Dead Shot (2 page)

That evening, a small Royal Jordanian Airlines Fokker plane took off on schedule from the Baghdad International Airport. On its manifest was a quiet Canadian civilian engineer with fair hair and dark eyes. Juba was going to London.

The secret that Saddam Hussein had taken to his grave remained safe. The Palace of Death was secure.

C
APTAIN
S
YBELLE
S
UMMERS OF
the U.S. Marine Corps walked purposefully into a secure briefing room at Incirlik Air Force Base in southeastern Turkey. Many of the combat-ready Marines who were to conduct the mission recognized her immediately, and the others knew her reputation as operations officer of a special operations unit known as Task Force Trident.

“Oh, oh. It’s the Queen of the Night,” muttered a lance corporal. “We’ve stepped in it. They don’t use the Bride of Dracula on small jobs.”

“Count Dracula divorced her for spousal abuse,” whispered the man next to him.

“Shhh. Summers will kick your ass if she hears you.”

The experienced warriors of the Marine Special Operations Command (MARSOC) normally shied away from taking orders from women, but Summers was different. She wore a black jumpsuit with the silver railroad tracks insignia of her rank glinting on the collar of a turtleneck sweater and projected a maximum “don’t give me any shit” attitude as she walked to the podium and flipped open a file folder. Her short black hair, dark blue eyes, and lithe figure disguised the fact that she was the only woman ever to make it through Force Recon training.

“Settle down,” she snapped, and the MARSOC team quieted. “We are going after a High Value Target tonight in Iraq, and I don’t want any of you jarheads to screw this up. Mustapha Ahmed al-Masri has surfaced again, stirring up the Kurds in northern Iraq, and the
intelligence pukes have pinpointed his location. They list him as the number two for al Qaeda in the region, which is why he has been designated an HVT and we have been assigned to stop him.”

She walked around the podium to the front and nodded to her left. A door opened and a man stepped in, also wearing a black jumpsuit and with his face covered by a pull-down mask. A long rifle of a sort they did not recognize was slung over his shoulder. Sniper.

“Batman?” whispered the lance corporal.

“Maybe a holdup,” joked his partner.

“CIA spook. Definitely.”

Summers spoke. “You guys will assault the house at 0500, and I’ll leave it to the other briefers to give you the details. By the time you arrive, this gentleman and I will already be on the ground, closing the back door. He is masked simply because you do not need to know who he is. The two of us have been attached as special operators for this mission. Far as you are concerned, we aren’t here, and we will go in and extract on our own.”

As she finished, other briefing officers came forward with their maps and timetables. The lights started to dim. “If you see al-Masri, kill him. The best bet is that he will haul ass once the attack starts, and we will be waiting. You absolutely must remember that this is friendly territory and be sure not to have civilian casualties. If you screw up and shoot at us, even by mistake, he will shoot back, and I guarantee that you don’t want that to happen. Be very careful when you pull the trigger. Know your targets. That’s it. Good luck and good hunting. Captain Barnes will continue your brief.” She spun on her heel and disappeared out the door with the masked man.

Once they were in the Humvee and driving to the helicopter pad beside the ten-thousand-foot runway, Kyle Swanson rolled up the mask, changing it into a watch cap. His face itched. “Damn, Sybelle, you are a woman of few words.” He changed his voice to imitate her grim briefing cadence. “‘Shoot at us and he will shoot back!’ Way to inspire confidence in the troops.”

They both laughed. “I had to get their attention. We don’t want any mistakes out there.”

“I knew about half the guys in that room,” Swanson said. “Worked with some of them. It’s always strange not letting friends know who you really are.” In special ops, he had a million aliases but no real name at all because he was officially dead.

The Turkish night was crisp and starlit, with a slice of a coasting moon. A giant Air Force cargo plane roared overhead on its landing approach, hauling more material from the States into Incirlik, a major supply dump that fed the war in Iraq. Adana, a modern city of a million people, was less than ten miles away, and the Mediterranean washed onto beaches within easy access. For special operations types, it was a good location. You could get a decent hamburger and a cold beer, jump on a bird and fly off on a quick combat mission, and be back in time for a hot shower and a movie.

Swanson brought the Humvee to a halt beside a hangar, and they both got out and suited up with their web gear. Summers removed her shiny captain’s bars because they were entering the world of hiding, blending, and deceiving, a dark place where nothing must reflect light. She had assigned herself to this mission for several reasons, one being that she still spoke the language of her childhood, although her Kurdish last name had disappeared when her father had died and her mother remarried an American. It was a welcome asset.

A U.S. Air Force lieutenant approached, saluted, and introduced himself as their command pilot. He would not be going with them, however, and behind him sat a tiny HTX-I helicopter, the rotors already turning lazily on battery power. Commonly called a TAXI, it would be controlled by pilots far away from the action, with this lieutenant in charge of getting them launched and then handing the flight over to another controller cruising far overhead in an electronics warfare plane.

The TAXI had been perfected by the U.S. Special Operations Command as a revolutionary tactical delivery system for particular missions
and could deliver up to four operators to an exact point, then speed away to some nearby isolated site and shut down, roosting there patiently for days if need be, while solar panels recharged the batteries. When summoned, it would zip back in to pick them up. Except for the reconfigured overhead rotor, it hardly even looked like a helicopter. With no pilot, copilot, or loadmaster and with the giant internal combustion engines gone, weaponless and without armor, the unique helicopter was a blend of ultralight, stealth, and modern fuel cell and electronic technologies. It possessed extraordinary range and was virtually invisible to searching radar while its passengers sat in pairs, side by side, encased in a sleek aerodynamic bubble. The HTX-I wore the
X
designation to indicate it was still in the experimental stage, nothing more than an idea on the drawing boards. The media had never even picked up a scent that it was already operational.

Swanson and Summers climbed in, checked their gear, buckled up, and put on their headsets as the flight engineer closed the hatches and backed away, speaking into a radio to the controller. The reaction was immediate, and they heard no roar of engines as the TAXI rose from the landing strip like a quiet elevator, with only a slight whipping sound from the rotors, then flitted away on its run to the border. Swanson watched the lights of Adana disappear behind them. It was like sailing on a quiet lake.

At an exact GPS location, the TAXI slowed to a crawl and went close to the ground and then into a motionless hover. They jumped out, boots crunching desert sand, and ran to some nearby clusters of trees. The contact who had alerted the Americans about the presence of Mustapha Ahmed al-Masri was waiting, and Sybelle spoke to him in Kurdish, apologetically explaining to him that she was just a mere translator for the man with her.

Satisfied that as a woman, she was still an underling, the man guided them into the village and pointed them to a flat place in a ditch. The road beside them ran straight for a while, then bent right, and at the curve was the house that was to be attacked.

Sybelle and Kyle slid into the dry gully, and Swanson unlimbered some of his gear, setting up shop. Sybelle thanked the guide profusely and told him he was now free to go and wait for the main force that would be coming in on the other end of town. The guide disappeared into the night.

“Let’s move,” she said.

Kyle was already packing. They had no intention of staying in a place known to a local. Trust went only so far. “That house on the left. We go over the wall and get some protection, and I can brace the rifle on top of it.”

They moved out quietly, and Sybelle spider-dropped over the wall and landed without a sound on the far side. Swanson turned the knob on the gate, opened it, and walked through. Sybelle raised her middle finger in response.

During the next hour, they created a hide by using material found around the yard, and Kyle placed his personal space-age sniper rifle, the Excalibur, on a solid rest. Sybelle set up a spotter’s scope. Both had a clear view of the target building. They created a range card by measuring distances to points in the target area as they waited in the early morning chill.

At five o’clock, dawn was only an hour away, and parts of the village stirred as men and women prepared for the coming day. Kyle and Sybelle received a radio alert that the assault team was on its final approach, and almost immediately, the attack began with the buzzing approach of two big troop-carrying helicopters. Lights began snapping on throughout town by the time the birds landed on a soccer field a block east of the target. As the other Marines charged for the house, one of their snipers found a high position and took out the al Qaeda guard in front. Swanson and Summers, in the rear of the house, never took their eyes off of the target area.

“I have movement at the door,” whispered Sybelle. “Tall man. Must be al-Masri’s huge bodyguard.”

“I see him,” responded Kyle. In the scope of the Excalibur, strings of numbers scrolled in constant movement as the computer measured the
distance and figured the trajectory. So close, wind would not be a factor. Swanson held his fire.

“Second target. I identify him as al-Masri.”

Kyle studied the figure. “I confirm. Target in sight.”

As gunfire snapped in the house, the two men ducked into a small automobile, with the bodyguard driving, and the vehicle charged into the street with its lights off. Once again, the foot soldiers of al Qaeda were left behind to become martyrs while the leader escaped.

“Not this time,” whispered Kyle. He pulled the trigger. The .50 caliber weapon fired with a jarring
BOOM,
and the recoil kicked his shoulder as the big bullet slammed into the engine block hard enough to make the vehicle jump. A second round then went through the windshield and shattered the head of the bodyguard as the out-of-control car swerved sharply and slammed into a parked truck with the crunch of metal and glass.

“Target down. Other one getting out.” Sybelle’s voice was perfectly calm, a monotone devoid of emotion.

“Confirm the other one is getting out.” Kyle took his time racking in a third round, giving the man a moment to open the door. Al-Masri was alone in the empty street. His men were all dead or captured, and he knew that an American sniper had him in plain view. It was time to quit. He dropped to his knees and held his hands high over his head.

Kyle shot him through the chest, and the al Qaeda officer flopped over on his side. A final shot went into his head.

“Both targets down,” said Sybelle.

Kyle grabbed his rifle and pack, and Sybelle picked up her scope and gear and called out the signal for the controller to send in the TAXI for pickup. They hustled out through the gate and back to the landing zone, where the little bird arrived two minutes later. They jumped in and were gone.

The fighting was over in the house. The nest of terrorists had been wiped out to the last man, and the Marines would secure the area.

“Was he trying to surrender?” Sybelle asked, wiping some camouflage greasepaint from her face. “Might have given up some intelligence.”

“I saw a weapon,” Kyle said.

“Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.”

T
HEY ARRIVED BACK AT
Incirlik with plenty of time to shower, change clothes, and have breakfast before their next flights. With the special op done, they could mix anonymously with the crowd. Lines of soldiers and airmen and Marines talked in a garble of background noise, and silverware and china clinked a tinny chorus. The aroma of cooking eggs, sausage, and bacon rose like a cloud from the grills as cooks in stained whites kept the food moving to the steam tables. Air Force chow halls were the best, so although the flyboys wore bus driver uniforms, Kyle was always happy to share their food. He stacked a tray full of the good stuff, while Sybelle settled for bran flakes and fruit. Plenty of black coffee. They found a small table off to one side and put down their trays.

“What are you going to do on your R-and-R, Kyle? Two weeks is a long time.”

“Rack time. Sleep. Wake up and then go back to sleep. I’m tired.” He drank some coffee and thought back over the last few months, during which he had been constantly on the go. The two weeks spent stalking a terrorist in Chechnya had been exhausting, and before that he was looking for a drug operation buried deep in Brazil’s giant rain forests. Leading a Filipino marine unit against an island hideout of Islamic terrorists ended in a screwed-up firefight. Last night’s raid into Kurd country seemed like just another routine day at the office for Swanson, but even professional hunters get tired.

Sybelle studied him as they ate. Kyle Swanson: the legend himself, the ghost arisen. He was not a big man, 5'9" and 175 pounds, with
muscles that were sinewy rather than bulging. The kind of guy with remarkable endurance who could fight all day, long after the bigger guys gave out. Gray-green eyes and sandy brown hair that was longer than normal, even by civilian standards, around an angular face. He was neither handsome nor unattractive, just unremarkable, which was exactly what he needed to be.

On paper and in all government computer banks, Swanson was dead, and he had a tombstone in Arlington National Cemetery to prove it. Two years ago, Kyle was the best scout-sniper in the Marines, a veteran shooter who was often tabbed for special ops work by other agencies. Then General Bradley Middleton had been kidnapped as part of a plot to topple the United States government and put the Pentagon beneath the thumb of a private military contractor. Kyle was on the rescue team sent into Syria, and although the rest of the force had been wiped out, Swanson pulled Middleton to safety while most of the Syrian army hunted them. He was badly wounded in a final firefight, and his fiancée, Shari Towne, was murdered by the plotters in the United States.

Important people realized the value of a single operator in the modern-day climate of terrorism, and it was decided that Kyle Swanson, with no living relatives, should cease to exist. He accepted the deal, with one condition. After recovering from his wounds, the billionaire maniac responsible for killing Shari Towne was soon thereafter found dead on a Colorado mountain, shot through the head in what was ruled to be a hunting accident.

With the fake burial at Arlington, and Kyle’s entire identity and fingerprints wiped away, Task Force Trident was created around him, with General Middleton in charge and Sybelle Summers as the operations officer. Swanson was virtually the invisible man, free to take on any assignment. He could kill anybody, anywhere, and walk away untouched by law.

But he had never fully recovered from the death of Shari, his bride-to-be, and one of the reasons that Sybelle had come out from Washington for this otherwise routine operation in Iraq was to
evaluate his physical and mental condition. She found that he still had his normal cold edge and the hard shell that made sure nothing got inside. Swanson simply did not care about much. Kyle’s problem was not about being dead but about continuing to live with himself.

“Middleton wants me to report back on how you’re doing, Kyle.” She held the warm mug of coffee in both hands. “I know you can still shoot straight, but how’s your head?”

“You mean, am I crazy?”

“Are you?”

“Of course. I have to be crazy to do this job!” He grinned. “No. At times, I get tired of being dead. It can be a pain in the ass. I mean, having to wear a black mask in that room with other Marines? I knew half of those guys but couldn’t even say hello. I have to check my latest fake passport every morning to remember my name for the day. They even gave me a set of Dutch identification papers a while back. Do I look Dutch to you?”

“Got to be tough,” she agreed. The ultimate loner. “Tell you what. You’re obviously exhausted and running on battery power alone. So take your R-and-R and rest up, get drunk, get laid, and sweat out a hard physical conditioning program. Then come back to Washington and let’s figure out how to slow down the workload. They can’t expect you to cover the whole world by yourself.”

“Is the general complaining about me again?” Swanson and Middleton had not gotten along for years, dating back to their first encounter during the First Gulf War. Middleton had come across Swanson after a particularly vicious firefight and saw the sniper trembling as he reflected on the carnage he had caused during the battle. Swanson always had found a few moments alone after a fight to bring himself back to normal, but Middleton had mistaken the reaction as evidence of incompetence. Not only had he tried to get Swanson kicked out of the Marines, but he also used the term “shaky” in the official report. The attempt failed, but the ironic nickname of “Shake” stuck, for his friends knew that Kyle Swanson was anything but
unreliable in battle. It had taken the rescue in Syria to start Middleton and Swanson on a path of mutual respect and friendship.

“No. He’s just concerned. We all are. Without you, there is no Task Force Trident.”

Kyle finished a final slice of toast and pushed away his plate. “Well, Captain Summers, tell the folks back home that I am just skippy. I still believe in our mission. I still hate terrorists, and I’m still willing to kill whoever the president decides needs a good killing.”

W
ITHIN A FEW HOURS
, Summers left for Washington aboard a military transport, and Kyle climbed into a Sikorsky S-76 helicopter. It was shining white except for two narrow bands of dark blue stripes and a gold corporate symbol on each side marking it as part of Excalibur Enterprises Ltd., the holding company for the many businesses of British tycoon Sir Geoffrey Cornwell. The sleek bird was a combination executive passenger vehicle and all-around workhorse, and Kyle was the only passenger in its spacious and soundproof cabin. The aircraft had no ties to anything military, and its flight log for the day recorded just a routine trip for a company executive, but in the world of clandestine operations, Sir Jeff was known to occasionally lend a hand for off-the-book operations. Kyle strapped into a comfortable leather seat as the powerful Turbomeca Arriel 2S2 engines revved up, and in minutes the Sikorsky was up and heading toward the Mediterranean Sea. The steady low throb of the engines helped him fall asleep almost instantly.

“We’re landing, sir.” The pilot’s voice on the intercom aroused him after what seemed only a few minutes, but when he checked his watch, Swanson saw they had been in the air for more than an hour. The blades were slapping hard, and from the cabin window, he could see the square landing deck of a luxurious yacht with the same color scheme as the helicopter. The sparkling
Vagabond
seemed to rise from the waters to meet the wheels of the descending bird, which touched down lightly on the landing deck.

“Home, sweet home,” said Kyle Swanson as a crewman pulled open the door from the outside. “Thanks for the lift, guys.”

He stepped to the deck while the chopper was still shutting down its engines and ducked away from the powerful downdraft of the rotor blades. A woman moved toward him from the cabin area. She was Lady Patricia Cornwell, in a blouse of blue silk and dark slacks, with a silver necklace and earrings. “Welcome back, stranger,” she said, giving him a tight hug and handing over a cold beer. Her eyes took in everything: the weary movement, the sun-reddened skin, a slight limp. He had been gone for almost two weeks. No questions. “Jeff is on his way back from a NATO meeting and should be aboard before the storm arrives.”

“Good to be here, Pat. Lord, I’m tired.” Clouds were gathering on the horizon, and crewmen in crisp uniforms hurried about, coiling rope and lashing canvas to get the big yacht ready for the approaching heavy weather.

Pat gently touched a small bandage taped on his chin. “Did you forget to duck?”

“Cut myself shaving,” Swanson answered with a laugh.

“You seem to do that a lot these days.” She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go take a nap before you fall asleep on your feet, Kyle? We will call you for dinner at seven.”

“Yes, m’lady.” He walked away across the teak deck and disappeared into an open hatch, heading for his own cabin as the yacht shifted beneath his feet on the rolling waves.

Pat stared out to where the black waters met the graying sky. An unhappy soul, she thought as the breeze pulled at her hair and clothing. She knew that he would fall asleep fully clothed and that they would not see him at dinner.

Swanson heard a soft bump against the hull and immediately smelled rot and decay. He knew who it was before he shrugged out of bed and went on deck to peer over the rail. Below, bobbing in a long, low craft
that rode easily on the churning water, was the Boatman, grinning up at him. Dead people sat erect on the benches, three to a side.

“You’ve been busy,” Kyle observed.

“Wars. Revolution.” The Boatman shrugged with a low cackle. “I always have many waiting to go over.” He pointed a finger of ivory bone toward a narrow ridge of fire in the north, a glowing rim between the black of the night and the black of the sea. When the Boatman pulled on a long oar to steady the craft, the wind pushed the soiled black robe around his thin figure, and his skeletal face flashed an evil smile of broken teeth.

“So what do you want? You already have a full boat, and I ain’t planning to go with you.”

“Not yet. But very soon.”

“Fuck you.”

“I have retrieved the two souls you just killed.”

“Good. They thought they were going to paradise and each would collect his six dozen virgins.”

The Boatman cackled. “They were wrong.” There was a long pause. “You are a good and reliable supplier.”

Kyle spat overboard. “And you are nothing but a bad dream. I’m going to wake up soon and you will be gone.”

The Boatman placed his hand against the white hull of the
Vagabond
and gave a push, then leaned onto his oar, and the little boat swung away. A few more sweeps put some distance between them before the specter turned and spoke again. “Yes? That is true, but I am never too far from you, awake or asleep. I will be back when you finally decide to put a pistol in your mouth and finish self-destructing. It will be a special trip, and you can have the whole boat to yourself.”

The shuttle craft paddled away with its cargo of corpses, the Boatman disappearing into the storm, trailing a croak of laughter.

When Kyle awoke, he was standing outside on the rolling deck of the
Vagabond
in his bare feet with wind-driven rain sluicing over him, drenching the clothes in which he had fallen asleep. Lightning sizzled
off the water and thunder rumbled through the night sky as he held the rail in a death grip. Just a dream. Just the damned dream again.

Swanson had been trained for years to keep his emotions in check while on a mission, when precision and control frequently marked the difference between success and failure. It was after the shooting, when he was alone, that he allowed his thoughts to deal with what had happened, and the process was not always pretty. Now, the Boatman had become an unwanted part of that procedure.

All of the storms in the world could not wash away what really troubled him, so he staggered into the main cabin, pulled a bottle of tequila from the bar, and went back outside. Rain didn’t bother him. Cold didn’t bother him. Killing people didn’t bother him.

What gnawed at his brain was the simple equation that Shari was dead and he was still alive. He upended the bottle and took a large swallow, feeling the tequila bite in his throat, then he sought shelter from the thundering gale in the corner of the superstructure and drank himself back to sleep. About four o’clock in the morning, a pair of
Vagabond
crew members found him curled up there, wedged between a locker and a lifeboat, and they hauled him back to his cabin, stripped off the wet clothes, roughly toweled him down, and left him on the bunk beneath blankets.

“W
E’VE GOT A NEW
mission.” Major General Bradley Middleton made himself comfortable in his Pentagon office by opening the lower right-hand drawer of his desk and propping a spit-shined shoe on it, loosening his tie, and unbuttoning his collar.

Master Gunnery Sergeant O. O. Dawkins, one of only forty-five men in the Marine Corps to hold that highest enlisted rank, occupied most of the sofa. Double-Oh had helped write the book on special operations. Next to him sat Sybelle Summers, who had just flown in from Turkey.

In a chair of burgundy leather sat U.S. Navy Lieutenant Commander Benton Freedman, whose hair was always tousled, as if he had just
gotten out of bed. He was a brilliant computer geek, engineer, and master of all things technical. At the Naval Academy, he was given the nickname of “Wizard” because he seemed to perform witchcraft with electronics and possessed an astonishing memory. Middleton yanked the Navy guy into what was essentially a Marine operation when Trident began, where his nickname became “the Lizard.”

The other member of the team, Swanson, the Dead Guy, was missing, starting an R-and-R.

Middleton pointed at Freedman, whose busy brain had been sucking information from the folder in front of him. “Lizard, summarize it, with anything you have picked up from other sources.”