Target America: A Sniper Elite Novel (11 page)

21

CHICAGO

The steel door around the corner opened and then clanged shut. A few moments later, Crosswhite looked up from his bunk to see a “full bull” Green Beret colonel standing in front of their cell with a chest full of ribbons—including the sky blue ribbon of the Medal of Honor.

“Christ,” Crosswhite muttered. “I see it and still don’t believe it.”

“Holy shit,” whispered Tuckerman.

Gil Shannon stood in the corridor, staring at them through the bars, his blue eyes hard and cold as he took in their combat boots and the black fatigues.

He crossed his arms and looked at Tuckerman. “What the fuck are you two made up for? And you’d better not lie to me.”

Crosswhite said, “It’s my fault, Gil. We were—”

“I didn’t ask you a goddamn thing!” Gil said, not taking his eyes from Tuckerman. “I asked you a question, sailor.”

Tuckerman sat up fast. “We were prospecting, Master Chief.”

“Colonel!” Gil snapped.

“Yes, sir, Colonel,” Tuckerman said, withering slightly beneath Gil’s
gaze. “We were prospecting, Colonel . . . knocking over drug dealers and taking their cash.”

“How many civilians are dead?”

Tuckerman looked at the floor. “Counting tonight, sir . . . ten. Tonight was a goat fuck.”

Gil stood glaring at the younger former Navy SEAL, his jaw muscles flexing beneath his chiseled features. He looked as though he wanted to say something vile but was thinking better of it.

Crosswhite cleared his throat. “Permission to speak, uh, Colonel?”

“Denied,” Gil said, cutting him a menacing glance and refocusing on Tuckerman. “Why are you not at the VA getting treatment for your PTSD?”

Tuckerman seemed to shrink even more, shaking his head. “I got—”

“Look at me when you’re talkin’ to me!”

He looked up. “I got . . . I just . . . I dunno. I just couldn’t take it around that place, Gil. All those fucked-up vets and their bullshit problems.” He shook his head again and looked back at the floor. “Hell, half of ’em never even saw any real combat.”

“So you’re sayin’ you were the only
real
motherfucker in the place, is that right?”

Tuckerman lifted his head. “No, that’s not what—”

“What you’re saying,” Gil went on, “is that
this
is what real men do after they come home from combat. You’re saying
real
motherfuckers go out and murder civilians—
American
civilians.”

Tuckerman lowered his head in shame. “Gil, I . . . I got lost.”

“You bet your fuckin’ ass you got lost, boy! And you!” Gil said, turning on Crosswhite. “Winner of the Medal of Honor leading a goddamn vigilante hit squad—despicable!”

Crosswhite held his gaze. “We saved a child, Gil.”

“Yeah, and then you executed her captors without a trial!” Gil retorted. “I know all about it. Detroit PD is shaking every fucking tree in that city looking for you two clowns. Now that I see you, I got half a mind to call and tell them right where to look.”

Crosswhite got to his feet and grabbed the bars. “Then do it!” he hissed. “But don’t you forget that I jumped into the Valley of the Shadow to save your ass when nobody else could. So either let us outta
this fucking cell or call the Detroit heat. Either way, I’ve listened to all your shit I’m gonna! You wanna hear we did wrong? Fine. We did wrong! We fucked up! We both deserve the goddamn chair! What else you do want? You wanna hear it’s my fault? Okay. It’s my goddamn fault! Anything else—
Colone
l
?”

Gil stared back at him. “I think that about covers it, Captain.”

“Good!” Crosswhite dropped down on the bunk, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands as he stared at the floor. “Fuckin’ Green Beret. Fuckin’ colonel, no less! Shit, Shannon, you don’t make a pimple on a Green Beret’s ass.”

Gil looked at Tuckerman, who dared to crack a smile. “I gotta admit, though, Master Chief . . . the uniform, the rank—it’s you.”

Gil let some of the hardness out of his face. “You two both better understand something,” he said quietly. “If it wasn’t for that little girl you rescued, Pope would have left you both right here to rot.”

Tuckerman looked over at Crosswhite. “Told you.”

Crosswhite sighed, his anger spent, leaving only tired resignation in its place. “So what now, Gil?”

“We got a goddamn suitcase nuke to find.” Both men perked up. “Pope needs operators he can easily disavow in case the White House needs plausible deniability. Either of you two clowns know anybody I might suggest to him?”

Tuckerman got to his feet. “I’m on board, Chief.”

Crosswhite was only a half instant behind him. “So am I.”

Gil’s face became hard again. “I’m in command. Understood?”

“Roger that,” Crosswhite said. “As a Green Beret or—or what?”

“Are you kidding? This army rag is already givin’ me a fuckin’ rash. Pope thought it the best way to keep this dogface major out front from making waves.” He looked at Tuckerman. “ST6/B has been reactivated, but no active-duty personnel can be part of it.”

“What’s the
B
stand for?” Crosswhite asked, slightly mystified.

“
Black
,” Tuckerman said. “Domestic ops.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah, right up your fucking alley,” Gil said grimly. “So congratulations, pogey bait. You’re the first man in the history of the United States Navy to be made a SEAL without having to pass BUD/S.”
Pogey bait
was typically a Marine Corps term dating back to the days of the China Marines, US Marines stationed in Shanghai prior to WWII. It could be used to describe a number of things, one of them being a nongrunt who was afraid of getting his uniform dirty. BUD/S (Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL) was a six-month course at the Naval Special Warfare Training Center in Coronado, California.

“I got your fuckin’ pogey bait right here,” Crosswhite said, grabbing his groin.

“Listen,” Gil said. “When we get out front, I don’t want any horseshit. Maintain a strict military bearing until we get on the helo. Got it?”

Crosswhite frowned. “I can’t tell that fuckin’ major to kiss my ass?”

“You can if you don’t mind spending the rest of your life in one of these fucking cages.”

“Well, if you put it like that,” Crosswhite said glumly, “I don’t guess it’ll be necessary.”

“I didn’t think so.” Gil took a big brass Folger Adam cell key from his pocket and unlocked the door. “Remember, I do all the talking.”

“Got it,” the other two said in unison, and they followed him down the corridor.

22

CHICAGO

It was all Crosswhite could do to keep his eyes to himself as they entered the precinct booking area where Major Byard and seven other 82
nd
Airborne paratroopers stood waiting for the mysterious trio to emerge from the cellblock. The 82
nd
had been Crosswhite’s unit before he was transferred to Delta Force, a Special Mission Unit of the US Army under the auspices of the CIA, an SMU not dissimilar from SEAL Team VI. He had heard rumors of a domestic ST6 unit during recent years: rumors, for example, that they’d gone into New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina to neutralize civilian gun squads that were terrorizing the police after all law and order had broken down in that city. He hadn’t given these rumors much credence, of course, because there were always rumors circulating among the Special Ops community. Oddly enough, however, rumor often preceded the truth, and it seemed that tonight was no exception to that inexplicable military paradigm.

“Excuse me, Colonel,” Major Byard said, stepping importantly from behind a desk to intercept him with a sheet of paper. He was a ginger with coarse red hair and a face full of freckles. “Sir, I’ve just received
orders that seem to conflict with yours. The Pentagon has ordered me to turn these men over to our MPs.”

Pope had warned Gil this could happen if he didn’t get in and out fast enough.

“Let me see,” he said, putting his hand out for the paper. He pretended to read the order as he pondered how best to resolve the dilemma. He glimpsed a sergeant E-5 that he had noticed on the way in: a soldier with a nonmilitary-issue patch Velcroed to his body armor. The patch read, “Want my respect? Earn it.” He had seen similar patches worn by various soldiers during his last year in Afghanistan, and he had not approved of it, though it had not been his place to remark about it, because he was a navy frogman. However, he had made it known that he’d better not ever see such a patch on the uniform of anyone operating within the DEVGRU teams.

Deciding now was a good time to take issue with the patch, he glanced up from the paper. “Sergeant Barbiero, is it?”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant came to attention, startled to be singled out.

“Front and center, son.”

Barbiero broke ranks to stand before the Green Beret colonel. “Yes, sir.”

Gil stood eyeing the patch on his body armor long enough for it to become obvious what he was about to take issue with. “Sergeant, are you familiar with the term
silent insolence
?”

Crosswhite saw Major Byard’s expression fall and understood right away what Gil was playing at.

“Yes, sir,” Barbiero said quietly. “I’ve heard the term, sir.”

Gil looked him in the eyes. “What exactly do I need to do to
earn
your respect, Sergeant? Since my rank alone doesn’t seem to be enough.”

Barbiero was quickly beginning to sweat. Everyone in the room saw plainly that Gil was a Medal of Honor winner, and a full bull with the Medal of Honor was not a man with whom to fuck—not even by accident. “Sir. You have my
complete
respect, sir.”

“Remain at attention,” Gil said, turning to Byard. “Major, I couldn’t help but notice the Fort Apache sign on the front of this FOB as I was getting off the helo. I seem to remember reading an operational directive recently put out by General Couture that strictly forbade the
posting of any such signage as which may be regarded as provocative in nature by the civilian population whose safety it is you have been charged with protecting.”

Byard was in Deep Shit, Kentucky, and he knew it. “Sir, my apologies. I haven’t seen that directive,” he said lamely, which was true. He’d been too busy to read the incoming dispatches, but he and everyone else present knew this was no excuse. He thanked God this colonel was unaware of Couture’s personal order to remove the sign the week before.

Gil passed the paper off to Crosswhite, who suppressed a smile as he folded the order in half. Then he removed the green beret, feigning an effort of patience as he wiped a hand across his forehead.

“Gentlemen,” he said heavily. “It is bad enough that you have failed in your mission to protect this city, resulting in the disgraceful withdrawal now taking place.” He took the time to eyeball every paratrooper present, each man feeling the weight of the colonel’s iron will and lowering his gaze in shame. “But when a member of General Couture’s personal staff cannot walk into an FOB of the vaunted 82nd Airborne Division—
the division of Sergeant York and the Argonne offensive!
—and expect to see the general’s orders being carried out . . .” He shook his head, allowing his own personal anger to show. “Well, I’m afraid that I find myself at a loss for words in the face of such utter disappointment.”

He reached out to gently pull the patch from Sergeant Barbiero’s body armor. The
scraaatch
of the Velcro sounded very loud in the quiet room full of humbled soldiers, and Gil could see the beads of sweat rolling down Barbiero’s face. He gave the patch to Tuckerman, saying, “Throw that away for me, please.”

“Yes, sir,” Tuckerman muttered, stepping back to drop the patch into a trash can beside a desk with a plaque resting on the corner that read: Watch Commander.

Gil stepped over to Major Byard, saying to him quietly, “Major, exactly where would you like for me to sit and wait while you further delay my mission to locate the nuclear weapon that threatens this nation?”

Byard swallowed a lump in his throat the size of a robin’s egg. “Colonel, please accept my profound apologies for any and all delays—the
responsibilities for which are entirely mine. I have no intention of delaying you further, sir. I just thought it my duty to notify you of the discrepancy.”

“I see,” Gil said, his chin jutting. “In that case, this nation thanks you for your generous consideration, Major.” He turned to Crosswhite and Tuckerman. “Gentlemen, follow me. I fear we may already be too late.”

Without a word, they followed Gil out the door and across the parking lot to a waiting Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk. They mounted up, and Tuckerman slid the door closed. Gil spoke briefly to the pilots, and they lifted off in under sixty seconds.

Gil stripped off the green army jacket and set it aside on the bench seat as he sat facing Crosswhite and Tuckerman. “From here on, all that’s happened is completely forgotten. Understood?”

They nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “This is what we’re up against. At least one Chechen insurgent has smuggled a Russian RA-115 suitcase nuke into the country. At present, we have no clue where it is. What we do have is the name of a possible accomplice, so we’re headed to Las Vegas for the purposes of abduction and interrogation. Be advised . . . this man is not only a member of the Saudi royal family, but he is also a naturalized American citizen entitled to all rights afforded him under the United States Constitution. We will very likely be violating most of those rights. Do either of you expect to experience a conflict of interest where this is concerned?”

Both men shook their heads.

Gil nodded with satisfaction. “I didn’t think so.”

“Are we sure about this suitcase nuke?” Crosswhite said, all business now. He was back where he belonged, and he could feel the capillaries expanding throughout his body as the blood once again began to pump with true military purpose. “I thought the RA-115 was a ghost.”

“All the isotope readings from the New Mexico Event remain consistent with this scenario,” Gil said. “So, yes, confidence is very high. Pope’s doing what he can to get us the original schematics from his Russian counterpart, but for the time being, we will be operating mostly blind where the device itself is concerned. All we know is that it prob
ably isn’t any bigger than a footlocker and shouldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. We can assume a two-kiloton yield.”

“The damn thing could be anywhere,” Tuckerman said.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Being the only man in the helo qualified to wear the green beret, Crosswhite leaned across to pick it up. Then he put it on and smoothed it into shape. “Do we have half a chance of finding it before it goes off?”

“I have no idea, but Pope thinks 9/11 is their target date. That gives us less than three days.”

“So how’s this work?” Tuckerman asked. “Are we back on the payroll now, or what?”

Gil shook his head. “Pope’s gonna cover your tracks and make all this Chicago shit go away. In exchange for that, you two are gonna lay it back on the line for your country. If we survive, you get to return to your lives. And you
will
get your ass back to the VA for treatment.”

“Yes, Master Chief!”

“So where were you when this shit kicked off?” Crosswhite asked. “Before you became Barry Sadler, I mean.” Staff Sergeant Barry Sadler, a Green Beret during the Vietnam War, was famous for cowriting and singing the ultrapatriotic hit song “The Ballad of the Green Berets.”

Gil took a moment to unpin the Medal of Honor ribbon from the army jacket and slip it into his pocket. “I was in Morocco—and that’s all you get to know.”

Crosswhite wrinkled his brow. “After the medal ceremony at the White House, I thought you went back to Montana to stay with Marie for good.”

A shadow of pain fell across Gil’s face. “We’re separated at the moment. And I don’t wanna talk about that either.”

 • • •

A SHORT TIME
later, the helo set down at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. They loaded into a Humvee that took them across the tarmac to a waiting Lockheed Martin C-5M Super Galaxy strategic airlifter, a giant US Air Force transport powered by four General Electric CF-80C2 turbofan engines. The nose assembly was in the up position, allowing the Humvee to drive directly into the cargo hold.

“I take it you flew in on this thing?” Crosswhite asked, clearly impressed.

“Pope’s hunting a loose nuke,” Gil said. “So he gets whatever the fuck he asks for. All of our kit is aboard—anything we might need—so get familiar with where everything is. And get out of those goddamn PMA clothes.” PMA stood for paramilitary asshole. “The rest of the team will meet us in Vegas.”

Crosswhite and Tuckerman exchanged glances. “Who’s the rest of the team?”

Gil chuckled. “All the rest of the Bank Heist misfits who got run out of the navy.” Operation Bank Heist had been the unauthorized rescue mission that Crosswhite had led in an attempt to secure the release of Warrant Officer Sandra Brux from Hezb-e Islami Khalis forces in Afghanistan the year before.

“You mean you actually managed to find them all?”

“Yeah, and believe it or not, you two ass clowns are the only ones I had to break out of jail.”