Kill Zone: A Sniper Novel (28 page)

JACK SHEPHERD OF CNN WAS
having an early pint of beer in a Fleet Street pub with a leggy intern from the London office of the Cable News Network. Chrissie Rogers was blond and busty, a twenty-two-year-old journalism school graduate from Nebraska, and she was enchanted with every word the rugged, veteran foreign correspondent bestowed on her in the privacy of a small booth. He was wondering whether to get her in bed before or after an expense-account dinner. The cell phone clipped to his belt chimed and vibrated. He reluctantly answered: “Shepherd.”

“Ah, my friend Jack Shepherd of CNN. This is your friend from Basra.” The unmistakable voice of the Rebel Sheikh was smooth. Jack slid out of the booth and walked outside for privacy.

“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?” No use wasting time with idle chatter. If the Rebel Sheikh called, it was for a reason.

“I am sorry to interrupt your afternoon, but I have something for you.” There was a pause. “This is on deep background, of course. My name and position cannot be used.”

“No problem, sir, and you’re not interrupting. I’m always on duty. What are we talking about?”

A gentle laugh. “Impatient Americans. Well, the kidnapped General Middleton of the Marine Corps has escaped his captors, with the assistance of a Marine sniper who survived the crash of the helicopters, a man named Kyle Swanson. The Syrian Army and intelligence forces have launched a wide search to find both of them.”

“Can I go with this, sir?”

“Oh, absolutely, Jack, providing you leave me out of your report. I just received a briefing from Syria. The manhunt is going on even as we are speaking, so you should hurry and get this on the air. Come see me again sometime, Jack.” The Rebel Sheikh gave that little laugh again. “And I really do apologize for interrupting your meeting with the lovely Ms. Rogers.”

By using Chrissie’s name, the Rebel Sheikh was telling the correspondent that he was being watched. Jack Shepherd didn’t care. He wasn’t in the television news business to be invisible. He returned to the table, tossed down the rest of his pint, and laid down some money for the drinks. “Come on, Chrissie. Back to the office. Time to do some work.”

A woman in Amman, Jordan, was calling a similar alert to the al Jazeera correspondent in his hotel room office.

It took the networks about an hour to prepare the story in their home offices, Atlanta for CNN and Doha for al Jazeera. Both slammed
Special Report
logos on their screens and broadcast the reports to millions of viewers. The twenty-four-hour cable news shows, already awash with Red Alert terrorism stories, would soon launch squadrons of talking-head commentators to argue with each other about just how soon war would break out between the United States and Syria.

The tent outside of Sa’ahn was an oven, and steamy mirages wiggled in the distance. Al-Shoum was sweaty, tired, and irritable from having been up all night. A folding cot was set up in one corner, and he lay down to catch a nap, with strict orders to be awakened if anything happened. He was not the one out there doing the searching, and his staff was running the map and radios, so there was nothing else he could do but wait. He could do that while sleeping. He checked for Logan and saw all three of the mercenaries lounging in the open bay of the helicopter, listening to music. Logan was smoking a cigarette. They were men bred for battle, dogs of war relaxing without a care while waiting to be unleashed. He looked at his wristwatch. Two o’clock. He would sleep no more than two hours.

General Hank Turner and Colonel Ralph Sims were asleep in the comfortable cabin of the little Gulfstream II-SP as it swept above the snowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains on its long flight from Alaska. Turner was dreaming of the moment when his big Boeing disappeared in a blast of flame. General Pete Brady turned the Gulfstream’s controls over to his copilot and made his way down the aisle.

“Wake up, boys,” he said, standing straight and stretching. “Shit’s hitting the fan.” He plopped down across from them as the two Marines blinked themselves awake and straightened in their seats.

Turner was instantly awake, but gave a shake of the head to clear it.
I should have been on that plane! “
What’s going on, Pete?” Turner wanted to know. “Another attack?”

“Nope. Pentagon just relayed a call to you. Gunny Swanson contacted your
Blue Ridge
boat over a sat link. Apparently Middleton is with him. Swanson gave coordinates not too far from the Jordanian-Syrian border, so the wheels are turning to find some way to get them out of there.”

“What do we have out there that can be deployed in a hurry, Ralph?” Turner stared hard at the MEU colonel. Sims had seen that battle stare from Hank Turner before. The man was getting ready for a fight.

“The Force Recon TRAP team is off the board because of the accident in the desert, but we wouldn’t want to be stealthy this time anyway. I recommend sending in two full platoons, aboard several helicopters, with Cobra attack helicopters on guard and appropriate cover by fast-movers up top. Lay a secure box all around Middleton and the gunny, with nothing going in or out except us.”

“How long would it take?”

Sims recalled the pre-mission briefing and did some silent calculations. “Depending on where the ships are, sir, they should be able to launch within an hour of getting the green light, since they know the coordinates. Less than an hour flying time in, no more than fifteen minutes on the ground, and then get back home.”

Turner took out his fountain pen again and scribbled a note. He turned to Pete Brady. “Is Air Force One back in Washington yet?”

“No, sir. I just checked. They are over Arkansas.”

“Okay. I need to talk to the President directly and divert Air Force One back toward us. Find me a secure air force base where they can put down with tight security and we can meet them as soon as possible.”

“Got it,” said Brady. “What else?”

Turner handed him the note he had written. “Transmit this to the Fleet and the MEU, with a confidential copy to the President, encrypted and for his eyes only. Launch the rescue immediately!”

Brady whistled. “Wow. Hank, you’re taking a big chance here. You need some big-league paperwork to do this.”

“Fuck it. We don’t have the time. I’m sending the team in VOCO, on the Verbal Orders of the Commander. This comes straight from me, damn it. After you send it, have my staff alert the other chiefs.”

Colonel Sims waited for Brady to step into the Gulfstream’s communications suite. “Good on ya, sir.”

“Tired of all this fucking around, Ralph. I’m not going to lose those two brave men. When you wear four stars, sometimes you have to remember that you’re a war-fighter, not a politician. Despite their bluster, the Syrians don’t want a piece of us. So we kick ass first and beg forgiveness later.”

The Vice President was unhappy. All of the important players on the National Security Council were present for the emergency meeting except for three. “The President is flying back from California and should be landing momentarily, and I will brief him when he arrives at the White House,” he told the others. “General Turner is also flying back. That leaves us with an unexplained empty chair. Mr. Shafer, where is Mr. Buchanan?”

Sam Shafer rose and tugged at the hem of his jacket. “I don’t know, sir. He is not in his office.”

The Vice President’s eyes seemed to smolder behind his rimless glasses. “Have you seen him at all today? Is he not aware that we’re dealing with terrorist attacks on American soil, a major international crisis, and a hostile media that is going berserk with war talk?”

“Yes, sir. I spoke briefly with Mr. Buchanan at his desk at five o’clock this morning. As usual, he was going through the briefing papers. When I checked at six, he was gone, and I assumed he was having some breakfast in the mess or at a meeting. I haven’t seen him since.”

The Vice President growled, “Then go find him! I want him in that chair in five minutes. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Sam Shafer gulped, then hurried from the room.

“We will continue without Buchanan,” said the Vice President. “State, you said you have something?”

The Secretary of State pulled her briefing folder close. “The Syrians are panicking. With the media carrying the story around the world, they apparently realize the error of their ways. Our Red Alert, the assassination of the Jordanian ambassador, the attack in Alaska, and the kidnapping of General Middleton probably was not the way they hoped things were going to come down. It’s a major embarrassment, even for a state that sponsors terrorism. With our military ramping up for a hard response, Damascus wants to cut a deal and get out of trouble.”

“What do they have in mind?”

“They will direct their military to help find and protect Middleton and the Marine who rescued him, and allow us to come pick them up without incident. They blame the whole episode on what they call foreign rogue extremists.”

“What do they get in return?”

“No war, and a public statement of appreciation for their assistance.”

The Vice President jotted the terms on his legal pad. “Sounds good to me. Any objections?” No one opposed the idea. “I will pass our recommendation along to the President. State, you tell the Syrians that if our men are harmed in any way, if this is a trap, the price for such treachery will be very steep indeed.”

Murmurs of agreement around the table. “That’s it, then. Get back to work.” As he walked back to his office, he put his hand on the elbow of the chief of his Secret Service protective detail and drew him close. “Jim. I want you boys to find Gerald Buchanan and fetch him to me as soon as possible.”

“Sorry, sir, that’s not our job description.”

“Oh, hell, Jim, I know that,” said the Vice President. “You’re a bright boy. You’ll think of something. Just get his fat butt in here.”

If Buchanan thinks I’m going to stick around and take this rap by myself, he’s crazy.
Sam Shafer went to the front hall, the thick soles of his polished shoes beating a tattoo on the marble, and signed out at the Secret Service desk. Then he walked down the long driveway and out the front gate of the White House, trying not to run, and cut across the open plaza into downtown Washington. Within two blocks, he hailed a taxi. “Reagan National,” he told the driver.

As the cab crossed the Potomac, Shafer dialed his cell phone and Gordon Gates answered on the first ring. “He’s gone,” Shafer said.

“I expected it. Buchanan has the balls of a hamster,” Gates replied. “You get on up to New York like we talked about and someone will meet your plane. Welcome to the Sharks, Sam.”

AN ARMED PERIMETER OF
guards surrounded Air Force One as it stood alone on the tarmac of Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota at five o’clock in the morning. The President of the United States was as safe there as if he had been in a reinforced bunker two hundred feet underground. The base was isolated ten miles from the town of Minot, not far from the Canadian border, and even under normal conditions, security was always tight there. A hundred and fifty Minuteman ICBM missiles were buried in silos around the home base of the 5th Bomb Wing and the 91st Space Wing. Many of Minot’s B-52H bombers carrying Air Launched Cruise Missiles were in the air. They were just drops in the bucket of what the President could throw at Syria if he decided to do so.

He was a quiet, thoughtful man, but during his three years in office, his dark hair had gone gray because of situations just like this. He read the note that General Henry Turner, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, had given him. The words THE WHITE HOUSE were printed in blue across the top. Turner and a marine colonel who looked like he had been up all night sat in big chairs across from the desk in the plane’s spacious office. “I did not order this,” the President said. “This is the first time I have seen this extraordinary piece of paper.”

“Never thought you did order it, Mr. President,” answered Turner. “That’s why I interrupted your itinerary to personally bring it to you. That is, however, Gerald Buchanan’s name scrawled on the bottom.”

The President passed the note to several other key people in the cabin. His chief of staff asked, “Why would he do this, General?”

Turner rubbed his hands together in thought. “Colonel Sims and I have been pondering the same thing. The kidnapping of General Middleton had to have some motive, and the most obvious one was probably to trigger a confrontation between us and Syria, which happened. This note indicates a deeper motive, so the confrontation might just have been cover. He says plain as day that if Middleton cannot be rescued, he should be killed. Why? We had no reason to think that the Force Recon team would not be successful. They ran into bad luck, that’s all, or otherwise Middleton would be out of Syria by now. So why send one of the best snipers in the Marine Corps to make sure the general was dead? My conclusion is that Mr. Buchanan knew the rescue was doomed to failure anyway. Why… and how?”

The President tilted far back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Colonel Sims, do you think our rescue attempt was compromised?”

“Yes, sir. We had a good plan, we had good men, and the odds were overwhelmingly in our favor to be successful. We practice it all the time and use the same package to pick up downed pilots. I agree with General Turner. It looks like Mr. Buchanan had advance information that the mission was going to run into trouble.”

“It’s difficult to swallow. I’ve known Gerry Buchanan for years. He has always been rock-solid in giving me accurate advice. This just makes no sense.”

The chief of staff spoke again: “Gerry is the only person who can answer these questions, Mr. President. Personal friendships aside, I suggest that we have him detained and questioned.”

“The Vice President told me a little while ago that he has given a similar order. Buchanan did not show up for the National Security Council meeting.” The President, who had been a university president before going into the Senate and then into the White House, was known for his logical and scholarly mind, and always seemed a half-step ahead of everybody else. “Let’s put it into context. Buchanan told me to ratchet up the alert status, and now I can no longer believe his counsel, nor his actions. Although we have had attacks on our soil, they have not been traced to any terrorists. I think the red alert was a diversion, part of some larger plan. The first thing we need do is loosen the tension beyond our borders. And we take the Syrian deal to help get Middleton released unharmed.”

Turner looked surprised. He had not heard of any deal.

“That offer came in a little while ago, Hank. I got the call about the time you were landing. Good news on that, at least. State is working out the details. Now your rescue team can go in without guns blazing. I think the Syrian crisis has passed, thank the Lord. Now we are going to find out what, and who, is behind all of this.”

“Awwright!” drawled Turner. Colonel Sims relaxed for the first time since the original mission briefing. It was almost over.

There was only one woman in the cabin, and the President locked his eyes on Senator Ruth Hazel Reed. “Well, Senator, it looks like General Middleton will be back in time for your committee hearing on the military privatization bill next week after all.”

She had flown by corporate jet to her hometown of San Diego to bask in the President’s popularity there and gather campaign donations, then joined him on Air Force One for the return trip to Washington. “Yes, Mr. President,” she said. “I did not want to be without his expertise. This is wonderful news. He will need time to recover from his terrible ordeal, so I will postpone that hearing for a while.” She glanced at General Turner, who smirked.

The President stood up and extended his hand to Ralph Sims. “Colonel, you did a courageous thing to get this out in the open. You are not under arrest or suspicion of any wrongdoing whatsoever. Go over to the visiting officers’ quarters and get some sleep, and a plane will be waiting to take you back to the MEU tomorrow. Good job.”

Then he shook the hand of General Turner. “Hank, see if you can still make that meeting in Beijing. We can handle the rest of this thing from here.” He looked around the room. “Thank you all very much for your help during this crisis. Now if you will excuse us, I would like a private moment with Senator Reed.”

Ten minutes later, Ruth Hazel Reed hurried down the stairs of Air Force One. The master sergeant guarding the bottom of the stairway saw that her cheeks were bright red. As she ducked into a waiting staff car, she was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.