behind the wheel of his marked Highway Patrol car. “Tired as hell. How many bad guys are supposed to be up there? We haven’t been told shit.”

“As many as twenty with automatic weapons. Where’s everybody else?”

“Who everybody else?”

“The rest of your men? The Sheriff’s Department?”

“I don’t know. Your people didn’t contact the sheriff?”

Porter threw up his hands. “Christ, Quentin, you work hand in hand with those guys. You’re telling me you didn’t even give them a call?”

“Hey, goddamnit! I was asleep in bed when Colonel Reed called from Missoula telling me to hightail it out here with a security detail, and that’s what I did. He said the operation was under federal jurisdiction. Call me stupid, but I assumed that meant the FBI would be handling the logistics.”

Porter glanced at Agent Spencer Starks as he came across the road. Starks was an African American who had served as a loader in an M1 Abrams during the early days of the Iraq War. His tank had been hit by an RPG fired from a rooftop, and he had taken enough shrapnel in the left shoulder to send him home for the duration.

“It’s already fucked up, Spence.”

Starks shook his head. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

“Okay,” Agent Porter said. “I guess we’re it then. What did you guys bring for firepower?”

Miller thumbed over his shoulder toward the trunk. “We each got an AR in the back, standard issue. Four mags apiece.”

“No body armor?”

“Just our vests. We’re not SWATs.”

“What do you think?” Porter asked Starks.

Starks rubbed a hand over his bald head. “I think if we don’t get our butts up there pretty soon, there won’t be any reason to bother.”

“Hey, has anybody thought to call up there to the ranch?” Miller ventured. “You know, just to make sure this ain’t a snipe hunt? I know Shannon’s this big war hero and all, but it does sound pretty far-fetched. Al Qaeda here in Montana? Come on.”

“That’s no harder to believe than a nuke in DC,” Starks said.

“Did they find it yet?” Miller asked.

“No, but they’re evacuating the city as we speak.”

“Calling up to the ranch would be a good idea,” Porter said. “But I don’t have the number.”

Miller chuckled. “That’s the FBI for ya . . . Forgetful Bureau of Intimidation.”

“Hey, I’m doing the best I can. The DC bureau dropped this shit in my lap an hour ago with almost no intel. They were busy scrambling their asses off to evacuate the city like everybody else.”

Porter and Miller looked at each other, neither man willing to admit he didn’t want to go up that foggy country road undermanned and ill equipped.

“I’ve been up there once before,” Miller remarked. “It’s open country all the way. If we go with headlights, they’ll see us coming. We might end up gunned down in our cruisers.”

“Yeah, and without lights,” Porter added, “we might run off the road. I think we’d better call and wait for the sheriff to get his SWAT team out here. I don’t want a Dade County repeat.” He was referring to the 1986 fiasco in Miami in which two FBI agents had been killed in a Wild West–type shootout with a pair of very determined desperados.

Miller sat back in the seat, adjusting his creaking leather gun belt. “Well, it’s your call. Like I said, I was told this operation was under federal jurisdiction.”

With Starks at the wheel, the FBI’s black Crown Victoria peeled out and tore off up the dirt road.

Porter whipped around to see the taillights of the unit disappearing into the fog.

“Where the fuck is that idiot going?” Miller said.

“Shit!” Porter spit in the road and stood with his hands on his hips. “He’s gonna get himself killed up there.”

“Yeah, well, it ain’t your fault,” Miller said. “You know how those people are.”

Porter turned his head. “Quentin, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

The highway patrolman shrugged. “Nothin’. You’d better give the sheriff a call.”

Porter patted his pockets for his cellular. “Perfect! I left my phone on the seat.”

Miller pressed the number for the sheriff on his own phone and
offered it out the window. “Hey,” he said with a grin. “Be sure and tell them to bring a body bag for the Fearless Black Infiltrator.” He sat behind the wheel, laughing at his own joke.

Porter put the phone to his ear and stood looking at the chortling cop. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a jackass?”

62

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA,
Edwards Air Force Base

The president and National Security Advisor Jeremy Lewkowicz were speaking privately in the briefing room at Edwards, awaiting the arrival of the cabinet, when General Couture entered the room.

“Sir, President Patrushev is on line one.”

More than a little surprised, the president took the phone from the cradle. “Let’s hope this isn’t more bad news.”

He pressed the button and said, “This is the president of the United States.”

“Mr. President, how are you?” Russian president Patrushev asked in a somber voice. His English was quite good.

“Very, very busy, President Patrushev. How may I help you, sir?” It had already been made crystal clear to the Russian ambassador that the United States was extremely displeased with the Russian government for allowing not just one but two of its nuclear weapons to be stolen and smuggled onto US soil.

“I’m afraid I have bad news,” Patrushev said, “and I wanted to call you about it myself.”

The president stared at Couture. “I’m listening, Mr. President.”

“One of our intelligence people in North Korea has verified that the North will execute a surprise attack against the South the moment it is reported there has been a nuclear detonation in Washington, DC.”

The president sat down, grabbing a pen and scribbling “North K to attack S after
detonation.”

“How certain are you, Mr. President?”

“The source is very reliable,” Patrushev said. “Your troops on the Korean Peninsula should ready themselves for war. I am calling because I want to personally assure you that we will not attempt to take advantage of the situation in any way. Nor will we condone such a move by Pyongyang.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. President. Is there any chance you can talk Pyongyang out of making this move?”

“The Chinese are attempting to do so now, but I would not hold much hope. Kim Jong-un is not a stable man—as you know.”

“President Patrushev, I’m sure you’re already aware of this, but in case you are not, sir, our military now stands at DEFCON One.”

“Yes, I have been told.”

“Then with that in mind, Mr. President, considering the grave news which you have just shared with me, are you willing to keep your navy at a safe distance in the waters around the Korean Peninsula? I ask you this, Mr. President, because there exists the very great possibility that our capital city is about to be destroyed by a nuclear weapon of Russian manufacture. The last thing I want—the last thing
either
of us wants—is for war to break out between our two nations.”

Couture glanced at Lewkowicz, his eyebrows soaring. The president of the United States had—in so many words—just threatened a Russian president with nuclear war for the first time since the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis.

There was a long moment of silence before Patrushev made his reply. “I will order all surface vessels withdrawn from the Sea of Japan until this crisis is resolved. Will that be satisfactory, Mr. President?”

“Yes, it will, sir. I am grateful for your consideration in this matter.”

“Very well,” said Patrushev. “I wish to you good luck in finding the device—wherever it was manufactured.”

“Thank you, sir. Is there anything more I can do for you at this time, Mr. President?”

“It is
I
who will remain at
your
service, Mr. President. Please do not hesitate to call if I can be of any further assistance to you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You are welcome,” Patrushev said. “Good-bye.”

The president of the United States hung up the phone and looked at General Couture. “He’s agreed to pull the Russian surface fleet from the Sea of Japan. What’s that tell you?”

Couture didn’t hesitate. “It tells me he
knows
the nukes are Russian—and he’s worried a second detonation could lead to war. What about Korea?”

“The North plans to attack South Korea the minute they hear there’s been a detonation in DC. Patrushev said the Chinese are trying to talk them out of it, but he doesn’t expect success.”

Tim Hagen came into the room. “I have news from Montana, Mr. President.”

“Is Shannon’s family safe?”

“Nobody knows yet, sir, but the Gulfstream didn’t divert to Creech as ordered. It landed at a private airfield in Montana, and Shannon’s team took off in a private plane.”

The president was too rattled by the prospect of war on the Korean Peninsula to get worked up over Gil Shannon’s whereabouts. Going to war with North Korea within minutes or hours of losing Washington, DC, would make for a logistical nightmare. Kim Jong-un may have been unstable, but his military advisors were clever. North Korea would never get a better opportunity to try to reunite the peninsula.

“Fine. Leave it alone. We’ll worry about Shannon later.”

“But, Mr. President—”

Couture cut him off. “I believe the president of the United States just gave you an order, Mr. Hagen. I suggest you obey it.”

Hagen looked at the president, expecting support.

“Go and greet the cabinet for me when they arrive, Tim.” The president sat back with a sigh and began to massage his temples. “We’re very busy here at the moment.”

63

MONTANA

With Oso Cazador locked in the Chatham house, Marie and Dusty saddled up a pair of horses and set out for the ranch in a thickening fog. Marie’s breathing was less painful with the elastic bandage wound tightly around her rib cage, but the jouncing of the horse caused the occasional stabbing pain.

“I’d sure feel better if you headed back,” Dusty said.

Marie held the reins with one hand as they rode, the other inside her jacket over her cracked rib. “I think maybe we should skirt north.”

“Is the old Indian trail still there?”

“Yeah. You know about that?”

“That’s how I used to get to the Fergusons when we were kids. I was a trespassin’ little son of a bitch, Marie.”

She laughed in spite of her pain and fear. You never knew where you might find a friend in this world.

“I was always worried I might run across your daddy up there,” he went on. “I was scared to death of that guy.”

“He was a grump, but he was harmless.”

They rode along through the fog, the horses puffing steam from their flaring nostrils. Marie was shivering with cold, and she was grateful for the heat of the animal between her legs.

Dusty dismounted at the northwestern border of the Chatham ranch and used a pair of side cutters to snip the barbed wire fence. “I can still remember when this fence line used to run another couple hundred yards over that-a-way.” He pointed in the direction of the McGuthry ranch.

Marie smiled. “If we survive, I’ll let you move it back to where it was.”

He laughed and pulled the wire back out of the way so it wouldn’t snare the horses’ legs, and they crossed over to pick up the old Indian trail, following it through the rocks just below the foothills toward Marie’s ranch.

 • • •

BACK AT THE
Chatham residence, Oso quickly concluded that Marie wasn’t coming back for him anytime soon. The scent of the house and the man who lived in it were foreign to him, and he was growing increasingly anxious about being alone in the foreign environment. Already missing the familiar comfort of his leather chair, he decided that it was time to leave and got up from the floor near the back door to hunt for a way out.

He caught the scent of fresh air coming from the back hall and followed it to the source at the end of the corridor, where the door to the laundry room stood ajar. He nosed his way inside and stood in the dark, listening. A distant flash of lightning illuminated a half-open window above the washing machine. The screen was down, but that didn’t concern him. He had learned young there wasn’t a screen window or door on earth that could keep him in if he really wanted out. It hadn’t taken Marie or Gil very long to learn that frustrating little fact of life either.

He jumped onto the washing machine and, with his head, pressed against the screen until it bowed outward. Then he gave it a shove, and the screen tore away from the old wooden frame. After that, it was just a matter of shouldering up the sash and leaping out into the fog. He put his nose into the air, but Marie’s scent was undetectable in the mist. That didn’t matter. He knew his way home.