Sniper Elite (29 page)

AN HOUR LATER
Gil sat down on his bunk and called his wife using a borrowed satellite phone. “Hey, beautiful. It's me. Sorry to wake you.”

“I wasn't sleepin',” Marie said. “I was layin' here waitin' for you to call.”

“What are you talkin' about? I didn't decide to call you till half an hour ago.”

“Well,” she said, letting out a girlish yawn, “I woke up half an hour ago feelin' like you were gonna call me. So I've been waitin'.”

Gil wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. He didn't believe in premonitions, good or bad, but it was an odd coincidence. “Everybody okay—mom, Oso, the horses?”

“Yep. Everybody's good. What's happening?”

“I'm going off the reservation, baby. I may end up getting in some real trouble for it, too.”

She said, “Which means you're goin' after Sandra. What's ‘off the reservation' mean—that you don't have nobody's permission?”

He felt a sudden lump in his throat, unable to help putting himself in John Brux's boots. “I have her husband's permission.”

“Then that's plenty. As far as I'm concerned, you don't need nobody else's.”

“But I do,” he croaked. “I need yours.”

“You have it,” she said softly. “Of course you have it. You're going in against the odds this time, aren't you?”

“Very much.”

“Then the real reason you're callin' me is to give me the chance to say good-bye. Is that right?”

He lowered his head. “Maybe,” he whispered, his voice suddenly raw.

“I'm grateful to you for that. I know how difficult it is . . . and it's the sweetest thing you've ever done.”

His guilt was too great. He couldn't speak.

“Gil, listen to me,” she said. “I ain't never loved nobody on this earth the way I love you . . . but I've always known this day was comin'. I've known it because I know you. I've been preparin' for it. And the idea of not gettin' to say good-bye was always what scared me most. You need to know you're the finest man there is,” she said to him. “The best this country's got to offer that woman . . . and I'll tell you somethin' else, my husband. It makes me proud knowin' you're goin' in to get her back without the damn Navy's say-so . . .”

Late that night Gil opened the door to his quarters and snapped on the light to find Master Chief Steelyard sitting there waiting for him. “What the fuck are you doin' in here?”

Steelyard struck a match to light a cigar. “Looking to find out what the fuck you're up to.”

“That's none of your business. Get outta my quarters. I'm tired.”

There was a quick knock at the door, and Crosswhite slipped inside. “Whatever the fuck you're up to, Gilligan, I want in on it.”

“Jesus Christ!” Gil said. “Has Forogh been running his mouth?”

“I wish. I did everything but threaten to waterboard his ass. He's not talking.”

“Good. Because there's nothing to talk about.”

“We're not blind,” Steelyard said. “You two have been creeping
around the base all day like a couple of cockroaches. Now, are you cutting us in, or am I ratting you off to the Head Shed?”

Gil smirked. “What do you want in this for, Chief? Ain't you two pricks in enough trouble already?”

Crosswhite tapped Steelyard on the shoulder. “Hey, Chief, how about giving me one of those cigars, buddy?”

Steelyard turned his head to look up at him, arching his eyebrow. “How about washing my balls . . .
buddy
?” He got up from the chair and stepped toward Gil. “You owe me for Indonesia, Gilligan. Now what the fuck is going on?”

“Oh? You sure you want to call that one in, Chief? That's a pretty big chip to risk at the roulette wheel.”

“I'm a risky motherfucker!”

Gil sat down on the edge of his bed. “Forogh has family in Bazarak. I didn't know it before, but his family's a warrior clan—or they used to be. Anyhow, I'm gonna hide up in the mountains outside the village while he goes in and fingers the building where they're holding Sandra. Then I'm going in to bring her out.”

“You and the
haji
,” Crosswhite said, slightly incredulous. “Alone.”

“Well, not exactly,” Gil said. “Anyhow, I need to get in there by tomorrow night . . . ahead of Operation Fell Swoop . . . so we're leaving in the morning. I know an SAS helo pilot who's gonna drop us off south of the valley.”

Steelyard exchanged harsh glances with Crosswhite. “What the fuck is
Fell Swoop
, and how the hell is Forogh gonna finger fuck the building?”

Gil put a hand into the cargo pocket of his ACUs, bringing out an MS-2000 Firefly, an infrared strobe light that would be visible for miles, though only through the lens of an infrared night-vision device. “He'll toss this onto the roof, and the enemy will never even know it's there. Simple as it gets.”

Steelyard stepped over, lifting his boot to rest it on the footboard
of the bed. He braced his elbow against his knee and pointed at Gil with the wet end of the cigar. “It's not that simple, and you know it. The HIK's been occupying that valley for months. You're gonna need tac-air to get out of there alive, amigo.”

“I've already taken care of that.”

“You're telling me you found somebody else stupid enough to put their ass on the line with you?”

“Look outside.”

Steelyard went to the window with Crosswhite. On the far side of the tarmac sat what appeared to be an AC-130J Spectre gunship, bristling with a 25 mm Equalizer rotary cannon, a 40 mm Bofors auto-cannon, and a 105 mm howitzer . . . though something wasn't quite right about the plane's configuration.

Steelyard turned around. “You're telling me that's here for you?”

“Officially?” Gil shook his head. “Officially, it landed an hour ago with avionics trouble. From what I understand, it could take a few days to get the right parts in to make the necessary repairs.”

“Bullshit,” Steelyard said. “How'd you manage that?”

Gil got to his feet. “Wanna see it up close?”

“I want to know how you managed to pull it out of your ass.”

Gil put out his chest and got in Steelyard's face. “I've got friends at the Vatican. You wanna see the fuckin' thing or not?”

FIVE MINUTES LATER,
they stood on the tarmac beside the Spectre. The three guns protruding from the left side of the fuselage were covered with canvas covers to protect them from the elements. Attached to the nose of the aircraft were two incongruous steel booms, both approximately twenty feet long and folded back from the nose, locked into place along either side of the fuselage.

“I've never seen a Spectre like this,” Crosswhite said. “What are those arms for?”

Steelyard took the cigar from his teeth and spit. “It's some kind of a modified Skyhook.” He looked at Gil. “This is a CIA bird. Probably isn't even on the goddamn books.”

Gil pointed at the “USAF” emblem on the fuselage. “No, it's an Air Force bird, Chief. Says so right there on the—”

“You can stencil a swastika on the fucking thing,” Steelyard grumbled. “That don't make it no Nazi plane. The Air Force discontinued the STAR system clear back in '98, so this plane's not even supposed to exist. Now, I'll ask you again—who did you get in the CIA to loan it to you?”

“Sorry, Chief. I gave you all the clues I'm givin' ya.”

Steelyard stood staring at him for a long moment, the gears slow to mesh. Then he recalled Gil's crack about the Vatican. “Pope!”

Gil's face split into a grin.

“Christ Almighty. How long have you been in bed with that crazy bastard?”

“I got a handwritten note from him about five years ago—right after the last president appointed him to run SAD. He said he'd been following my career, said he owed my father his life, and if there was ever anything he could do for me, to let him know. So earlier today I sent him an email telling him what I had in mind. I asked him if he had any suggestions.” Gil pointed at the plane. “This is what he suggested.”

Crosswhite whistled tonelessly. “They say he's protected by the devil himself.”

“He
is
the devil himself,” Steelyard said bitterly. “So where's the crew?”

“They caught the next thing smoking back to Diego Garcia.”

“Then who's going to fly the fucking—Brux! You got Brux mixed up in this?”

“See there?” Gil said. “I knew you Gulf War One frogs were sharp.”

“Brux is a wreck,” Crosswhite said in disbelief.

Gil stood pulling on his chin. “To be honest, Dan, I didn't think a rescue was possible until you told me he was on the base. It wasn't easy getting his permission to make the attempt, but once I got it, I had everything I needed. He's the only pilot I know who's ever flown Skyhook.”

Steelyard jerked his head toward Gil, pointing at him with a stubby finger. “You lying son of a bitch.
That's
how you got out of China. I knew that submarine story was bullshit.”

“Like you said, Chief . . . Skyhook was officially discontinued
clear back in '98
.” He shook his jaw as he spoke, imitating Steelyard's jowly way of talking, but it came out more like a bad Nixon impression, and Crosswhite laughed out loud.

“Fuck you!” Steelyard said to Crosswhite, turning to Gil. “You could've told me the truth, you prick. I share everything with you.”

“Everything, Chief?” Gil stepped up, reaching into Steelyard's jacket to take a pair of cigars from the inside pocket, passing one off to Crosswhite. “So who was the girl in Manila, Halligan—the doxy you keep in your wallet?”

“Eat me, Shannon! She's no doxy.” Steelyard took a step back, self-consciously hitching up his trousers. “And you're the only fucker who's ever even seen her picture.”

“Hey,” said Crosswhite. “You still haven't told us about Fell Swoop. What the hell is that, and how'd you find out about it?”

“The second answer is obvious,” Steelyard said. “Pope told him about it when he agreed to supply the plane. So what is it, Gilligan? Does General Couture finally have clearance to attack the Panjshir?”

Gil bummed a match to light the cigar. “Hasn't your buddy Metcalf said anything?”

“I told you already,” Steelyard said. “Metcalf only sticks his neck out so far. He didn't make captain by taking stupid risks. That's something
you should keep in mind, by the way . . . if you ever expect to make Command Master Chief.”

The three of them exchanged looks before laughing out loud at the very absurdity of such a remark.

“Come on back to my place,” Gil said. “Brux's crew will be here soon. They're all going AWOL to get here, so we'll have to figure out a secure place to hide them until kickoff.”

General Couture stood before a large map of the Panjshir Valley hanging on the wall. The map was festooned with large red arrows indicating the directions of the planned American troop movements into the valley. Captain Metcalf and a number of other officers sat in rows of chairs watching on as Couture prepared to share the particulars of Operation Fell Swoop.

“We'll start with some background on the Panjshir Valley for those unfamiliar with this infamous piece of real estate,” he began. “It's one hundred kilometers in length with the Panjshir River running right through the middle of it. It is of significant strategic military importance, and for this reason remained a Mujahideen stronghold throughout the Russian war—back when our old ally Ahmad Shah Massoud was still their leader. The Soviets launched
six different offensives against the Panjshir, and got throttled all six times. The valley remains littered with knocked-out Soviet armor to this day. The reason for the Panjshir's strategic importance is that Panjshir Highway leads directly to both the Khawak and Anjoman mountain passes. These passes are absolutely essential to any army wanting to move large numbers of men and materiel over the Hindu Kush. Even Alexander the Great passed through the Panjshir.

“As you know, Al Qaeda assassinated Massoud with a camera bomb back in 2001, but the valley has not been greatly contested since our arrival in Afghanistan—not until now. As a result of the scheduled drawdown of our forces here in the ATO, the Panjshir has not been occupied or even patrolled by US forces for the past six months. At the moment, the valley holds no real strategic value to us, but we don't particularly want it in HIK hands, either. As you know, these Hezbis have occupied the valley for the past four months now, and all of my requests for permission to drive them out have been refused. Karzai doesn't want them making a concerted effort to force him from office, so he's been making certain concessions. Allowing them the Panjshir was one such concession, and our president has seen fit to keep us out of it . . . until now.

“For those of you who have not heard, the HIK is holding Warrant Office Sandra Brux in the village in Bazarak, using her as a kind of human shield to further curb any attempt at our reoccupation of the valley. UAV reconnaissance indicates they are dug deep into the mountains surrounding the valley. They have filled every position with RPGs and heavy machine guns. Despite the fact they possesses limited artillery, they've taken a page right out of the old Mujahideen-Massoud playbook, employing the same tactics that were used to thrash the Soviets. It's become more and more obvious to me over the passing weeks that the HIK's overarching, long-term objective is to draw our forces into that valley in the hope of killing off hundreds of our troops, knocking out our armor, and forcing us
to wrap up our involvement here in Afghanistan in the face of a final humiliating defeat—much like the Soviets were forced to do.