Kill Zone: A Sniper Novel (18 page)

DARKNESS CAME SLOWLY, A
gauzy haze of dust-laden, fading light streaks. Even when the final fiery edge of the sun disappeared, the temperatures stayed stuck in the nineties. Within a few hours, Swanson would be freezing his butt off. It would not really be cold by the thermometer, but a thirty-degree drop after sweltering in 110-plus heat would bring a good dose of the chills. When the sun took away its warmth, the sweat that had oozed from him all day and drenched his clothes would feel like ice when the nightly winds blew. The mission was to have been a quick in-and-out, so he had only the clothes on his back. Fuck it. Nothing he could do, and that missing sun was his clock.

It had to shift away and benignly bathe places like the south of France and Miami Beach and Waikiki and Bondi Beach before returning to Syria, but it would not really be gone very long. The sniper had to be out of the hide, do his job, and be long gone before that orange beast once again started to eat this chunk of sky.

He had finished the logbook, done the surveillance, eaten some more crackers and water, and pissed into a hole in the dirt beneath him. A Syrian army contingent had shown up at the helo crash site, done some cursory investigation, loaded up the bodies, and taken them away. Swanson felt pangs of guilt while he watched. What were they going to do with the bodies? Give them back? Deep in his gut, he had a sense of failure and was angry with himself. The saying that Marines don’t leave their own casualties behind was not just a catch-phrase. Dead or alive, everybody comes home.

Then reason took over. He did not have the resources to change this situation, and if he survived, he could report what had happened. And importantly, there was still one Marine who was alive and needed his attention, so all Swanson could do was bid a silent goodbye to the dead rescue team of Marines and hope the pinheads in Washington fought to bring them back.

The wrecked helicopters, stripped of all value, were left where they fell, just more bones in the desert, a macabre tourist attraction for snooping American satellites to photograph from space. Two new soldiers were dropped off to replace the guard post sentries Swanson had killed, and the army convoy left.

Swanson waited without anxiety as life began to slow down with the approach of action. His focus would narrow and he would see things differently, at a slower speed, more of a black-and-white film in a neighborhood theater than as a jerky, quick-cut television story. The metamorphosis would continue, like he was changing into someone new, and the sounds would amplify, the smells would become more intense, his eyesight would sharpen, and his reactions would quicken. Each breath would be slow. He had been an observer all day. Now he was becoming a sniper.

The village activity settled into an easier pace for the evening prayers and meal. Stores closed and the streets emptied. One by one the lights blinked out in the little windows because after a hard day of toil, working people wanted their rest. Some would make love, some would smoke a cigarette, some would dream of better times, and some were going to die by Kyle Swanson’s hand. That was a fact.

He used the final hour to finish settling into his zone, almost physically filing things away in mental drawers and cabinets and closing them tight. Shari was in a special compartment, with a tight lock on it. Whoever started all this mess back in Washington was in another. His family, friends, even the Marine Corps were banished from his thoughts, and as time slowed down, Swanson felt that familiar presence of another Kyle Swanson, someone outside himself who would help him through the night, guiding and watching and planning and whispering in his head. Kyle knew a psychiatrist would love to get hold of him someday, at first for a long talk, and then maybe to saw open his skull, shake out his brain, and try to find what made it work. Swanson was curious about that, too, but did not question that other voice in his head. It was part of his natural progression into his lone gunman battle mode, and he trusted it. The voice had been a big help in other tight places, when he was kicking in doors and crawling through swamps. A bit of paranoia was a good thing when you were really in danger. It was not fright, just instinct, a sixth sense sharpened over the years, a total awareness of his environment that almost let him know what was around a corner.

Turning to Excalibur, he checked the ammo load. He pulled the bolt back enough to slide a fingertip into the raceway and tap the brass bottom of the big .50-caliber round seated in the chamber, then pushed the bolt home again. Four more rounds rested in the magazine below.

Another hour passed and he hardly moved at all, just waiting. Black dark now. Dark as sin. It was time to roll.

The first thing he planned to do was tweak the single guard on the Zeus, apparently the only person still awake in the entire village. Swanson checked the logbook for the range, 547 yards, then brought Excalibur’s cool epoxy stock to his cheek, stared down the scope, and saw the figure standing motionless, probably leaning against a tire, with an AK-47 drooped across a shoulder. He was obviously having a hard time staying awake at one o’clock in the morning. The advanced night-vision ability of Excalibur showed every possible detail, not just a green shape, and Swanson fine-tuned the focus ring. He clicked the button to lock onto the target, and again to confirm the range. The GPS, the gyrostabilizer, and the laser communicated, and numbers flashed in the scope as the built-in computer continued to enhance and clear the picture and figure out the range, windage, and barometric pressure. When all was ready, the azure stripe flashed on the edge of the scope. It could just as well have been a neon sign spelling out, “This dude is history.” This was just target shooting and almost unfair. Almost.

The guard’s figure almost filled the scope and Kyle could see the young, bored, sleepy face. Adjusting to the final numbers, he dropped the sight to an inch above the center of the chest. Roy Rogers and John Wayne might shoot guns out of a bad guy’s hand, but professionals went for center mass, the sure hit. Swanson slowed his breathing even more, and the heartbeat followed suit, and the crosshairs of Excalibur did not wiggle.

It was unfortunate that this young man had been so low on the totem pole that he drew the midwatch guard duty. He had been on post for only ten minutes, since one o’clock, and Kyle had watched as the boy relieved the earlier guard. They stood four-hour shifts. Nobody would miss this fellow until at least 0500. Swanson exhaled a half-breath and started the easy trigger pull as his muscle memory kicked in—time to work—slow and smooth and straight and steady and squeeze. The rifle seemed to fire on its own, and although Kyle felt the recoil buck against his shoulder, there was no sound other than a quiet cough as the silencer killed the noise. In the scope, Swanson watched the big bullet slam into the guy’s chest and explode inside him, ripping his muscles and guts to pieces. The location, speed, and power of the shot did not give the guard time to cry out or even look surprised. He crumbled to the dirt beside the big antiaircraft gun, dead before he hit the ground. The front of his shirt was soaked in blood. Swanson used his thumb and two fingers to jack a fresh round into the chamber and swept the scope around the village. He heard a goat bawl and a dog bark twice, but nothing indicated anyone had heard his shot.

He moved from the hide on his elbows and knees, the other voice talking now, whispering,
Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.
He squelched the natural urge to get up and run to the downed soldier, and instead began crawling, fast but quietly, with the easy grace of a night predator.

SEARCH. EVALUATE. LISTEN.
The game had begun. Swanson had to cover about the length of one and a half football fields, and while speed was important, doing it right was more important. He was out in the open for God and everybody to see, slithering forward, his heartbeat slow and his eyes constantly moving.

Just because the village was quiet did not mean that no one would be up and around. It could all change in an instant, but for now the only sounds were the scuffling of animals within the walls around the houses. Rocks slid beneath him as he crawled, and the weight of his pack pressed him down. The M-16 was cradled in his arms, and Excalibur was in its drag bag, sliding along behind him, attached to a D-ring on his web gear.

It took twelve minutes to cross the open space and reach the body, where he stopped to take a careful look around, checking likely places where danger might hide, points from which a threat might emerge. He had to be lucky every time he moved. The enemy only had to be lucky once to detect him. He was burning minutes, but not wasting them.

The glazed eyes of the guard pointed up at the night sky, but Swanson checked the pulse anyway and found none. It was a boy, no more than sixteen, probably a product of the radical religious schools who had joined the war for his true faith and paid with his short life, the end coming so fast that he had not even felt the shock.
Tough shit, kid.
Kyle jerked the corpse into a sitting position, stood, and pulled the guard upright against the side of the Zeus.

Propping him up with one hand, he peeled off the long strips of duct tape pressed along his uniform and secured the body to the hooks, rails, and protrusions on the big weapon. A belt of tape went around the waist and was tied to a heavy ammunition box. With the tape taking the weight, he crossed the ankles and taped them in place, crossed the dangling arms, and tied them at wrists. Swanson draped the AK-47 over the boy’s shoulders. The head lolled forward, which was fine, and he made a few adjustments to the clothes so as to obscure the bloodstains. Swanson took two steps back. To any distant passerby, the kid would appear to be dozing on the job, standing but sleeping.

The sniper checked the area again. Still cool. He knelt on the ground, reached into his pack, and pulled out a claymore mine, then carefully broke it open to get at the small ball bearings packed inside. He gathered a handful and rolled them, one by one, down a barrel of the Zeus, repeating the procedure until all four barrels were packed with dozens of tiny steel balls. Then he inserted the little rolls of C-4 explosive he had molded earlier. Each roll had a detonator. He opened the butt of his M-16 and took out the four-piece cleaning rod, which he twisted together into a single long, thin shaft that he thrust into each barrel to compact the mixture.

Time. Time. Tick-tock. Keep going.
The voice was insistent. Swanson’s senses were honed to the rhythms of the sleeping village. This was their everyday life. Nothing was supposed to happen here, particularly at night. It was like a base camp for the jihad fighters, and routine gave them an illusion of safety. Many people had washed their clothes to get rid of the day’s dirt, and now the various shapes of cloth hung on lines behind the houses to dry overnight, shifting slowly in the low breeze and providing Swanson with an extra shield from sight.

He moved into the village, to the little store he had watched throughout the day. A low wall surrounded most of the two-story building, with a rollaway gate locked across the front. When open for business, the gate was pushed back to allow customers to wander in and out. The owners lived upstairs.

Kyle went over the rear wall and dropped into a crouch, pausing long enough to drop his pack and rifles inside the yard. From a lightweight vinyl holster near his left shoulder, he pulled a silenced match-grade .45-caliber pistol with an infrared laser scope, a competition-class weapon that carried an expanded magazine of fifteen rounds.

The front door of the store was locked, but a side window stood open to catch the night coolness. Swanson looked inside with his night vision goggles to avoid kicking anything, and then went over the windowsill. The pungent smell of spices was overwhelming. He did a 360-degree check of the room, holding his pistol in a firing position. Shelves, crates, a table with two chairs, a cooler in the corner, where an electric motor hummed. A stove was along the back wall beside a big cutting board on some cabinets. A carcass hung from a hook, waiting to be butchered. Cans were stacked in neat rows.

A plate of small cakes sat in a bowl on the main counter and Swanson wolfed some down, and it was the best food in the world, although he had no idea what it was. Taking a chance, he moved to the cooler and lifted the lid only a millimeter at a time to avoid making it creak, and a wave of chilly air rose into his face. Bottles of juice, water, and soft drinks were lined up like little soldiers and he pulled one out. The cold water went down better than the cakes, and he drank until he was ready to puke. After hydrating himself, he topped off his canteens. Water came first. He could not live without it. Then he grabbed an orange juice drink and gulped it down for the electrolytes, vitamins, and nutrients.
It ain’t Florida OJ, but it’s better than nothing.

With his thirst slaked, he checked the available food, still able to read labels in the crisp green light of the night vision glasses. The shopping list was short but definite, and he fought the urge to belly-up on food. He had a roll of Ziploc bags in a pocket and loaded them with things that were small, easy to carry, and required no preparation. Dried figs and dates were in trays, in measured little plastic bags with twist ties, and he stuffed some into his Ziplocs, the sides of which had been strengthened with duct tape. He hated dates, but fruit was fuel. Flat cakes of day-old pita bread were taken for their starch, along with the peculiarly Middle East favorite, the ever-present Mars bars, with chocolate to provide sugar and energy. Finally, he grabbed a few boxes of unscented baby wipe tissues, one of the best things going for desert hygiene. One more look around and he decided that was enough.
I’m not packing for a vacation, for cryin’ out loud.

The luminous dial of his watch showed that eleven more minutes had elapsed, so he packed his goodies and went back out through the window. He gathered the rest of his gear and scaled the wall.
Slow
, warned the voice.
But go!

Swanson reassembled everything, took some deep breaths, and turned the NVGs to his next target, the house where the fighters nested. Nothing stirred, not even a fucking mouse.

He crossed the street and stalked completely around the wall of the house, peering over the wall and into the shadows. Nothing. He hoisted himself onto the barrier and spider-dropped down the other side into the space between the wall and the right side of the house. A window was open, and he could hear the grunts of sleeping men. At least two were snoring. He had counted at least eight men going into the house, and guessed there were probably a few more, each having a gun within reach, and he planned to kill them all.

His first move was to check the inner perimeter, and he again stashed the pack and took out the pistol. Holding it in his right hand, Swanson flattened against the wall of the house and slid in a sidestep to the first corner on his right. He did a quick peek around and saw the dark backyard, crisscrossed by clotheslines laden with tunics and robes. With careful strides, he turned that corner and stepped along the rear wall to the next one, where he again stopped and slowly leaned his face around the edge.

A guard with an AK-47 on a shoulder strap, who had been obscured by the drying clothes when Kyle had studied the place, was staring straight back at him, face-to-face, within a foot of each other. The guard’s eyes went wide with surprise at the goggle-eyed creature that had appeared before him out of the night. He had one hand on the stock of his AK-47 and started to raise it at the same time Kyle brought up his pistol and pulled the trigger. The gunfire sounded like the explosion of an ammunition dump to Swanson, and he felt and smelled the heavy warmth of blood wash on his head and chest, and pieces of flesh and bone plaster his arms and face.
I’m hit! It’s over! I failed!
Kyle Swanson staggered backward and fell to the ground.