Kill Zone: A Sniper Novel (5 page)

SENATOR THOMAS GRAHAM
Miller, chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, pushed away the remains of a seafood dinner, stood, and gave a crisp salute to the three hundred cheering veterans who had paid $1,000 each to be with him tonight, paratroopers all. He was proud to be one of them, for when he was young, he, too, had worn the distinctive shoulder patch of the 82nd Airborne Division. He could always count on his fellow vets to help fill the election coffers, but they were more than cash cows to him, just as Miller was more than just another politician to them. This was his Band of Brothers. It irritated him that the Screaming Eagles of the 101st always got the good publicity.

Miller had used his military benefits to get his college education, then a law degree, and became an aggressive prosecutor. He rode a record of achievement, impeccable behavior, and honesty to a seat in the House of Representatives for six years before he was fifty years old, then vaulted to the Senate, where he was in the middle of his third term. He still had the build of an airborne trooper, ran every morning, and was a bachelor. His wife and infant daughter had died when the birth went horribly twenty years ago, and he never remarried. The image of such a strong and handsome man also being a brokenhearted husband and father made the ladies wilt. Instead of family, Miller devoted himself to the men and women of the armed forces of the United States, even the damned 101st.

He had begun this long day in Washington, and after lunch he went down to Fort Campbell to view an afternoon jump, some five hundred troopers pouring out of the fat bellies of transport planes from five thousand feet. Miller could almost feel the familiar jerk of the parachute harness as the chutes blossomed like sky flowers and the soldiers drifted to earth. When they landed, formed up, and conducted a maneuver, he felt a tear in his eye, as if he saw himself as one of those strong youngsters who could leap out of a plane, fight, and have energy left over.

After the drop, Miller had scheduled three “political events” across the state, which meant he was grazing for campaign money, and was ending the day at this fine dinner in Louisville. He rolled out his tried-and-true stump speech for a friendly audience, bounding to the podium with gusto, smiling and saluting and waving and pointing to individuals. The senator squinted into the bright lights and made a slightly off-color soldiers’ joke to put everyone at ease. The lapel bar of a Silver Star flashed in the light, and the slight limp in his right leg silently proved that he also had been awarded a Purple Heart. He did not need notes, for he knew this speech cold.

“The armed forces of the United States are the finest the world have ever seen, just as they were when you and I wore the uniform,” he declared, and leaned close to the microphone and give the guttural fighting call of the clan: “
HOOO-AH!”
Although the audience had just resumed their seats after his introduction, they leaped up again in a standing ovation. It worked every time. He could have filled a bucket with checks after just that opening. But Miller had more to say, and launched into firming up their important support for his current battle.

“The biggest threat we face is not an external enemy. None at all. There is no one, and I mean no one, out there today who can match our planes, our ships, our technology, and the spirit of our fighting men and women. We own the sky, and the space above it. We own the top of the seas, and the waters beneath the waves. When our soldiers put their boots on the ground somewhere, well, we own that, too. Yes, we have a huge budget, one worthy of a superpower, but we spend it wisely, from communications satellites to bullets and beans, and we can take pride in what we have bought. Have no doubt, my friends, that we are still number one. Anyone who messes with us is going to lose.

“But we don’t have time to relax and go to Disneyland. Our biggest threat is not from terrorism. We will do our part, and the intelligence and law enforcement agencies of this great land will do their part, and we can keep control of those maniacs. They will occasionally make a splash and create terrible headlines, but they cannot even hope to shake our government or our will. The United States of America and our allies will root out these cockroaches and squelch their evil. That job will take years to complete. It will be done.

“No, my brothers, we face a much more serious threat today, and it comes from inside the Beltway. That’s right, in Washington, D.C. There is a crisis facing our military that could be the equivalent of another tsunami or 9/11 or Hurricane Katrina in the danger it poses. I tell you this both because it is true, and because you, as veterans, can see it better than anyone.

“Private security companies threaten our base of funding. In fiscal 2003 alone, the United States spent twenty billion—BILLION!—on contracts with PSCs, which back then were called PMCs, or private military companies. They changed the name from ‘military’ to ‘security’ companies to polish their image, but no matter what name they are called for public relations purposes, they are still mercenaries, soldiers of fortune, and professional adventurers. That is our money, dollars that should be going to support and protect our troops. The glossy literature and the K Street lobbyists have found friendly ears, and have changed the debate. Mercenaries have been around for centuries, fighting for whoever paid them the highest dollar, and their reputation was that of guns for hire. Now private enterprise has put the old merc into a clean shirt and tie, scrubbed his face and reputation, and, behold, we have the private security company.

“They started small, just supplying minor logistical support, and we let them take over the preparation and serving of meals in mess halls. They said they could do it cheaper and free up soldiers for more duties. Step by step, as our money flowed their way, they expanded into everything from transportation to ferrying aircraft to providing personal security to VIPs in hot zones. You see that merc in the news pictures all the time—the beefy and bald guy with the Fu Manchu mustache, wearing dark sunglasses, jeans, and an armored vest, and carrying an assault rifle as he escorts some civilian to a meeting. Again, the arguments were cost-effectiveness and not having to assign troops to those duties.

“Now, my friends, the PSCs are taking the next step. The same companies are now running private combat teams, some in the pay of small countries with lots of money but little military expertise. Other units are being inserted into our own areas of operations. The PSCs are back to their basic tricks of being the gunslingers who fight for hire and give short-term loyalty to whoever pays them.”

Miller paused for dramatic effect and let his eyes sweep his audience as he took a sip of water. The room was silent, and the audience knew what was coming. He made the same speech almost every day, and it was often shown on television.

“As you have read in the newspapers and seen on the talk shows, I have been making a big deal with the Senate Armed Services Committee, for we are being pummeled to further loosen the rules on the use of mercenary fighters. I have been shown proposals that would make any professional soldier tremble in anger. The Pentagon would turn over entire sectors of our fighting force to the private sector, and give them the most modern equipment to meet today’s battlefield challenges. Some argue that these men are also professional soldiers, trained former members of the SEALs and Marines and Rangers and other elite units such as our own 82nd Airborne, and that they are volunteering for hazardous duty. The wage and benefit packages are attractive to a soldier on active duty.

“By hiring these people, the United States would not have to put as many of our soldiers in harm’s way. In other words, they are making a play to take over the armed services. If we surrender in this fight, they will grow stronger while our uniformed services would grow weaker, because all of that money comes out of the same budget. And when the crunch comes, my friends, we won’t have soldiers like you out there defending America. Instead, there will be a line of mercs who look tough on film but answer to the call of their paymaster, not to any flag, not even the Stars and Stripes. Some PSCs already hire foreign soldiers whose own armies no longer exist. To whom are they loyal? Would a merc from South Africa or Ukraine or Libya really lay down his life for the USA? Are you willing to bet the lives of your family on them?”

Now he gripped the podium so tightly that his knuckles whitened. The friendly, famous smile was replaced by a grim face that had seen battle. Everyone in the audience detected the change and responded with hushed attention.

“In two weeks, my committee will vote on the first important set of these privatization proposals, and rich lobbyists are swarming around us like sharks. Billions and billions of taxpayer dollars are at stake, but so is the safety of our country. I want you to pull every string you can, call your congressmen, wave the flag, write letters to the editors, call up talk shows, chat with your neighbors. I am traveling the country to alert Americans to this new and unique danger, and I need your help. I am counting on it. We must not allow that bill to pass.”

He leaned forward again. “Stand up and hook up, troopers. Stand in the door. Your country needs you to make one more jump.”

Tom Miller was exhausted. His press secretary had been dismissed after handing him the typed itinerary for tomorrow’s activities during the elevator ride up to the top floor. He closed the door, clicked the television set to CNN, and neatly hung his coat and tie in the closet. He undid his collar and washed his face in the bathroom, letting the cold water rinse away the fatigue. Long days like this made him feel his age.

He groaned when there was a knock on the door. This was supposed to be
alone
time. “Who is it?”

“Irish Campbell, Senator. I’m the night concierge, and the hotel manager asked me to be sure you had everything you need for tonight and tomorrow morning.” The voice was pleasant.

The senator peered through the viewing glass in the door. A pretty young woman was smiling, knowing she was being inspected. Her dark hair was in a ponytail, and she wore wire-rimmed glasses and a blue blazer buttoned at the waist. She held a clipboard against her chest. “I’m fine, Ms. Campbell. Just a moment.” He opened the door.

Trish Campbell shoved him backward, hard, and a huge man hiding beside the wall spun into the room and immobilized Miller, slapping a big hand across his mouth. Miller tasted rubber and realized the man was wearing latex gloves.

Trish closed the door. “Sorry for the intrusion, Senator. This is Big Lenny,” she said. “We will be brief.” She also pulled on a pair of gloves and removed from her pocket a plastic bag containing a syringe with a long tube on it instead of a needle. Trish clicked the stopwatch function knob on her big wristwatch, then fed the tube into Miller’s mouth between Lenny’s fingers and pushed the plunger.

Miller tried to struggle as liquid flowed over his tongue and down his throat. Big Lenny held him like a steel clamp.

Trish Campbell returned the syringe to its sealed bag, which went back into her pocket. She watched him closely with intelligent eyes. “If you’re wondering what is killing you, it’s a particularly bitchy little strain of shellfish toxia along the lines of a solvent-based tropodotoxin and ricin. I don’t know the details because I’m not a scientist. Big Lenny and I are just the messengers. In addition to poisoning you, I am to bid you a fond farewell from Mr. Gordon Gates.”

Senator Miller struggled as fire spread through his veins, the heart pumping hard.
Gates!

“The short version, as I understand it, is that chemical agents are busy shutting down your central nervous system right about now and that is going to cause your heart to fail.” She looked at her watch. “You will be dead in a couple of seconds. By the time your body is found tomorrow morning, the toxins will have evaporated and you will be ruled to have croaked from a simple old heart attack.” She leaned close and peered hard at his eyes, which were rolling back. “Let him go, Lenny.”

Senator Miller fell to the floor and went into convulsions. A vicious spasm arched his back at an impossible angle, he gargled, and his hands flailed at his chest. A final breath was exhaled. Trish Campbell felt for a pulse. There was none. She clicked the stopwatch. Thirty-two seconds, start to finish.

She took a hotel vacuum cleaner from the closet and ran it over the area of carpet that she and Lenny had occupied, returned it to the closet, then opened the door and checked the hallway. It was empty. Lenny went out first and Trish pulled the door closed. When it locked, she hung a plastic white-and-blue DO NOT DISTURB sign on the handle and the Shark Team left the hotel.

SIR JEFF WAS IN A GOOD MOOD.
To mark the success of the Excalibur demonstration, which had won over the investors, he decided a celebration ashore was in order on the bright afternoon. His captain found a quiet, rocky cove on the northeastern coast of the Greek island of Corfu and dropped anchor into perfectly green water. The ladies and the venture capital guys went ashore in the runabout first, and Jeff promised that he, Kyle, and Tim would be right along when the inflatable motorboat made a return trip. The sneaky Brit had a surprise for the money men, who planned to leave soon and make their way up through Italy to Florence before returning home.

When the little boat sped away, Jeff ducked into his cabin and returned with three bell-shaped bottles of thick glass containing a dark amber liquid. “Gifts for our departing friends,” he said. “Two-hundred-year-old Hennessy Richard Cognac. I picked it up from a wine merchant in Paris just for this occasion.” He handed one of the heavy bottles each to both Tim and Kyle, with a stern warning to handle them gently. Each cost $2,000. He liked to keep his business associates happy.

The sheer green beauty of the island was stunning as they approached in the little runabout that bounced fast over the water. Olive trees were everywhere, millions of them, from the heights of Mount Pantocrator down to the white sandy beaches. Kyle was looking forward to a fresh salad with cheese from the local goats as Gladden swung to a smooth stop at a narrow pier. They tied up, grabbed the cognac, and headed ashore to where their group was seated on an odd collection of stools and wooden chairs around little tables at
a psaro taverna
, a fish restaurant. Like most eating establishments in Greece, this one was called the Café Olympia. Irregular weathered stones spread along the front, and tan walls were shaded by the spreading olive branches.

There was a problem with the idyllic scene. Four rough-looking men also were at the tavern, obviously drunk and taunting the guys and making lewd passes at the women. The money men were sitting there, embarrassed, while the girls were trying, without success, to ignore the drunks.

“Oh, my,” said Jeff, who wore cream-colored linen trousers, a soft blue shirt, and leather sandals. Tim Gladden had on a lightweight white short-sleeved shirt, creased white pants, and Converse sneakers. Swanson was barefoot, in wrinkled khaki cargo shorts and a brilliant blue Hawaiian shirt with orange palm trees. They looked as threatening as three lost missionaries.

“I say, chaps,” Jeff pleasantly addressed the men as he carefully placed his precious cognac bottle on a table. “Would you please be off now? We are just here for a quick and a pleasant lunch and then will be on our way.”

The four Greeks stopped pestering the visitors and stared at the newcomers, knowing that playtime was over. Kyle shifted his weight a bit as the drunks rose from their table, pushed aside the chairs, and formed a line, one-two-three-four. In any street fight, the tough guys lead, and the biggest of the bunch was slightly forward in the two position, shoulder-to-shoulder with number three, a husky man with a face scarred like an Ultimate Fighter. The remaining two flanked them. Kyle glanced at Shari and winked. Lady Pat sat back, took another sip of ouzo, and lit a thin cigar.

The largest guy, around six-two, spoke. “You will fuck off now, you rich bastards, and take these three other queers with you. The women can go back to your big boat when we are done.”

“Ah, I see,” said Jeff. “Well then, lads, I guess we are for it. I’ll take this big fellow, if you don’t mind.”

“No,” Tim disagreed. To free his hands, he also put his bottle on a table and moved to a fighting stance. “I want Mr. Big. You can have that ugly one. Scarface.”

Kyle smashed his heavy bottle over Big’s head, catching him on the left side of the forehead, and raked the jagged edge down across the eye, cheek, and mouth for a maximum cutting effect. Deep inside Swanson, the switch had clicked into combat mode and he was running on automatic. Speed and surprise. Don’t let them regroup. Eliminate the threats in descending order of importance.

The first guy collapsed to his knees with a scream, the strong alcohol biting into the deep and bleeding cuts. Kyle already had spun away to his left and slammed his left elbow into the nose of Scarface, knocking him backward across a table. Blood spurted from the fractured nose, and the man’s head cracked against the paving stones.

“He is going to be even uglier when he wakes up,” Shari said to Pat.

Kyle’s momentum was still at work and he finished the spin facing number four. He locked Four in a bear hug, slid his clasped hands up behind the man’s head, and pulled the body weight toward him. When the man leaned back, thinking Swanson was going after his face, Kyle drove his right knee deep and hard into the crotch, sending the ruptured balls somewhere up between the eyes. The man gasped for breath and crashed over a chair.

“An emergency surgical suite for that one,” Pat commented. “Kyle is very messy today.”

Number one, who had been at the far end, came on fast as Kyle came to rest in a squared position, perfectly balanced. The man’s right leg locked as he ran forward, and Swanson leaned back, lifted his own left foot, and came straight down with a kick on the knee. The leg snapped sharply, with a sound like breaking wood.

“
Kyle! My God, man!”
Sir Jeff screamed in anguish. “
You broke a bloody two-thousand-dollar bottle of cognac!”
He gathered the two remaining bottles, looking at Swanson with horror in his eyes.

“Sorry,” Kyle said. The whole thing had taken about ten seconds.

Tim walked to the stunned guests. Lady Pat and Shari were already standing and stepping over the bleeding debris on the stone slabs. “I think we had all best be leaving now,” said Gladden. “We will finish lunch aboard the
Vagabond
, all right?” He escorted them to the waiting small boat.

The owner of the taverna was standing in his doorway like a statue, with fresh bowls of salad in each hand. Kyle took one, gave him more than enough money to cover the damage, and walked away. The big guy, number one, stirred and looked up with his bloodied face as if he was determined to rise. Since the man was no longer a threat, Kyle felt there was no need for a lethal blow and settled for kicking him in the sternum to take away his air. The large man passed out, gasping for breath. Kyle thought the goat cheese was delicious. He wished he had not had to eat it with his fingers.

One of the Desperate Housewives looked back over her shoulder as she walked down the pier, her blue eyes wide in shock. She could not believe what she had just seen. “How did he do that? He was like a crazy man,” she asked Shari.

“It’s the way he is trained,” Shari replied. “He doesn’t think, just reacts on instinct. Believe me, those guys got off easy.”

“Do you mean he might have killed someone? There were four of them. Wasn’t he afraid?”

“This is what he does,” she said, stepping into the runabout. As she took a seat, she gave a tight smile to the woman, who lived in pretty places far from the dirt of the real world. “Kyle is not afraid of anyone… but me.”

Late that night, the
Vagabond
cruised through the narrow Strait of Messina. Since the dawn of written history, those waters had gobbled up ships, with the deadly whirlpool Charybdis at the edge of Sicily forcing captains to sail close to the very toe of the Italian boot, where the mythological monster Scylla prowled the rocks. Now the electronic eyes of radar and satellite navigation systems defeated the dangers of superstition.

Shari leaned against Kyle’s chest as they stood at the port rail, and he buried his nose in her silky hair. It carried the gentle scent of an English flower garden. He wrapped his arms around her and she covered his hands with hers as they watched the boiling bowl of the distant volcano, Stromboli, erupt in flashes of bright orange, with red flame illuminating the underside of passing clouds.

“I love this,” she said. “My favorite guy, a luxury yacht, a beautiful night, and an exploding volcano. What could be better?”

He squeezed gently and she turned her head enough to give him a kiss. They were alone on the deck at two o’clock in the morning and the churning fire on the distant island made it seem that they might be the only people left at the end of the world. “Being able to stay out here with you a while longer would be better.”

“Did Jeff offer you a job again?”

“Yup. Says we ought to get married and make a lot of money and beget him and Pat some godchildren they can spoil rotten.”

“Sounds like a plan. You turn him down again?”

“I told him it was all your fault, because you make that white uniform with all the gold stripes look so good and you like people to salute you.”

She sighed. “I make anything look good. Really, does he understand that we’re just not quite there yet?”

“He understands. Both he and Tim put the full-court press on me tonight and threw in the promise of a share of Excalibur sales.”

Shari turned in his arms, and the glow of the volcano reflecting off the water seemed like a halo around her. “Maybe we should reconsider, Kyle. I’ve had the strangest feeling that something bad is going to happen. And that I won’t see you again.”

Sixth sense, witchery, hunches, woman’s intuition, or whatever, she had it in spades. Her ability to not only connect the dots, but the spaces between the dots, was what made her such a great intelligence analyst. Shari’s brain dwelled in a place where one and one did not necessary always equal two, and Kyle always paid attention when she got one of her feelings. This time, he downplayed it. “Fat chance. I’m like a boomerang. I always come back to you.”

“Yes. But after that last mission, the cross-border incident, you caught a lot of flack and they tried to make you the scapegoat. A lot of people would just like for you to go away, Kyle. Who know what they may hand you next time? Maybe something where you’re not supposed to come back.”

“Never gonna happen, Shari. I know how to play their game too well.”

She kissed him, pulled away, and looked around. The deck was empty. “Then maybe I should give you even more reason to come home.” She slipped the straps of her black dress from her shoulders. “So look at me, I’m Sandra Dee!”

“Who the hell is Sandra Dee?”

“You know.
Gidget?”

“What’s a
Gidget?”

“Shut up before you ruin the moment,” she said, and slid the loose folds of her dress down to her waist. Her breasts gleamed gold in the volcano firelight. Kyle brought her close and lowered his lips to her nipples. Shari moaned softly, and he ran his hands over her soft skin. Then her hand moved along his leg.

“Unless you want to be screwed right here on this expensive teakwood deck, young lady, I suggest we retire in great haste to our suite,” he whispered. Kyle saw a familiar impish look come into those dark eyes.

“In a minute, Marine. In a minute.” Shari pushed him against the chill steel of the bulkhead and dropped to her knees, reaching for his zipper while Stromboli painted the night. In a few moments, Kyle thought that the volcano was not the only thing erupting that night. When he finished panting, they rushed off to wrestle between white silk sheets.

There was a loud pounding on the door, and Kyle heard Tim Gladden calling loudly from the passageway. “Kyle! Shari! Geoffrey wants you in the main cabin right away to see this incredible news report on television! A Marine general has been kidnapped!”