Target America: A Sniper Elite Novel (15 page)

31

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA,
Edwards Air Force Base

The president stood smoking his pipe on the tarmac at the foot of the stairs below Air Force One. There were a number of troops and Secret Service men about, all of them very alert and focused on the landscape surrounding the plane in the early-morning sunlight. He was very presidential looking in his Air Force One jacket: a man in his midfifties, gray at the temples, with expressive blue eyes and a perpetual tan. Even though he now led the nation from Edwards Air Force Base, located twenty-two miles northeast of Lancaster, California, he slept aboard the blue and white Boeing 747, which was kept ready for takeoff at a moment’s notice. He slept aboard the plane for two reasons: one, the First Lady preferred the Posturepedic mattress aboard the plane to the cheap military mattress in their base quarters, and two, if something catastrophic happened in the middle of the night, requiring a fast getaway, he would already be aboard.

General Couture had only just learned of the resurrection of SEAL Team VI/Black, and he was less than thrilled by the news. “You are aware, Mr. President, that we’re violating the United States Constitution?”

“I am, General, but I was thinking about President Truman last night—thinking about his struggle over whether or not to use the atomic bomb against the Japanese. He was troubled by the idea of killing thousands of civilians. But in the end, he did it because he wanted to save American lives. That’s the same way I came to my decision last night, and I have to say it wasn’t that difficult. It’s one man we’re talking about. One’s man’s rights. One man’s life against thousands.”

“And if he doesn’t know anything, Mr. President? If he’s innocent?”

The president shrugged, turning to rap the spent tobacco from his pipe against the stairway railing. “That’s what presidents are elected for, General, to make the tough calls and to live with the results.”

Couture conceded the point, knowing that the issue of SEAL Team VI/Black was well out of his hands.

“Tim Hagen tells me the two of you had something of a disagreement outside the Oval Office the other day.” The president chuckled as he drew a pouch of fresh tobacco from his jacket pocket. “You don’t really care for him, do you?”

The general straightened his shoulders. “I think he’s a worm, Mr. President; that you could do a great deal better.”

“He is a worm,” the president said, dipping the pipe into the pouch. “He’s a sycophantic little prick, as a matter of fact, but he’s also the single most intelligent man that I know—present company excluded, of course,” he added with a friendly grin.

Couture offered the driest of dutiful smiles.

“What do you think of Bob Pope?” the president said. “I ask because NSA has recently found a mole on his staff. He’s been sleeping with one of his Asian protégés, and she’s been giving information to the Chinese.”

Couture felt his hackles raise up. “Does Pope know? Is he party to it?”

The president shook his head. “NSA doesn’t think so. They think he’s allowed
love
to cloud his judgment, and that he’s trusted her with a higher security clearance than he should have.” He flicked a butane lighter to life, breathing the blue flame into the bowl of the pipe and puffing it to life. “She’s scheduled a flight to Australia for tomorrow
night. NSA’s going to wait and arrest her at the airport to keep Pope from knowing.”

“Mr. President, do you feel certain we can trust Pope with tonight’s operation?”

“Yes,” the president said. “George Shroyer and Cletus Webb at CIA both believe he’s a solid patriot. That’s good enough for me. Nonetheless, once the bomb is found, whether by Pope’s people or by someone else, he’s out of SOG for good.” The president chortled quietly. “Then I guess we’ll get to see who he’s got files on.”

Couture hated this aspect of government, resenting most of the civilians he had no choice but to work with. The entire cast reminded him of a bunch of school kids playing out a childish high school drama.

“I suppose so. Well, Mr. President, I should let you go up to breakfast, sir.”

“Do you think we’re going to find that nuke, Bill?” The president was looking him dead in the eyes.

Couture didn’t waste a moment answering. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry, but I think they’ve got us by the balls this time.”

The president nodded, putting the stem of the pipe between his teeth. “So do I. That’s also part of why I’m prepared to let Pope run with ST6/B. We’ve got nothing to lose.”

The president, still smoking his pipe, ascended the stairs and stepped onto the plane. Tim Hagen was eating breakfast with a laptop computer sitting off to the side.

“I’ve got good news,” Hagen said with a smile.

The president took the pipe from his teeth, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline. “They found it?”

“Well, no,” Hagen said. “It’s about the latest poll results . . . you’re leading by almost thirty points now, Mr. President.”

The president narrowed his gaze, allowing Hagen to feel the weight of it before saying, “Tim, I sometimes wonder if you have an ounce of human compassion in your entire body.”

32

LAS VEGAS

“Okay, listen up!” Gil said, taking a seat on the edge of the table. “Tonight we execute the illegal abduction of an American citizen. We will be breaking the law. This means we have zero room for error. Is that understood?”

Every one of the team members nodded his head, all of them steely eyed and focused.

“The plan is simple and straightforward. Four of us will enter the Luxor casino. We will be escorted by a CIA plant working as a hotel concierge to Muhammad Faisal’s suite’s elevator, which opens up just outside his door on the twentieth floor. When we arrive, we will blow the door and sweep the room, killing his entire five-man security team. Once Faisal is secured—
alive
—we will bring him directly back here for interrogation.”

Crosswhite cleared his throat. “Sorry, but do we plan on shooting our way out of there? Because that casino is wall to wall with security.”

Gil grinned. “Did I not say,
simple
?”

“Yeah, and that doesn’t sound too simple to me. Then again, I’m not a navy man.”

Gil got up and put out his hand for a cigarette. “The sheriff and the head of casino security have been advised that we have a FISA warrant for this guy—which isn’t exactly true—and they have both agreed to help. So there won’t be any trouble with security on the way in or out, neither with the cops or hotel security.”

“Who explains the bodies we leave behind?”

“Can any of you think of a better cover story than to blame it on the bastards who hit us in Benghazi? The State Department’s going to blame Faisal’s abduction on AQAP . . . Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula . . . the sworn enemy of the Saudi royal family.”

“Wow!” someone said. “Threaten us with a nuke, and our moral ethics go right out the fuckin’ window.”

Everyone laughed.

“Lying to the Saudis,” the SEAL went on, shaking his head in disappointment. “Tell me it isn’t so.” His name was Clancy, the team prankster.

Gil drew from the cigarette. “I think you’ll get over it.” He waited a moment for the men to regain their focus before continuing. “We’ll wear
shemaghs
and carry AK-47s, using hand signals to communicate, jabbering in gutter Arabic to make sure any witnesses we leave behind will corroborate our terrorist cover story.”

“What about the five million security cameras?”

“Pope’s hacked into their system. He’s going to make sure nothing is recorded. Once we’ve got Faisal, we stuff his ass in a laundry cart, and the CIA man brings us back down in a service elevator. Then we bring him back here and find out what he knows . . . by whatever means necessary.”

“And the president knows about all this?” Alpha asked dubiously.

“Given the briefing I received from Pope, I’m left with that assumption, yes. However, do not forget that every man in this room has a well-documented history of acting against orders. This means we could all be disavowed very easily without the president taking any damage if he chooses to double-cross us. Regardless, once the op jumps off, we’re in it to the last man. Nothing and no one
can
or
will
be allowed to prevent us from completing this mission.”

Tuckerman put up his hand.

“Yeah, Conman?”

“I don’t like to be the guy to point out the fly in the honey jar here, but how do we know the target will be in the room when the entry team makes the breach?”

“Actually, that’s where you come in. Like Pope said, he sprung your ass for a particular reason. It’s going to be
your
job to make
sure
Faisal’s in the room.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pope has secured you a one-million-dollar line of credit with the Luxor casino. He’s also secured you a seat at tonight’s high-stakes poker game. Muhammad Faisal will be at the same table.”

“No fuckin’ way,” Tuckerman said, laughing with nervous tension as everyone turned to look at him again.

“The son of a bitch never leaves the hotel these days,” Gil said. “Pope considers that an encouraging sign of his guilt.”

“Okay, so what am I supposed to do after I whip his ass at poker?”

“Con your way into his hotel suite and be ready to take his ass to the floor the second we blow the door. If he gets clipped, it’s game over.”

“Piss,” Tuckerman mumbled to himself. “It’s all gotta ride on me.”

“Hey, what about after the interrogation?” Trigg asked. “Suppose Faisal doesn’t know anything? I mean, we don’t have jack shit for evidence on the dude. It’s entirely possible he’s innocent. What happens to him then?”

Gil shrugged. “He can’t ever be allowed to tell the Saudi royal family that we took him—or what we did to him afterward. No matter what he knows . . . or doesn’t know . . . the royal family will be told that he was killed in a terrorist attack executed by AQAP. So if he is innocent—well, that’s just something we’ll have to live with.”

33

LAS VEGAS,
Luxor Casino

After three and a half hours of Texas Hold’em on the floor of the Luxor casino, there were only three of the original ten players left at the table: Conman Tuckerman, Muhammad Faisal, and Big Ray, a professional gambler out of San Antonio, Texas. Big Ray wore a black cowboy hat, dark sunglasses, and gaudy, diamond-studded gold rings on the thumb and middle finger of each hand. The dealer had just flipped open the turn card, and Tuckerman could see from the way that Ray now seemed to ignore his hole cards that he’d be gone before the flip of the river—the river card being the last of five community cards to be flipped open before the end of the hand.

Faceup in the center of the table were the three flop cards: the queen of diamonds, the queen of spades, and the four of hearts. The turn card, also faceup, was the king of spades.

Faisal eyed his hole cards for a moment and then laid them flat, suppressing a smile as he made a ten-thousand-dollar bet.

Tuckerman immediately raised it to twenty, letting out an obnoxious snigger toward Big Ray sitting to his left.

“Think you’re pretty fuckin’ funny, don’t ya?” This was the first Big Ray had spoken the entire game, and Tuckerman knew he was finally finished.

Tuckerman turned over both of his hole cards for Big Ray to see: the two of clubs and the queen of hearts. Combined with the two flop-card queens, this gave him a very strong three of a kind.

He sat grinning ear to ear, looking right at Big Ray. “We call those three natural queens where I come from.” Then he laughed out loud, and Big Ray tossed his cards into the muck, shoving back from the table and swearing a blue streak as he stormed off through the crowd surrounding the table.

Tuckerman, to his great satisfaction, watched him go and then glanced across the table at Faisal. “How about you, Muhammad? Whatcha got over there, buddy?”

Faisal smiled. Tuckerman had been cleaning his clock all night, and to lose this hand would put him out of the game, but he flipped over his own hole cards to expose the king of hearts and the king of diamonds. Combined with the turn card king, these cards gave him an even stronger three of a kind than Tuckerman’s.

“Would you like to surrender now?” Faisal asked good-naturedly, coolly enjoying the thrill of victory.

Tuckerman was hard pressed to hide his sudden unease. He was up against the clock, and if he didn’t force Faisal from the game very soon, he was going to blow the mission’s timetable. Big Ray had given him fits all night, stretching the game out longer than he had planned for, so he didn’t have time for Faisal to die a slow death. He needed to finish him.

He sucked his teeth. “Why don’t we just see where the river takes us, huh?”

“Why not?” Faisal replied, his eyes glowing in triumph.

The dealer burned the top card by placing it facedown in the center of the table and flipped open the river card . . . the two of spades.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd.

“Fuck!” Faisal hissed acidly, tossing his cards into the muck at the center of the table.

Tuckerman pumped his fists and cheered, “Full house,
bay-bee
!”

Faisal sat back from the table with a bemused smirk as the jabber
ing crowd began to disperse. “How many times did you bluff tonight?” he demanded to know. “I know you bluffed at least twice, you son of a bitch. No one is that lucky—no one!”

Tuckerman laughed. “I’ve got a shamrock tattooed to my ass, partner.”

“This was supposed to be
my
night!” Faisal protested. “The night to break my losing streak, and I would have done it, if not for you. You owe me a drink—no, make it two!”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, fine,” Tuckerman said, stacking his chips. “But up in your suite, huh? I’m tired of sitting down here with the common people.”

Faisal wavered a moment, glancing briefly at Ma’mun, his bodyguard, standing near the wall.

“Oh, come on,” Tuckerman said, pretending not to even notice Ma’mun. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a suite here in the hotel, you rich bastard. Hell, if I had your money, I could probably afford to burn mine.”

Faisal was easily flattered when it came to his money, and he couldn’t help liking Tuckerman, admiring the way he had succeeded in getting inside of Big Ray’s head early in the game. Big Ray was normally a monster at the table, and Faisal had lost to him many times, but tonight Ray had made two critical miscalculations in a row, and those errors were entirely because of Tuckerman’s constant niggling.

Fuck it
, he thought and grinned. “Yeah, okay. But tomorrow night you’re giving me a chance to win some of my money back!”

Tuckerman sighed as they stood up from the table. “I can’t promise I’ll be available tomorrow night.” He knew Faisal was on the hook now and wanted to keep him there. “But if I am, I don’t plan to lose. That’s entirely against my creed.”

“Of course, you’ll be available.” Faisal put a hand on Tuckerman’s shoulder. “Don’t talk nonsense. I can see you’re not a man to walk away from a challenge. Hey, where are you from, my friend?”

“Right here in Vegas,” Tuckerman said proudly. “Born and bred.”

“Well, that explains it!” Faisal said. “And what do you do—when you’re not cheating at poker, I mean?”

Tuckerman chortled, keenly aware that Faisal’s bodyguard did not
approve of this budding new friendship. “I lead a high-wire act with Cirque du Soleil over at the Bellagio. You should come see us.”

Faisal laughed and clapped him on the back, saying to Ma’mun, “Call up to the suite and make sure there are enough girls.”

Ma’mun began to protest.

“Just do it, Ma’mun. I’m not in the mood to argue this evening. I’ve decided I’m going to get this man drunk, get him properly laid”—he stabbed his finger into Tuckerman’s chest—“and then tomorrow night I’m going to take all of his fucking money!”

They both broke up laughing, and to look at them, one would have thought they’d been friends for years.

“Like I said,” Tuckerman warned him, enjoying being back on the con, “I may have another obligation tomorrow night.”

“Your obligation is to
me
tomorrow night,” Faisal insisted, some of the spoiled child in him showing through. “And I won’t take
no
for an answer, my friend.”

“Well, okay.” Tuckerman chuckled. “Since you insist.”