Sniper Elite: One-Way Trip

CHAPTER 14

Agent Lerher and his staff sat gathered in a conference room with Captain Glen Metcalf, USN. Metcalf was the senior DEVGRU officer inside the ATO. He had personally chosen Gil for the Al-Nazari hit the moment he learned of his arrival in theater. Now, everyone in the room was viewing Gil’s descent via an infrared satellite feed visible on a wide-screen plasma television mounted to the wall.

Captain Metcalf watched with veiled apprehension as Gil’s canopy descended into the cloud layer and disappeared from view.

“Well, that was anticlimactic as hell,” announced a bored-sounding analyst from Lerher’s team. He stood from his chair against the wall, taking a sip from a Styrofoam coffee cup as he attempted to appear widely experienced beyond his years. He was a Harvard grad, not a day over twenty-five, a child of the PlayStation generation who seemed to regard what they had just witnessed with the same emotional commitment of a teenager playing a game of SOCOM: US Navy SEALs.

Metcalf’s heart had been in his throat during Gil’s struggle to cut loose of the main canopy. No one else in the room had understood what was taking place beneath the flaring death shrouds until he explained to them what was going on. Now he resented not only the young analyst’s presence, but his attitude as well. There was no reason for these kids with no understanding of combat — beyond the aspect of a video game — even to be in the room. True, they had done a fine job of gathering the intelligence required to put the op together, but they were well paid for their efforts, and so were not necessarily entitled to be in on the kill, as Lerher had put it. But the military existed to serve the civilian population, and Metcalf was an extension of that arm, so there wasn’t much he could do but grit his teeth. However, he knew of no rule against a captain of the United States Navy asking a pointed question from time to time.

“What would you have preferred to see, son? A brave man plummet to his death?”

“Me?” said the analyst, startled to have been called on the carpet for his inane remark. He glanced at Lerher, who only stared back at him. “No, sir. I was just saying that… well, what I meant was that he handled that like a real professional.”

“I’m sure that Master Chief Shannon would be glad of your approval,” Lerher remarked, jerking his head toward the door in abrupt dismissal.

The analyst paled and exited the room, leaving his counterparts with their eyes lowered.

Feeling mollified, Metcalf allowed his gaze to fall charitably upon the rest. “So far, so good, ladies and gentlemen. Our man dodged a bullet tonight. Now, let’s hope that cloud layer lifts soon so we can see what hell’s going on down there. Any news from meteorology, Agent Lerher?”

Lerher shrugged. “It’s not good, I’m afraid. We’re hoping the ceiling will be high enough tomorrow for a predator to drop down and sneak a peek now and then, but it’s going to be touch and go.” He addressed his staff. “That’s all for tonight, people. Try and get some sleep. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. Donaldson, I want you on duty in Operations with the Air Force people all night. If anything develops, anything at all, you wake my ass up. Understood?”

“Understood,” replied a blonde woman who wore her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.

The room cleared, leaving Lerher alone with Captain Metcalf.

“I’m sorry about the idiot,” Lerher said. He didn’t personally care about his analysts making stupid remarks. They were assets to him, nothing more, and their personal feelings were beneath his consideration. They were expected, however, to know when to keep their mouths shut, an expectation the analyst in question obviously hadn’t understood, so he would be rotated stateside on the next available flight.

“It’s a cultural symptom,” Metcalf remarked, satisfied to leave it at that. “Does NSA have anything to report?”

Lerher shook his head. “Nazari made a call to his wife about an hour ago, the usual tripe… nothing new… no changes to the itinerary that we can detect. He should be right where he’s supposed to be at eleven thirty a.m.”

“Good,” Metcalf said. “With some luck, this hit will go exactly by the numbers from here on out.”