Dead Shot (27 page)

This time, he left the rifle in the room as he walked away. The military and the police would be looking for anyone carrying anything suspicious, and Juba had access to other rifles to use in the future. He disappeared into the crowd that was running away, scurrying for their homes.

COB SPEICHER

T
HE
A
RMY SOLDIERS WERE
starting to mutter beneath their breaths in the chow lines and in the barracks, feeling that they were losing control of the area. It was no longer a secret that the dangerous terrorist and sniper Juba, once an evil legend down in Baghdad, was out there roaming their turf with a big motherfucking rifle. The fact that everyone now knew his name and background did not detract from the reputation but made it even more ominous. The guy was no rag-head shooter popping off rounds from a rooftop but a former master sniper and color sergeant in the British Royal Marines, one of
us,
a real professional, not one of
them
. Could shoot the hairs off a gnat’s nuts. He had done Baghdad, he had done London, he had done San Francisco, and now he was doing Task Force Hammer and every soldier venturing beyond the wire felt a target on his back. Count the bodies, button up tight, do your job, and keep an eye peeled for the nearest armor in case Juba comes to play.

Albeit, the Army could not do its mission that way. It had to have men in the gun turrets when they went out because you could not sail blindly into dangerous territory. Then the soldiers eventually would have to dismount and go on foot patrol, out in harm’s way with a pucker factor of ten. Snipers cause problems even when they are not around.

In his office at the sprawling camp, Colonel Neil Withrow was in a tense and private meeting with his XO and his top intelligence officer.
The blinds were twisted to let in light but keep out the heat, and an air conditioner churned hard to keep the air clean and the temperature in the eighties, which was twenty degrees or more lower than outside. The machine was overmatched.

A new map of Hargatt was spread on the colonel’s desk, and the intelligence officer, a major, used a big magnifying glass on a sliding mount to make the images jump out. “We’ve been looking for these places a long time, and finally it has all come together,” said the major.

Two square dwellings were colored in bright red, about a half mile apart on the scaled map. “Each one is a safe house where the new foreign fighters and al Qaeda types are gathered before being sent down into Baghdad. The fighters are usually the young suicide bomber fanatics. Al Qaeda sends in better-trained men to help coordinate and run the show down there.”

The XO, a lieutenant colonel, added, “Your sources say that both houses are full right now?”

“Sources, as in plural, and not just some joker off the street with a grudge against his neighbor and looking for a quick cash payout?” The colonel stared at the map, his mind running through the options.

“A good source that we have used before, and a separate backup. Both are locals.” The intel officer had vetted the information carefully before presenting it. The last thing he needed was some turncoat informant giving false information at this point. The backup source not only confirmed the information but added a sense of urgency. It was authentic, and the aerial recon photos showed men moving in and out of the houses.

“Colonel, we estimate maybe twenty-five fighters are in each house. They filter them out a few at a time as more come in. As we have suspected, Hargatt is a major stop on the insurgents’ underground railroad to get fresh fighters and arms into Baghdad.”

Withrow remained cautious. The Juba mission was still paramount, but this was a golden opportunity. His overall mission would continue long after the Juba situation was gone, and bringing down these two
houses and bagging fifty bad guys would chop a major insurgent resupply line. Still, it might compromise the other thing.

“Okay.” He made a decision. “Now that we have the informants’ material, I want some American eyes on it for confirmation. Send two scout-sniper teams out to recon on both target buildings and report back.”

“Why not use those special ops types who are after Juba? They look pretty competent.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Juba. If he happens to be in one of those houses, then we take him, too. Task Force Trident doesn’t need to know everything we do.”

“Yes, sir.”

The colonel ordered, “Get your planners busy. The sniper teams go in as soon as it’s dark enough. They are not to engage, just scout out the houses and report back. If the targets are valid, then we roll out and hit both places at 0500.”

The XO was in total agreement. He, too, was tired of getting punched around without striking back. “What kind of force, sir?”

“A full package on each house. Abrams on the corners, Bradleys bring in the infantry, with Apache choppers overhead. Way up overhead, I want a couple of flyboys with smart bombs targeted to those places in case things go to shit.”

“What about the Tridents? We told Swanson they would be kept in the loop.”

“And they will. They will be notified if and when we are ready to roll. Right now, we are just trying to gather actionable intelligence on some insurgent strongholds. Get to it.”

HARGATT

An M40A1 rifle, the exquisite weapon of U.S. Marine snipers, lay on an unzipped gun bag on a table in the commander’s kitchen. Juba picked it up gently and made sure the safety on the right side of the receiver was
fully to the rear before handling it further. Satisfied, he observed that a lightweight oil covered the surfaces instead of normal lubricating grease and breakfree, which tended to hold grit in desert climates. Then he disassembled it on a clean cloth.

He depressed the bolt stop in front of the trigger and pulled the bolt straight back to remove it and check the inner surfaces. Clean as a whistle.

“We took it from a Marine sniper who died in a roadside ambush, and we have not disturbed it,” said the commander. “A gift for you.”

At first glance, it seemed the weapon had been well cared for and protected. That meant it had been cleaned with a .30 cal bore brush from the receiver end, not the muzzle end. No pits in the muzzle or dents or bulges in the twenty-four-inch stainless steel barrel. The chamber, the entire bolt assembly, the receiver, the Winchester modified Model 70 floor plate, the sling swivels, the magazine follower, and the spring, trigger, and trigger guard had been tenderly handled with soft patches and brushes and cotton swabs. The springs were taut, the stock was free of cracks, the bottom of the barrel had been shoe-shined with a cloth, and the Pachmayr recoil pad was new. The bolt slid freely when he put it all back together. He put the safety off and pulled the trigger to check the hammer fall. No trigger creep.

It was almost as if a Marine armorer had handed him the 7.62 mm rifle. Fresh ammunition was plentiful, with each round to be loaded individually. The rifle could hold up to five bullets, but in action, the sniper would put one in the chamber, leave three in the magazine, and then, after three shots, stop and reload. Never let it run dry. A ten-power Unertyl scope crowned the package, and its lens was still pristine although it had been kept in the bag.

The weapon seemed to be asking to be set free of the confining gun case and allowed to kill. It had to have put five rounds within a three-inch shot group at a distance of three hundred yards just to get out of the armorer’s shed. Up to a thousand yards, the M40A1 was considered by many to be the best sniper rifle in the world, and this one was aching to do its job of killing people. Juba approved.

“Now I have a task for you and this beautiful new rifle,” said the commander. “We are finishing a massive trap for the Americans, two
entire houses that are filled with explosives that will be triggered by remote control. Earlier, we led a couple of men whom we know to be informants for the Crusaders to believe that the houses are secret rest stops and rendezvous points for jihadist fighters headed toward Baghdad. Those dogs went running to their masters with the news.”

Juba looked puzzled. “You want me to kill a couple of informants? You can do that with your own men. I do not want to risk exposure for such minor targets.”

The commander chucked. “Oh, no. No, indeed, my friend. If the Americans operate with their usual thoroughness, they will want to confirm what was said on their own before committing to an attack. We have watched this before. Air reconnaissance will not work, so they most likely will send in scouts to validate the information. These men are invisible and move like ghosts.”

“Scout-sniper teams,” said Juba. “A spotter and a shooter working together, probably one team for each suspect house, probably tonight.”

“Yes. I want you to find them all. Kill them all. Use this weapon.” The commander put his hand on the M40A1 and gave it a friendly pat.

Juba winced.
Shit, now I have to clean it again.
“May I suggest an alternative, Commander? It is an old custom in your part of the world to leave one victim alive to carry tales of horror back to his army. Suppose I kill just three, and then you have women desecrate the bodies with long knives. We make the fourth man watch and then throw him out on the road so he can be found by the Americans. They will be absolutely enraged. If your goal is to lure them in to attack those houses, you can bet they will be coming hard. But I will not take part in that fight.”

The commander looked hard at Juba. Brilliant and bloody-minded, extremely proficient and totally mad. He clapped his hands with enthusiasm. “Yes. We will do it. Darkness will be on us soon.”

COB SPEICHER

Colonel Withrow was waiting four hours later when a Humvee ambulance with the big red crosses painted on the sides rolled up to the
hospital. Doctors and nurses were ready to work, but when they loaded the young soldier onto the wheeled gurney to get him into the operating theater, Withrow put out his hand. “Stop,” he commanded in a soft voice.

The soldier was the spotter for one of the scout-sniper teams sent into the town, the only survivor, and although he was covered in purple and yellow bruises, he had lived through the experience. A lump the size of an orange surrounded his closed right eye from where he had been clobbered. The problems were not physical but mental, and he was in shock. Tears carved paths in the greasepaint on his face. He looked up with his one good eye and recognized Withrow.

“Sir, they butchered them. We never got near that house. The bastards
butchered
them, sir!”

A patrol on the outskirts of Hargatt had found him wandering on the road, beaten and dazed, wearing only his pants and boots. The colonel saw the circle welts of cigarette burns on his chest. Rope burns around the biceps and wrists. Trigger finger broken.

“Try to tell me what happened, son.”

“It’s that fucking Juba, sir. We never saw him coming. He’s crazy good.”

“Easy. Details, please.” The colonel looked at a doctor standing there with a syringe of painkiller and shook his head. Not yet. This was too important, and the boy wanted to talk.

The soldier also shook his head at the doctor. He had to report. Had to. “Jenkins and I were doing our thing, Colonel, and everything went fine from the drop-off from the tank until we were about thirty minutes into the village. We found a drainage ditch and were crawling up the block, with no lights on anywhere. Really, really dark. Then Jenk ducked under a little bridge, had to hold his breath in that crappy water, and when he popped up the other side there was a single shot and Jenk took it in the head. I managed to snake down under the bridge to pull the body back, but somebody came up and coldcocked me. Knocked me out cold.”

The colonel closed his eyes and patted the scout on the shoulder. Fucking Juba. “Then what?”

“I came to in the street, aw, Jesus, sir, it was awful.”

“Come on. I need to know.”

“Three bodies were piled up, and somebody flashed a light so I could identify the faces. Jenk, Tony White, and Ian Grable, and they all were obviously dead. I saw a lot of shadows milling around them, as if waiting for something. That’s when I actually saw Juba! He told me in British English that everyone had been waiting for me to wake up. They had shoved a gag in my mouth so I couldn’t scream, and Juba went behind me and held my head so that I had to watch what happened next. You know that scream that Muslim tribal women do, that quick
la-la-la-la
tongue clicking? Well, that started up and got loud, like it was some kind of celebration, and then a few more lights were turned on.”

The words were pouring out, as if the soldier believed that by telling the story he might force it from his mind. The colonel knew, though, that there was a good chance the boy would see the same scene every night for the rest of his life. Still, despite the horror, his training had kicked in, and he was giving a good, solid report before accepting medical treatment.

“Old women, sir, and young girls and mothers. Just women. They fell on those bodies like a pack of wolves, stripped them naked, and then went to work with big sharp knives, cutting and cutting…” The tears started again. “They cut off Jenk’s head and threw it at me. They flayed chunks of skin and meat from all of them and hacked off arms and feet. Men were laughing and encouraging the women. Then somebody hit me hard on the head again and I was zonked, thank God. Next thing I know, I was being helped toward the sound of a Bradley that was idling behind a patrol. The ragheads shoved me into the street and left. Sir, I’m sorry. I fucked up and got them all killed.”

The colonel motioned to the doctor, and the needle punched into the soldier’s arm. As the sedative took hold and the eyelids fluttered, Withrow took the boy’s hand. “Bullshit, trooper. None of this was your fault.”

The patient was rolled away, and Withrow stepped back and stood
silently for a moment before turning around. The XO was there, as were Kyle Swanson and Sybelle Summers. “We’re going to go get those bodies,” said the colonel. “Bastards wanted my attention, and now they have it. Nobody does this to my people.”

Swanson had listened to the young soldier talk. He also had reached his limit.