Target America: A Sniper Elite Novel (18 page)

40

DETROIT

Akram al-Rashid entered a warehouse in Detroit toting a black rifle case and placed it on a table in the center of the room in front of eighteen American-born Al Qaeda recruits, most of whom he had recruited from Detroit’s large urban Muslim population. They were all of Arab descent, and half of them had served in the United States military. The youngest of them, Tahir, was eighteen, a former agnostic whom Akram had personally converted to Salafism. This made Tahir Akram’s most trusted because there was no fanatic like a converted fanatic, and Tahir had already volunteered to wear a suicide vest.

There was a nineteenth man among the recruits, but he was not Arabic. He was not even Muslim. He had green eyes, reddish hair, and went by the name of Duke. He was an American mercenary, motivated by profit alone. This made him the least trusted of the group, but what made him valuable were his credentials as a former Marine and SWAT team sergeant with the Detroit Police Department.

Duke had gotten himself fired shortly after the city had gone into receivership. Disgusted over the city’s abolition of public employee rights
to arbitration, cutting their benefits and pay, he had taken a weekend job as an informal nightclub bodyguard for a local pimp who called himself Fabulous Jay. It had been a lucrative gig, too, until someone had decided to take a shot at Fabulous Jay in the club’s VIP section. The shooter had nicked Jay in the shoulder with his first shot, and Duke had blown him away with a .40 caliber double tap to the sternum.

After a thorough investigation into the shooting, it was discovered that Duke had lied about what he was doing in the club that night, and he was eventually fired after nineteen years on the job, with complete loss of pension and benefits.

Akram heard about Duke from a spy within the police department and approached him at the junkyard where he’d taken a job driving a forklift. The promise of a quarter million dollars for work as a hired gun had sounded great to Duke, and he’d accepted on the spot, walking off the job without even telling his boss.

Now the ruddy ex-cop sat rocked back in a folding chair with his fingers laced behind his head, dressed in black trousers, tactical boots, and a black Under Armour T-shirt. The other team members gave him a wide birth, not because they feared him but rather because they didn’t like having an infidel in their midst. Another suspicious thing was that Duke openly believed they were all connected to the atomic bomb, yet he didn’t seem to resent them for it. He even cracked jokes about it.

“Hey, Akram,” Duke asked, “which city gets turned into glass, huh? Inquiring minds want to know.”

Akram gave him a dry smile as he unbuckled the rifle case. “I’ve told you before the Chechens are responsible for the bomb. We have nothing to do with it.”

“Yeah? Then how the hell do you know Detroit ain’t the target?”

Akram’s eyes appeared flat and reptilian. “We don’t.”

Duke sobered for a moment and then laughed it off. “I can’t wait to find out who gets it. It’s better than a fucking movie.”

One of the other former Marines on the team still had enough grunt left in him to resent mercenaries. His name was Abad. He had a hatchet face, very dark eyes, and still kept his hair cut in military fash
ion. “You expect us to believe you really don’t care?” he asked in perfect American English.

Duke turned his head. “Only fucking thing I care about, son, is getting paid and moving to Brazil, where they got all that hot poontang. After that, this whole country can burn to a crackly crisp, for all I care. I put in nineteen goddamn years, and what did I get when those rich bastards finally bankrupted the city? Shit-canned! So I ain’t about to—”

“Enough,” Akram said quietly. “Duke is a soldier of Allah like the rest of us—even if he doesn’t realize it. Nothing happens that is not God’s will.” He spoke predominantly in English because not all of the recruits spoke fluent Arabic.

Akram took the rifle from the case and extended the legs of the bipod, resting it on the table.

Duke let out a whistle. “Now, that’s a fine piece of artillery.”

Akram smiled. “You know this weapon?”

“You bet your ass I know it. That’s a McMillan TAC-50.” The TAC-50 was a .50 caliber sniper rifle manufactured in the United States, though used predominantly by Canadian forces. Duke dropped his feet to the floor and leaned in closer for a better look. “And I’m guessing that’s the A1R2 with the hydraulic stock. Am I right?”

Akram was impressed. “You’ve fired one?”

“Not the R2,” Duke said, “but I’ve fired the A1 a number of times. Who’re you planning to blow away with that shoulder cannon, the president?”

“What would you say if I said yes?”

“I’d say, ‘Windage and elevation, Mrs. Langdon! Windage and elevation!’ ” He laughed out loud, expecting the others to join him, but he saw only blank faces staring back at him. “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” he said sadly. “You fuckers are too young to remember the Duke.”

“Who’s he?” asked Tahir.

“John Wayne, knucklehead.
The Undefeated
. Jesus Christ! Wipe your mama’s milk off your fuckin’ chin!”

The youth stood up, his eyes full of fire.

“Sit down!” Akram ordered.

Tahir sat back down instantly, dropping his gaze to the floor between his feet.

Akram cut Duke a fatherly look of disapproval.

Duke rolled his eyes, rocking back and putting his feet back up on a crate. “Windage and elevation,” he muttered with a chuckle.

“I want you all to listen carefully,” Akram said, once again the Saudi Royal Marine. “Our target is very dangerous. We’ve already sent one highly skilled operative in after him, and that operative has failed to report back.”

Duke put his feet back on the floor, suddenly all business. “Is the target a military man?”

“Yes, he is,” Akram said, deciding to see just how solid
the Duke
was. “He’s an ex-Navy SEAL, as a matter of fact—one of your country’s best. His name is Gil Shannon.”

“No shit. The frogman who won the Medal of Honor?”

“Does that create a conflict for you?”

Duke’s eyes glassed over. The thought of taking on the great Gil Shannon was like mainlining a syringe full of adrenaline. “You put that TAC-50 in my hands, buster, and I’ll show you how
conflicted
I am.”

“Good,” Akram said, satisfied. “I’ll be manning this weapon, but I want everyone to be familiar with it in case something happens to me. Duke, you brought your own rifle, correct?”

Duke sat up straight. “An M40A3 bolt action. Same weapon I carried in the Corps.”

Abad leaned forward to see him better. “You were a Marine?”

“Yeah, what’s it to you?”

“Which division?”

“The Second.”

“I was with the First.”

“And you don’t know John Wayne, for Christ sake?”

“I never said I didn’t know John Wayne—and stop with the blasphemy.”

“Fuck do you care? I thought you were Muslim.”

“Blasphemy is blasphemy.”

“Enough!” Akram said, annoyed by Duke’s uncouthness but real
izing there was nothing to be done about it. “I want military discipline from this point, and there are enough of you who know what that is. We board a private jet for Montana in the morning.” He looked at Duke. “Your pilot friend has received the first half of his payment, correct?”

Duke nodded.

“Good. Perhaps you should tell the men what you told me.”

Duke turned in his chair to face the others. “Listen up. This pilot’s an Australian—a merc like me. He ain’t from here, and he ain’t stayin’ here after he gets paid. But keep your mouths shut about what we’re up to because you never know with these Aussies. They like to get all tanked up and blab their business to whoever’s around. So the less he knows, the better for us all. Just keep your traps shut and focus on the mission.”

“That’s good advice,” Akram said. “Be sure to follow it.” Then he decided to give Duke something else constructive to do. “Duke, why don’t you come up here and show the men how to operate this weapon? I’m sure you’re more qualified than I am.”

Duke grinned and got to his feet. “You’re finally talkin’ my language, son.”

As Akram sat in the back of the room watching Duke break down the weapon and explain how to operate it, his mind began to drift. The people of the Middle East had been hiring Western mercenaries to help them fight their wars against other Western powers since the days of antiquity, starting with Greeks during the early Greco-Persian wars. It disgusted Akram to have to admit they needed help, but he consoled himself with thoughts of Kashkin’s bomb.

The bomb will create parity
, he promised himself.
The first domino to fall against the Western economy—followed by another and then another. I will not live to see the final victory, but that doesn’t matter. I lead a platoon in the first skirmish of
the
battle.

After the weapon tutorial, Akram took Tahir into another room, ostensibly for a private prayer session, but he smacked the youth the moment the door closed.

“What were you thinking, allowing yourself to be so easily baited by that infidel?”

Tahir looked at the floor. “I
didn’t
think. I’m sorry, teacher.”

“A thoughtless fanatic is useless to me—even less useful to Allah. Do you understand?”

“Yes, teacher.”

“You want to be a martyr? So pride filled that you can’t even ignore childish insults from a complete fool?” Akram shook his head in disappointment, but he was secretly happy for the boy’s harmless error. It had given him an excuse to shame him, to make him even more determined to carry out a bombing mission if and when the time came.

41

IN THE SKY OVER IOWA

Somewhere in the air over Iowa, Gil and Pope went up the ladder into the cockpit of the C-5 Galaxy to talk with the pilot. The air force major climbed out of his seat and stepped to the back of the flight deck.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

Gil showed him a map of Detroit, pointing to Grosse Ile in the middle of the Detroit River. The island was over six miles long and roughly two wide. “When we get to Detroit, Major, I need you to land here at Naval Air Station Grosse Ile.”

The pilot looked at him. “NAS Grosse has been closed for more than forty years.”

“It’s still a municipal airport,” Pope said. “I’ve already gotten us clearance to land.”

“But, Mr. Pope, the runway there isn’t long enough. Selfridge Air Base is only just up the river. I suggest we land there, sir.”

“Selfridge is fifty miles north of the target area. Grosse Ile is less than three.” Pope smiled his boyish smile. “You do the math, Major.”

“But, sir, I’m telling you there isn’t enough runway.”

Pope set down the map on the navigator’s console and produced an iPad from a black satchel hanging over his shoulder. “I have the entire operator’s manual for the C-5 Galaxy right here at my fingertips. We need less than thirty-six hundred feet of runway to land, and the runway at Grosse Ile is more than forty-eight hundred feet long.”

“That’s true, but I need eighty-four hundred feet to take off again.”

“Taking off again isn’t our problem,” Gil said. “We’ve got a loose nuke to find.”

The pilot stood looking at him. “My orders don’t include jeopardizing this aircraft.”

Pope took the sat phone from his back pocket. “Major, I press one button, and we’ll be talking to the president of the United States. I’ve met him personally, and he’s not a very reasonable man when he’s upset. In my youth, I flew C-130s for Air America, so you and I
both
know that you can safely land this plane on Grosse Ile. Colonel Bradshaw is with the president, and I’m reasonably certain he knows it too.”

The major put his hands on hips. “You do realize I’ll be stranding a two-hundred-million-dollar aircraft on an island not much bigger than a used car lot.”

“For what it’s worth,” Pope said, “I don’t think I landed on a jungle runway of the proper length more than once or twice. If your people strip this plane down and redline the engines, I’m pretty sure she’ll clear the end of the runway.”

“Not with me in the cockpit, she won’t.”

Pope held out the phone. “What’s it going to be, Major?”

The pilot shrugged. “Orders are orders, Mr. Pope. NAS Grosse it is.”

42

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA,
Edwards Air Force Base

“Where in Detroit?” the president was asking Tim Hagen. “Aren’t these al-Rashid brothers someone we can send the FBI after? Is it necessary to risk another fiasco like the one we just had in Las Vegas?”

General Couture hung up the phone. “Mr. President, NSA has just informed me the al-Rashids are not in Detroit. They’re in Amherstburg, Ontario, directly across the Detroit River from Grosse Ile. NSA pulled their names off a list of people to watch, and, apparently, Pope evaluated these two yahoos earlier this year—classifying them as
low risk
.”

“So Pope does make mistakes.” The president sat forward in his chair, feeling his acid reflux beginning to act up. “Okay, so where’s the plane now?”

“Just touching down on Grosse Ile, sir.”

The president looked at Colonel Bradshaw. “Get Pope on the phone.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sixty seconds later, Bradshaw had him on the line, and the president put the receiver to his ear. “Pope?”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“You are not—I repeat
not
—to enter Canada. Is that clear?”

There was a slight pause. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“I’m going to call the Canadian prime minister right now. You will wait for the Canadians to pick up the al-Rashids and deliver them to you there on Grosse Ile. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I’m serious,” the president said. “This isn’t Afghanistan we’re talking about this time. It’s Canada!”

“We’ll stand by here, Mr. President.”

“You’d better.” The president hung up the phone and looked at Couture. “What are the odds he’s going to listen to me?”

Couture was thinking,
You got in bed with these maniacs. I should leave you to them.

“Sir, I don’t think there’s any reason at all to assume he’ll obey that order. I recommend you send the FBI to Grosse Ile immediately with orders to take the entire team into custody. This has gone far enough, Mr. President.”

The president stood from the chair and hitched up his pants. “Do it.”

He looked at Tim Hagen and nodded toward the door. The two of them stepped into the hall.

“This will be the FBI’s operation from here on,” the president said. “So get in touch with Shroyer at CIA and see to it that all of Pope’s clearances are revoked. That man is unemployed as of right now. Also, make sure the FBI knows that he’s to be held for questioning in regards to the Lijuan Chow affair. My
God
, Tim!” He lowered his voice. “He was actually going to invade another fucking country!”

“What if the Canadians screw it up, Mr. President?”

“What?”

“Sir, we’re wasting time. For all we know, the RA-115 could be set to go off any minute. Pope is directly across the river from the al-Rashids. He can probably have his hands on them within the hour.”

“You’re not actually suggesting—”

“Mr. President, I’m suggesting that you
allow
Pope to disobey your direct order to stand down. We can have an observation drone over the target area within the hour. That will allow us to wait until the last
moment before calling the prime minister to tell him that one of our special operations teams has gone off the reservation. By the time the RCMP can respond to the target area, Shannon’s people will already be back on Grosse Ile with the al-Rashids.” Hagen was referring to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. “Then we’ll not only have the brothers and whatever information they can provide about the nuke, but we’ll also have enough to put both Pope and Shannon where they belong.” Hagen smiled. “Unless, of course, we choose to turn them over to the Canadians, in which case they’ll be
completely
out of our hair for the next twenty or thirty years.”

“Christ, you’re a devious bastard.” The president held a hand to his abdomen, the burning sensation creeping up his throat. “Okay. Suppose Pope
doesn’t
disobey me? Then what?”

“We’ll know that within the hour, sir. If he does stand down, then we simply call the prime minister and hope for the best.”

The president thought over the plan, and he could find no flaw in it. “Couture isn’t going to like it.”

“With respect, Mr. President, there’s no reason for you to give a shit what the general does or does not like. He’s a soldier, and it’s his job to do what you tell him to do.”