On Scope: A Sniper Novel Read online

  They came in all physical sizes. Most wore black, in varying styles from motorcycle jackets to sports coats. Some were scraped shiny bald while others needed serious trims; some beards, but not all. Tattoos were visible on exposed skin. Wraparound shades, some pushed atop their heads. Some had a military bearing; some appeared indolent and lazy. They seemed to have a problem communicating with each other, indicating that different languages were in play. To Swanson, it all spelled hired guns from out of town.

  Coastie turned the corner and headed away from the hacienda at a moderate speed. It was safe to assume their car had been noted, and spotters who were now focused on them would stay locked in until they were gone and presented no threat. Kyle wore a loud Hawaiian shirt, and Beth had a straw hat, so obvious that it was effective, as they hid in plain sight as sightseers. “Were you able to get a count?”

  “No. There’s a bunch of them on-site and probably more on the way.” It puzzled him. “Way too many to just be protecting Mr. Torreblanca.”

  She steered around another corner to move deeper into the city. “It’s going to be tough finding a clear shot with those guys all over the place and so much foliage.”

  Swanson agreed. “Maybe. The guards don’t look like they have worked together before as a unit. If they are having language problems, they may not even know each other. Might provide an opening. We just have to be ready. Park over there.”

  She pulled the little car into a parallel-parking space in front of a grocery store. Before they got out, she flipped off the hat and picked up a big cloth bag while Kyle dumped the loud Hawaiian shirt that covered a dark T-shirt and pulled on a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. Time for some foot surveillance, food, and music. The sky was as blue as it could be, and children in colorful clothes were out in the streets, ready for another day of the fair.

  “You’re thinking about something?” she asked as they headed toward the carnival tents.

  “Yeah. We need to get a better look at those guards. There’s something there that we can use, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  They did a slow tour of the food tents, bought some hot tapas, split up, reversed their routes, did some unexpected stops and starts, and checked shop windows for reflections as they ran countersurveillance. No one was following, and the crowd was growing thicker for the day’s festivities. Riders in brilliant costumes cantered by, including boys prancing along on big horses with girlfriends in rainbows of dresses seated behind the saddles, all moving toward the start of the parade route. Even the most alert guards would be distracted by all of this activity, which was to continue for another few days, Kyle surmised. For a precision shot, though, Kyle and Coastie needed a hide, and so far they had not seen anything that would do.

  He had not totally given up on the idea of using the Marines, which would be a good Plan B if the guard teams proved too numerous and any good at all. The Trident team could fly into the Navy base at Rota in the middle of the night, and the aircraft would drive right into a secure hangar. Spanish customs would not see them until the men rolled off the base dressed as civilians. The weapons and gear would follow in other trucks. The footprint would be bigger, but it would be a quiet operation until they attacked the compound in Seville. That had a sense of retribution about it that Kyle liked, because it would be similar to the strike in Barcelona that had started the whole thing. The problem was that such a Plan B would take too long, since the guys were still in North Carolina, and that meant they might have to use Plan C. Only they had no Plan C.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  SENATOR MONROE believed he had broken through the secrecy wall. Such was the power of a member of the Armed Services Committee. It was almost pitiful to watch generals grovel, anxious for his support when budgets were determined.

  That little hard-line talk that his aide, Doug Jimenez, had with the Air Force lawyer had paid dividends. The lawyer’s report obviously had reached the attention of higher officers, who decided to show some cooperation instead of stonewalling. As a result, on this bright Friday morning, the senator and his aide were aboard a Whiteside executive helicopter from HMX-1, the same unit that flew Marine One for the president. Their pilot was a full colonel and the copilot a female major, both of whom normally served as presidential pilots. They had greeted him with salutes before turning them over to the flight crew that got them settled. The seats were soft. Jimenez had raised an eyebrow of approval once they strapped into the comfortable cushions and the blades began to turn, almost unheard in the soundproofed interior.

  The trip would not take long because the helo went over all of the traffic and flew a direct line that would put the two civilians down right where the darkest secrets were kept, in the special militarized part of Virginia Beach that was the home of SEAL Team Six. Instead of being back in Missouri doing some fund-raising, the senator would be in the dust today, wearing blue jeans and a field vest with a lot of pockets instead of a suit and tie, and he would come back with pictures of himself and a lot of grinning SEALs. Great campaign stuff.

  The bird settled onto the tarmac of the U.S. Naval Special Warfare Development Group with only a slight bounce as the wheels took the weight. The crew chief told them they could unbuckle, and the copilot stuck her head back into the cabin to say she hoped their trip had been comfortable. The senator thanked her and walked down the stairs, followed by his aide. A very fit naval officer with a lantern jaw presented them with Navy blue baseball caps bearing gold braid and the distinctive SEAL insignia, and their VIP tour began in a camouflaged open-back Humvee.

  For the next four hours, including time for lunch with some of the dusty warriors, Senator Monroe and Douglas Jimenez were treated to the best reality show in the military world. Paratroopers poured out of high-flying planes, drifted to earth on silk canopies, and landed standing upright and ready to fight. Other soldiers pitched out of helicopters and slid down long ropes, while still other helos ferried in assault troops with waves of touch-and-go landings. Gunships ripped through the target area with rockets blazing and chain guns roaring, tearing up the dirt. They watched an assault on a mock village, and the takedown of a shooting range target to rescue “hostages” in a close quarters battle drill using real bullets and real people tied to chairs. Everywhere they were taken, there was the snap of gunfire and the thump of explosions, and the escort officer gave a smooth running commentary on what was happening. The obstacle course had the look of a psycho-designed maze of high fences, barbed wire, and mud, but the armed-up troopers charged through it without serious effort, because they faced the same challenges almost every day of their lives.

  The visitors were most impressed, but the senator had not lost sight of why they were here, and the escort officer eventually took them away from the live training area to a grassy knoll where several men in uniforms were waiting in a loose circle. One saluted the officer, who returned it, then left them alone.

  “Welcome to DEVGRU, Senator. My name is Senior Chief Richard Sheridan of SEAL Team Six. They call me Rockhead,” said a compact, muscular man with a layer of gray hair in a buzz cut over a sun-weathered face. He had an automatic AK-47 over his shoulder. They shook hands, and Sheridan motioned to the others, all of whom stood at parade rest, with their hands behind their backs. “Today you were able to witness a solid exercise by units of the U.S. Joint Special Operations Command, and these gentlemen here are senior noncommissioned officers with some of the units involved.”

  “You put this on just for us?” Doug Jimenez asked. The senator didn’t want just a dog-and-pony show.

  “No, sir. Not at all. It takes months to schedule these things, so the timing was, shall we say, just convenient.”

  “How’s that?”

  Sheridan ignored the question and looked around. “You saw SEALs out there for sure, because this is our surf and turf, but you also had Delta Force, Rangers, Marine Special Operations, Air Commandos, and the Night Stalkers of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. Even some Brits from the Sp
ecial Air Service. Cream of the crop, Senator. Best of the best in a live-fire environment. We hope you enjoyed it.”

  “We have no doubt of their abilities, Senior Chief. You can be proud of them all.” The senator looked around and realized there were no officers present.

  “Good. Good. Please, call me Rockhead. Now, sir, which of them do you want to kill today?” Rockhead Sheridan unslung the AK-47 and in a smooth motion racked in a round from the banana clip. “Careful with it, sir. It’s loaded. There’s the safety. Click it off and fire when ready.”

  “What?”

  “We cannot furnish a complete roster, Senator, but maybe you could just point to a couple at random, maybe a helo load, we can line ’em up and you can shoot ’em.”

  The hard men around them, sweaty in their battle dress uniforms, had not moved but were staring with laser eyes. “You are overstepping your authority, Senior Chief, not to mention being rude. Where are the commanding officers? They are the ones I want to talk to.”

  “No. Today, you talk to the warfighters, sir. That’s us. While you politicians and lawyers make your speeches, we are the people out on the battlefield.”

  “You set me up!” Anger flared in the senator’s voice, and his face was flushed.

  “Not at all. We have permission to show you everything we’ve got, which we did over the last few hours. Then our commanders told us to answer all of your questions as soon as you furnish us with the appropriate documents, subpoenas, letters of authorization, and clearances. Ball’s in your court, sir. Hand them over.”

  Douglas Jimenez interrupted. “We didn’t bring any such documentation with us. You know that.”

  Rockhead scratched an ear. “Well, then, I’d like to say you are among friends, but you really aren’t. We can’t stand pretentious assholes like you, Doug. You might pressure some young JAG lawyer, but try that shit out here and I will personally kick your ass into last week. You got me? Just stand there and be quiet so the senator can talk.”

  “I want to see your commander.”

  “He’s not here. Apparently what you do not have is permission from the Armed Services Committee chairman to be poking around in forbidden territory. You remember Operation Neptune Spear?”

  “Of course. That was the mission that killed Osama bin Laden.”

  “Did you know about it before it happened?”

  The senator paused. “No. I did not.”

  “That is because it was secret!” Rockhead shouted at the senator, then paused a moment to collect himself. “All this you saw out there today, that’s also secret. All of it. Their names are secret, as are their pictures. All of us here work in the utmost secrecy, and now you’re trying to get some of us killed. You make up your mind on which ones yet?”

  Monroe’s fury was growing. “Don’t be silly, Senior Chief. I’m not going to kill anybody. How dare you even say such a thing?”

  “But you and your boy are shooting off your mouths about secret stuff. We are part of a brotherhood, although we wear different uniforms. You are becoming a threat to our fellow warriors, operators whom we will protect with our own blood if need be.”

  “You mean Task Force Trident?” It was clear to the senator now that this was a clumsy attempt to muzzle him.

  “Task Force Trident doesn’t even exist, Senator. It was formed for a one-time mission some years back and then disbanded. Happens all the time in our community, depending on the job.” Rockhead never blinked while he lied. “In fact, the Armed Services Committee was notified at the time.”

  “We were not!”

  “It might have been in the small print. Your people might have missed it.”

  “My information is that Trident still exists today and is conducting an unauthorized military intervention in allied countries.” Monroe refused to hold the AK-47, and when Rockhead declined to take it back, he handed it to a shocked Doug Jimenez. A soldier laughed and retrieved the weapon, putting it back on safe. It had never been loaded.

  “You’ve been talking to Ryan Powell, the numb-nuts TV star who was kicked out of the SEALs. Powell will say anything to anybody who will listen, and he has been bragging that he now has a senator in his pocket, owing him favors. I guess that would be you. The man can’t keep his mouth shut and blames others for his being booted out of Six when he could no longer measure up.”

  The senator turned to stare at Jimenez, who seemed stricken. Maybe he could do some horse trading. “I must pursue any report of a rogue military unit that endangers American foreign policy.”

  “By doing so, you might put at risk special operators on a secret mission that has official governmental approval, which, I might remind you, is more than what you have today. What you are doing is trying to get some of our people killed by exposing them, and we will not cooperate in that, sir, not even a little bit.”

  “I can subpoena you all.”

  “If you try, we will smear you all over the press for jeopardizing American troops and putting ongoing secret operations in jeopardy.”

  The senator and Rockhead stared at each other. “Then at least let me talk to Kyle Swanson.”

  Rockhead and several of the men around him laughed. “Senator, like Trident, Gunny Swanson doesn’t exist either. I even went to his funeral in Arlington some years back.”

  “Are you bullshitting me, Senior Chief? Is he really dead?”

  “Far as I know, sir. Died a hero, too. Got the Medal of Honor.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “Visit his gravesite at Arlington and talk all you want.” Again, chuckles from the other men.

  The Navy captain who had been the escort reappeared and told the senator that his helicopter was waiting to return him to Washington.

  “I want to see the base commander,” Monroe said.

  “Sorry, sir, the admiral is gone for the weekend. I will tell him you wish to speak with him first thing upon his return, sometime next week.”

  “Goddammit,” swore the senator. Everyone in the group threw him a perfect salute, without any expression on their faces.

  24

  PARIS, FRANCE

  HENRI LECROIX stepped in a puddle, lost his balance, bumped off a wall and collapsed on the sidewalk with a splash and an abrupt curse that changed immediately to a laugh. I am drunk, he thought happily as he rolled to a knee. He pushed himself upright. The night was cool and rainy, and since he had nothing else to do, he might as well drink. The last bar had thrown him out, but there was always another one ready to accept his money. He did not even mind the light rain, for it refreshed him enough to push on, and he felt like singing, so he did. People avoided the wobbly bearded man with long black hair that was plastered to his wet, dark skin.

  Lecroix had been inebriated for almost a week. The binge started when he went on the prowl with two of his friends, who had matched him glass for glass as they talked about the old times as engineers in the Armée de Terre, which taught them all the hazardous trade of being a demolition specialist. After having wasting his early years on the family’s dismal farm, Henri had found something he truly enjoyed, was good at, and was paid well to do. Dynamite, TNT, plastique, C-4, Semtex, fuses, and timers were wonderful things. Anybody could blow things up. To do it just right was an art for a special few. He would have continued being a soldier, but his expansive loves of whisky, dope, and women far outshone his love of explosives. The other two men also had been on the demolition squads, and they were able to talk shop and argue in boring detail.

  One of his buddies had gone into construction after the army, using his blasting skills to clear old buildings and reshape stubborn rock formations. The other was in a private business that defused old military ordnance from two world wars that still surfaced around France.

  “What keeps you busy?” One peered at Lecroix with wet and unsteady eyes. “If you are still able to blow shit up, I can get you a job.”

  “Got a job,” Lecroix declared. “Good work. Pay is outstanding, which is why I’m buying
the drinks for you bastards.”

  The friend laughed. “Doing what? Besides drinking.”

  They had another round, and Lecroix added it to his credit card. Then he held a finger to his lips to shush them and looked carefully around the bar. They were in a corner, and he lowered his voice. “I’m no terrorist, you know that; could not care less about any religion or politics. But did you hear about what happened in Barcelona?”

  There was no reply. The two men looked at him, then at each other, suddenly sobering.

  “Boom!” said Henri, opening the fingers of his left hand like a flower. “My beautifully timed explosions on the corners pancaked that place right down. Booosh! Not many people could do that. They needed an expert, somebody like us.” He tapped his thumb on his chest.

  One of the astonished friends shoved his chair back, got up, and left the table and the bar, never saying another word or even looking back. Henri smirked and shouted, “Alors fillette!” You pussy!

  The other called for still another round, eased closer, and said, “Tell me more.” Henri had launched his drunk that night. Somehow he awoke the next day in his own bed, groaning in pain from a terrible hangover. With his eyes still closed, he felt for the bottle at his bedside, fished a couple of aspirin tablets out of a packet, and, after rushing to the toilet to vomit, was soon ready to begin the cycle anew.

  Such gossip about terrorist activities, even if it was a wild lie, spread quickly in the underworld. Henri’s pal told another friend, who spilled it to a traffic cop two days later while trying to talk his way out of a parking violation. The unconfirmed report then worked its way up the investigative chain, and when it jumped into the intelligence realm, alarm bells began to ring. It was the first real break investigators had gotten about the Barcelona attack. Things had moved much faster when an informant passed it along to Yanis Rebiane.