Target America: A Sniper Elite Novel (25 page)

64

MONTANA,
Gil’s Ranch

Special Agent Spencer Starks was not looking to become a hero. Far from it. To begin with, most heroes wound up dead, and he had no intention of concluding his FBI career as the thirty-seventh Service Martyr in the Hall of Honor. On the other hand, he believed fully in the old dogface axiom that had been drilled into his head during basic training: “Do
something
—even if it’s wrong!”

And those dudes back at the crossroads didn’t have the slightest clue. That didn’t make them bad guys, it just made them the wrong guys for the job, and it was probably a good thing they knew it. The problem for Starks was that even if he wasn’t exactly the
right
guy for the job, he wasn’t exactly the
wrong
guy, either, and he couldn’t just stand around back there listening to their hemming and hawing while people were fighting for their lives five miles up the road.

Sure, he might get there too late to do any good, but somebody had to try, and since he was the only combat vet on the scene, the responsibility fell to him.

At least, that’s how he saw it.

Starks was making pretty good time driving through the fog with the parking lights on, and according to the odometer, he was almost at the ranch. He was glad for the fog, thinking it might allow him to approach the scene without drawing fire. The main gate appeared out of the mist, and he pulled the car to the side of the road, killing the lights and the engine. He dismounted with a pair of Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns, one slung around his back, and the other in his hands with the stock extended.

The night was dead quiet, and he couldn’t see more than five feet in any direction. Missing the protection of an Abrams tank and its Chobham armor, he knew that to continue directly up the dirt road would be unwise, so he took the iPhone from his pocket and checked to make sure that the compass app was functioning correctly. The agent took a bearing and left the road moving east, hoping the house would be more or less directly north of the main gate.

His load-out consisted of six magazines for the machine guns and three mags for his laser-sighted Sig Sauer .40 caliber pistol. He promised himself that he would withdraw if he lived long enough to run out of machine gun ammo. If he couldn’t get the job done with ninety machine gun rounds, he wasn’t likely going to turn the tide of battle with a pistol.

He came to a barbed wire fence and followed it north. Suddenly Starks stumbled over a dead body. Crouching down to examine it in the dim blue glow of his iPhone screen, the first thing he noticed was a vicious bite wound to the back of the neck.

“Looks like a Montana werewolf got your ass.” He rolled the body onto its back and noted immediately the Arab features of the face. “Welcome to America, asshole.” Starks peeled the night vision goggles off the dead man’s head and was about to move out, when he heard someone trotting toward him in the fog.

He slid to his belly, resting his thumb on the laser button of the MP5.

A figure appeared out of the fog gripping an AK-47. Starks’s laser sight appeared green in the night vision. He fired a six-round burst, and the man flew backward off his feet.

Starks jumped up and pounced on the body, bashing in the face
with the stock of the MP5, as he had been trained to do as a soldier. Quickly stripping the body of the rifle and ammo pouch, he slung the MP5 and moved forward with the AK-47, feeling suddenly invincible as he muttered his uncle Steve’s old catchphrase from an all but forgotten war: “Charlie owns the night—but we’re taking it away from him.”

65

LANGLEY

Flanked by a pair of security officers, CIA Director of Operations George Shroyer and Deputy Director Cletus Webb walked into the computer lab, where Pope was still sifting through the data he had pulled from Kashkin’s hard drive.

Pope looked up from his computer and smiled. “Have you come to revoke my clearances, George?”

Shroyer shook his head. “No, not yet.” He signaled the two security men to wait outside in the hallway. “But that’s coming. I just spoke with the president. He’s grateful for what you’ve done to help us track the bomb to DC, but he’s decided the time has come for you to think about retiring from government service. The reason we’re here is to begin your debrief.”

Pope glanced at the clock on the wall. “Debrief at two o’clock in the morning, George?”

“Well, frankly, Bob, we’re all a little nervous about what else you might be up to.”

Pope looked at Webb and smiled. “Are you nervous, Cletus?”

Webb shook his head, returning the smile. “No, Bob. I’m your biggest fan, but the president is right. You’ve taken things too far; you’ve become a loose cannon.”

“The loose-cannon metaphor implies that I’m equally dangerous to both sides, and that’s not true.”

“You’re right. Poor choice of words.”

Shroyer cleared his throat. “DOD is moving the ISIS machine into downtown DC as we speak. It’ll begin sweeping the city within the hour. So we’re very confident.”

The ISIS was the Integrated Standoff Inspection System specifically designed to detect SNM (special nuclear material, such as plutonium and certain types of uranium) at a distance. The multimillion-dollar machine was enclosed within a fifty-three-foot trailer towed behind a semi-tractor. It worked by aiming gamma rays at containers suspected of holding SNM. These rays of high-energy photons penetrated the suspect container and excited the radioactive particles within the nuclear material by inducing a reaction called photofission. The result was a burst of high-energy particles that could be detected by the ISIS up to a hundred meters away. However, the machine’s primary application was scanning shipping containers from overseas.

“The ISIS is a good machine,” Pope said, “but it’s untested in this type of application. It wasn’t designed to search a cityscape for shielded weapons.”

“DTRA says it can do the job,” Shroyer said. DTRA was the Defense Threat Reduction Agency, under the egis of the Department of Defense.

Pope crossed his arms. “I guess we’ll see. It is all we’ve got.”

“The president wants you to explain to me exactly what you meant when you told him you’d gained access to the Chinese Ministry of State Security.”

Pope rocked back. “That information is for the president’s ear.”

“In this instance, he and I are the same person. We can call him if you think I’m making that up.”

Pope knew the time had come to play his final ace. “Over the last few years, I’ve allowed Lijuan to share sensitive material with the Chinese; nothing that would give them a technical advantage but enough
to make them confident in the material and to keep them coming back to her for more.”

“What
kind
of sensitive material?”

“Communications software, passcodes, access to a CIA mainframe here and there.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Shroyer flared. “That’s high treason!”

Pope looked back and forth between them and smiled. “Try proving that, George.”

“
What
?
”

“I said try proving it. You’ll never even figure out what information was shared, much less how it was done.”

“Oh, no? We’ll just see what Lijuan Chow has to say about that. She’s being held as a terrorist. Did you know that? Her life in prison can be particularly miserable.”

Pope felt sick to his stomach. “When was the last time anyone spoke with Lijuan? Is she under constant observation? Or is she alone in a cell?”

“What does that mean?”

Pope shrugged. “It’s just a question.”

Shroyer looked at Webb. “Call the detention center and make sure she’s being kept under observation.”

Webb left the room.

Shroyer turned on Pope, pointing a finger. “You’re going to wind up in prison right alongside her if you don’t watch your step. Do you realize that?”

Pope shook his head. “No, George. I’m going stay right where I am, and I’m going to keep right on helping defend this country—just as I have for the last ten years.”

Shroyer shook his head. “You’ve lost your damn mind. Do you really think that box of secret files you have is going to save you?”

Pope stared at him for a long, unnerving moment. “Have you ever seen any secret files, George? Have you ever even heard of me threatening anybody with one? Or have you heard all of the same innuendos as everyone else?”

Shroyer blinked.

“I’m going to stay right where I am because I’ve given this agency access to the Chinese Guojia Anquan Bu mainframe. That means we can read their mail now, George, and we can read it in real time. Hell, I’m more likely to end up with
your
job than I am to end up in prison.”

Shroyer knew that if Pope was telling the truth, the president would have no choice but to keep him around. The country couldn’t afford to lose his knowledge of the Chinese intelligence network. “How in hell did you manage it?”

“I allowed the Chinese to
steal
a communications program they thought was designed for one of our own defense systems. Lijuan passed it on to them, having no idea that I’d written the program specifically for the Chinese—or that I’d written in a very complicated series of back doors.”

“They’ll eventually find them and take them out—or discard the program altogether.”

Pope shook his head. “They didn’t even examine the programming; they put it directly into service. They stopped being suspicious of Lijuan’s material a long time ago because I kept it so pristine. I had to give up some very valuable information to gain that kind of confidence, but in the end it’s going to be worth it.”

Shroyer gaped at him. “It’s you!
You’re
the one who’s been leaking intel to the Chinese these past ten years.”

“Again,” Pope said, “try proving it.”

Webb returned. “Lijuan was found dead in her bunk half an hour ago. The doctor at the detention center thinks it was cyanide.”

Appearing suddenly ill, Pope removed his glasses and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk.

Webb look at him with more empathy than anger. “Did you know, Bob?”

Pope massaged the bridge of his nose. “I had a very strong suspicion.”

“And you didn’t think to warn us?” Shroyer asked accusatorily.

Pope ignored him.

“I asked you a question, Robert.”

Pope’s response was eerily soft. “It was necessary for her to die . . . this way, she can’t ever be interrogated, and the Chinese will remain
confident in the integrity of the information she passed on to them—all in accordance with my original plan.”

“Jesus, you’re a ruthless bastard,” Shroyer muttered.

Pope looked at him. “Do you know China’s greatest advantage over the rest of the world? Aside from their massive population.”

Shroyer stared.

“It’s their patience, George. They are an infinitely patient people. And patience is the very bedrock of wisdom. They’re looking to take over the world, and it doesn’t matter to them if it takes another hundred years. Their sole weakness is their intellectual arrogance, and that’s what I took advantage of. I took advantage of it by making a deal with the devil in exchange for my soul, and I did it because something had to be done to buy this nation time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to realize that we’ve grown lazy . . . that laziness is a prelude to weakness . . . and that we need to make some fundamental changes to the way things are run.”

66

MONTANA,
Gil’s Ranch

Hal was peering out the upstairs window when a group of armed men suddenly materialized out of the fog, rushing the house with AK-47s. “Here they come!”

He opened fire through the window, and they scattered in the mist.

“They’re flanking the house!”

“Got ’em!” Buck opened fire from the master bedroom.

A hail of 7.62 mm bullets tore through the house like micrometeorites, shattering windows, lamps, dishes, and mirrors.

Janet covered her head with her arms, pulling herself into the tub as tightly as she could while chunks of plaster and tile rained down, the occasional round ricocheting off the cast iron surrounding her.

A short while before, they’d heard the burst from Agent Starks’s MP5 and been left to assume that Marie had been caught out and killed, their hopes of rescue crushed and Janet left without a great deal to live for.

Hal dove to the floor as a hail of automatic fire tore apart the wall, belly crawling down the hall to meet Buck in the doorway to the master bedroom.

“They’ll be in the house any second,” the older man said.

Hal offered his hand to his father. “It’s been an honor, Dad.”

Buck grabbed his hand. “I couldn’t be prouder of any of you. We’ll stay shoulder to shoulder. Take as many of these godless sons a bitches with us as we can.”

They crawled toward the top of the stairs to arrive at the landing just as the front door was kicked in. They opened fire and killed a gunman in the doorway. The rest pulled back.

 • • •

FROM HIS HIDING
place behind the horse trailer fifty yards from the front porch, Agent Starks could see and hear the muzzle flashes from numerous automatic rifles. He couldn’t see anyone clear enough to be sure if it was friend or foe, but he knew the chatter of an AK-47 and decided that it was better to do
something
rather than nothing.

He opened fire on one of the muzzle flashes near the porch with the captured AK-47, and the gunner went down screaming, his legs shot apart. One of the others returned Starks’s fire, and bullets struck the horse trailer near enough to his head that bits of spall tore into his face. He displaced rapidly, falling back to an old stone well to the west of the house. The night vision goggles he’d taken from the dead guy weren’t doing him much good in the fog, so he assumed that the enemy probably couldn’t see him any better than he could see them.

The horse trailer continued to take fire for a short time, and the man he’d shot began screaming in a mixture of Arabic and English for the others to help him. The firing trailed off, and the enemy fell back from the house into the mist, shouting back and forth, obviously confused to have taken fire from outside the house.

Taking a chance, Starks broke cover around the far west side of the house. He put his back to a large propane tank and lowered himself into a crouch. The stone well came under fire a few seconds later, and he rose up to peek in through the window, noticing a three-inch gap below the sash. He stuck the muzzle of the AK-47 beneath it and pushed it up, calling inside, “FBI! Anybody alive in there?”

“Whattaya make of that?” Buck whispered.

“Somebody shot that haji out there on the porch, and it wasn’t us,” Hal said.

“Yeah!” Buck shouted down. “We’re alive!”

“Am I clear to come inside?” Starks shouted.

“Come ahead! We’re upstairs!”

They listened as Starks clamored in through the window and bounded across the living room, having no trouble finding his way to the staircase with the night vision goggles. He trotted up the stairs and took a knee between the two prone men.

“Agent Spencer Starks.” He offered his hand. “FBI.”

“Buck Ferguson, First Marines. This is my oldest son, Hal. How many are you?”

“Just me.” Starks got down on his belly between them. “It’s a cluster fuck down at the crossroads. There’ll be more cops, but probably not until first light.”

“Don’t they know we’re takin’ fire up here?”

“They might by now, but that Highway Patrol commander won’t budge before it gets light.”

Buck groaned. “Gotta be Quentin Miller.”

“One in the same,” Starks said with chuckle.

“My boys went to school with that jackass. He’s worthless as tits on a boar hog.”

“And about as smart!” Janet called from the bathtub.

Everyone laughed.

“What’s it look like out there?” Hal asked.

“Right now, I think they’re pretty confused.” Starks shrugged the MP5s from his back. “They’re trying to figure out who was shooting at them from outside.”

“Did you see any other Americans out there?” Buck said. “A woman or a couple of men in their twenties?”

Starks shook his head. “All I saw up close was a dead haji down near the gate with his neck torn out—looked like he’d been killed by a werewolf.”

“Had to be Oso. Maybe Marie made it after all.”

“Marie Shannon?”

“Yeah, she made a break for the Chatham place about an hour and
a half ago. We stayed behind to look after her mama. Janet got herself a pretty bad concussion when those Jeezless bastards tried blowin’ up the house.”

“I don’t know if you heard,” Starks said, “but they’ve tracked the nuke to DC. It’s caused a hell of a lot of confusion in the Bureau’s command structure.”

A window shattered downstairs, and a few seconds later, they could see flames spreading across the living room floor.

“Fucking hajis!” Hal hissed, jumping to his feet and starting down the stairs.

“Hal, get your ass back up here!”

“Dad, we gotta fight that fire!”

“And get your ass shot off, boy? That’s exactly what the hell they want. Now, get up here. I already lost two sons!”

Hal came back up, and Buck slipped into the bathroom. “I’m sorry, Jan, but you’re gonna have to get outta the tub. They lit the house, honey.”

“Fine by me,” she grumbled, gripping the edge of the tub to pull herself up. “I’ve kindly had enough of this layin’ around. Where’s my Winchester?”

“Right here by the sink,” he said, helping her out. “But stay down on the floor. We got smoke comin’ up the steps.”

Buck grabbed the edge of the claw-footed bathtub, jerking it away from the plumbing coming up from the floor, and water began spraying into the room. He smashed the commode away from the wall, and water gushed from the line onto the wood floor. Lastly, he jerked the sink from the wall, and within a minute, a steady flow of water was running from the bathroom into the hall and down the stairs.

“Good thinking,” Starks said.

Another hail of gunfire showered through the walls, driving everyone belly down on the wet floor.

“I don’t think they can afford to keep that up,” Starks said. “The haji I took this rifle from only had two extra magazines.”

“Assassins on a budget,” Janet said bitterly.

Buck chortled.

“Are we gonna make a break for it or not?” she asked. “I don’t much
fancy layin’ here in the water until that fire works its way up the wall and steams us to death.” She took Starks by the hand, saying in a low voice, “God bless you for comin’ to help us.”

“It’s my job, ma’am.”

“All the same, son. Welcome to the family. You’re a McGuthry now.”