In the Crosshairs

29

What price success? Marty Atkins pondered that question at his desk. Back when he was a young man, he considered the world to be his oyster. By going to work for the Central Intelligence Agency, he believed that he could do anything: be stronger than a locomotive, or fly across entire continents in a single bound. He was in line to eventually become director of the entire agency. That was now probably out the window. Superman was a make-believe cartoon, and Atkins lived in the real world, which was why he’d been mentally drafting a letter of resignation. Before this was all over, somebody at the CIA was going to have to fall on his or her sword. He was the likely scapegoat.

The quick and hard military attack to secure the drug town of Girdiwal in Afghanistan had worked with precise efficiency. The world saw the results on television. The CIA proved it had nothing to hide and wasn’t running a Middle East drug bazaar.

So why was that pesky congresswoman from Nebraska hanging so tough with her accusations? Perhaps the agency wasn’t out of the woods of public opinion yet.

Added to that public relations problem was the loss of two of his best operatives. Luke Gibson was a total asshole of a traitor who had fooled them for years and was still on the loose. God alone knew what damage he’d done, what secrets he’d compromised, how many lives he’d cost. Atkins already had an internal investigation under way.

Kyle Swanson, the indestructible sniper, was immobile in traction, shut off from his own senses in an induced coma at the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center outside Ramstein Air Base in Germany. His condition was listed as critical, with a seriously injured neck.

“How soon can he be evacuated?” asked Willa Kent, one of the interrogation specialists on the internal investigation team. She was a quiet, unthreatening brunette who had earned her psychology degree at Purdue and developed her interviewing chops down in Guantánamo.

She and a second psychiatrist, Tom Hughes, had been invited to Atkins’s office in Langley so that Marty could deliver the news personally. “He cannot be moved right now, so you guys have to go over there.”

“If he’s in a coma, what’s the point?” asked Hughes, a thin man in his mid-thirties. Far from being a beard-pulling shrink, Hughes ran Ironman competitions and had piercing steel-gray eyes that missed little.

Which was why Atkins didn’t look at him. “If not an actual interview at this point, you can provide an accurate assessment of his condition. Kyle cannot be moved for several more weeks, according to the med staff in Germany. And his parents want to put him in a first-class private facility in England, not back here. So you have to go there.”

Hughes, who was also a doctor, read the brief Army medical report. “He had a brain concussion and herniated disks and still carried on with the mission? Ouch. The pain must have been excruciating.”

Atkins was of the opinion that continuing the mission would probably have been impossible for a normal human being. Tom Hughes understood how a body could be forced to work beyond its limits. “The two guys who brought him out said that Swanson collapsed as soon as they got aboard the extract helicopter. Like all the wind escaped from a balloon,” he said.

“Adrenaline dump,” Willa Kent concluded. “He was so pumped up during the action that it overrode the pain. When it was over, he had no reason to continue blocking it, and it all slammed him at once.”

She tapped the arm of the chair. “The family is still going to demand that he be moved. We’ll have to talk them out of that so we can keep him in secure custody.”

Atkins reminded them both that Kyle Swanson was not some terrorist and would not be treated as one. “He will remain sedated and immobile right where he is for a couple of weeks to give his body some time to heal and rest. Sir Jeff Cornwell might send in a private specialist, but I’ve informed him there’s no real need for that. This hospital has handled casualties from the war for more than a decade. They’ve seen it all before and know what they’re doing.”

“So, a month?”

“I’m not a doctor, guys. It is what it is. Maybe getting a civilian specialist in there to take a look would be a good idea.”

“Silly question, but is Swanson safe?”

“Yes. He’s listed as a John Doe in the intensive-care unit of a Level III Trauma Center at an American military base. Nobody is going to bother him. Security is tight.” Atkins kept his face devoid of anything but sympathy and worry.

Hughes asked, “Why doesn’t this file include the latest X-rays? I could tell a lot more about his condition.”

Atkins dodged. “You should have a fresh set made when you get there. Your prime assignment is to examine the overall situation and find any clues that might lead us to our traitor, Luke Gibson. Beyond that, figure out when Kyle will recover fully and how we can help.”

Kent said, “Healing is one thing, but combat is another, sir. Beyond the physical damage, which appears substantial, there will be severe psychological challenges — maybe a lifetime of PTSD. I think our boy may soon be looking for another line of work.”

Marty hated lying to these good people, but he had a story to tell. What price success?

Nero sat still as a rock, the big head cocked to one side, watching his Alpha lying almost as still on the forest’s verdant floor twenty feet away. Elizabeth Ledford Castillo was in a Ghillie suit that she had spent the morning making from local vegetation, and she looked like a bush. Coastie glanced over at the German shepherd, who didn’t break from the command to remain still. His nose picked up her scent, magnified it, and he knew she was okay although he could barely see her. The bush extended her hand, flat and with a downward motion, and the dog dropped to his belly.

Coastie had thrown herself into training after being read the riot act by Double-Oh. She had been behaving like a fool; she knew that now. The loss of her husband had almost sent her around the bend with grief, excused her inexcusable decisions, and left her feeling lost and vulnerable. The only thing she was really good at was shooting a weapon and killing bad guys, and it was impossible to find solace in bloodlust. It was hard to forget.

She dug her toe into the damp soil and hauled her bushy self a few inches. Her goal today was to approach the camp without being seen, but that was going to be impossible as long as Nero thought she might need his guard-dog skills, big white teeth, and muscled frame. He stuck to her like glue. She pushed another foot forward and scanned the area, seeing nobody. Coastie was invisible, but sneaking around undetected in the woods of northern Vermont wasn’t exactly rocket science.

The suit was itchy. She ignored it. Part of the challenge of being a scout/sniper was being able to put up with a few inconveniences, such as mosquitoes and rain and cold. All part of the training, which seemed meaningless in their individual parts but, taken together, could cost or save a life. Today was better than yesterday, and Mexico seemed very far away. Confidence was seeping back into the sniper, and courage would follow.

“Hey, Coastie! Double-Oh wants you at the office.” Lieutenant Nina Blume, whose truck had been kicked around by an IED in Afghanistan, was at the camp trying to make sense of what had happened to her on that lonely, dusty road two years earlier, and how and why she survived when the others died.

“How did you find me?” Coastie asked, irritated at being discovered. “My suit is pretty good.”

“I didn’t.” Nina pointed to the dog. “He’s never far from you. Hey, Nero,” she said, squatting and rubbing the big nose.

“He’s a lousy guard dog. Everybody around here can find me, and he doesn’t do a damn thing to stop them. He should be ripping your throat out, Blume.”

“He guards us all, girlfriend. Anyway, Get out of your leaves and branches and hustle up there. I’ll let him know you’re on the way.”

Coastie struggled to her feet. “What’s he want?”

“No idea,” the lieutenant answered, limping away.

Nero remained lying obediently in the dirt, grinning because everybody was okay.

Bruce Brandt and Ingmar Thompson wandered into the mess hall after a shower and a snooze. They were in a somber mood and took their trays of chow and coffee mugs to a table favored by special-ops types. Two other guys were about, though. The snipers sat. Said hello.

“Rough night?” asked a Navy SEAL.

“Might say that,” replied Brandt. He started on his steak and eggs.

“Classified?” the SEAL continued.

“The mission is all over the news now, so no, it’s no longer classified.” Thompson put two fried eggs and hash browns between two slices of Texas toast and smothered the sandwich with Tabasco and a handful of jalapeño peppers. “That drug place up in the Wakham Corridor. Not much there now but a lot of show-and-tell for the folks back home.”

The other man wiped his lips and settled with his coffee. He was a PJ, an Air Force parajumper. “So that’s where all the Rangers went in such a hurry. Good on them. So how is that bad?”

“Not the mission. Swanson.”

“Kyle?” the SEAL was suddenly attentive, as was the PJ. “He catch a bullet?”

“They have him up at Landstuhl. Took a hard knock to the back of his head and neck, and the docs think it may be a spinal break.”

“Good Lord,” said the PJ. “That’s gotta hurt.”

“Critical condition,” said Thompson, around chewing the giant sandwich and staring at the man. “Total coma.”

“Hard to imagine Kyle getting banged up like that,” said the SEAL, following with a burst of cursing.

“Shit happens,” Brandt said.

The PJ lifted his coffee cup. “To Kyle,” he toasted, and the others joined in clinking the ceramic mugs.

The SEAL and his PJ buddy moved to the bar, fell into serious conversation, and would point back toward the table as if for confirmation. Little salesmen making the rounds friend by friend, spreading the word that the great Kyle Swanson had been wounded and was hospitalized in a full traction rig because somebody or something broke his back. A gasoline-fueled fire couldn’t have spread faster than the news, which would soon spill beyond the special-ops community and out into the force in general, and then beyond.

Sir Geoffrey Cornwell summoned his personal physician, Sir Patrick Whyte, who rushed from his private surgery to attend to his richest client. He was relieved to find that the emergency didn’t involve Cornwell directly.

“Are you ill in any way, my friend? The leg is causing problems?” the doctor inquired, accepting a brandy from Lady Patricia in the sitting room of the town home.

“No, Patrick. I’m in excellent health, thank you, and I apologize for taking you away from your work. Please have your office bill me for the time.” The older man was seated in a firm, ergonomically correct chair.

“And you, Patricia?” Whyte asked. He was puzzled.

“Good.” She inhaled deeply from a seven-inch Lancero cigar and exhaled with slow pleasure.

“You must stop smoking those cigars, m’lady,” he chided.

“Maybe when I get through with this latest box from Nicaragua. Probably not.” Her smile was amused.

“So, now, why am I here?” asked the physician.

Cornwell had called Whyte because the surgeon, one of the best in the U.K., was also involved in helping servicemen and women who had been injured in the line of duty and, as such, he was covered by the required strict security demands. What he saw or heard around those patients would never be repeated.

“Patrick, we need your assistance on a very sensitive matter. I’m afraid it’s a D-Notice affair, and I want to let you choose whether to undertake it. There is no problem if you do not wish to do so.” The Defense Notice was technically used to keep state secrets from being reported by the media, but it had become slang for many circumstances that were bound by the nation’s need for security.

Whyte waved it away. “Of course. You didn’t need to ask. How can I help? One of your SAS boys need patching up, does he?”

Sir Jeff clicked a keyboard and a large screen on the wall came to brilliant colored life, then he changed it to brilliant fluorescent white and a series of X-rays slid into place.

“Our lad took a hard blow to the back of the head. The doctors in Germany say there are also some herniated disks at the top of his spine and cartilage is seeping out and pressing on the nerves in his neck. Based on these X-rays, would you agree?”

Patrick Whyte stood and moved closer to the screens, studying the pictures. He traced his forefinger around, put his hands on his hips, and laughed. “No, I most certainly would not.”

Lady Pat interrupted, her face reddening. “Why, Patrick? This is a serious injury.”

“And one that can be repaired with a single level anterior cervical fusion.”

“Speak the King’s English, for God’s sake, Patrick,” snapped Sir Jeff.

“Basically, I would slit the throat, go to the spine, and screw in metal plates that would strengthen the vertebrae. It’s not the injury, my dear, it’s that ludicrous cover story. You’re going to have to bring me in all the way if you want my help. This is a hoax. It isn’t even your patient.”

The Cornwells exchanged looks. “Tell us,” said the knight to the member of the Royal College of Surgeons.

Whyte resumed his seat and crossed his legs, becoming professorial. “You said several times that our wounded warrior was a man. That X-ray is the skull of a woman. Now, let’s start at the beginning. May I have another brandy?”

Coastie knocked on the solid door of Dawkins’s cabin, some fifty yards from the main building. She had never been to his private quarters before, because Double-Oh tried to maintain a distance between himself and the others. He called out, “Come on in, and close the door.”

It was as if she were stepping into another dimension. This was no sloppy man cave but an immaculate three-room suite. No beer cans or pizza boxes, and soothing instrumental music was playing. It was dark, but her eyes adjusted quickly.

“How good are you as a salesperson?” he asked in a gruff voice that had shriveled the testicles of many a marine.

“I worked retail during the summers in high school. It wasn’t much more than pushing buttons on a computer screen and asking if the customer wanted cheese on the burger.” She leaned against the door, not in the least wary of Double-Oh, who was almost twice her size. Another woman might have quailed before him because he gave such an overpowering sense of being larger than life.

“Too bad. You’re going to have to do the sales job of your life in about five minutes. Beer’s in the fridge if you want one.”

“I’m good. You keep a nice place, big guy. What’s up?”

He came into the light so that she could see him better. “Kyle’s got himself into some trouble and needs our help. You think you’re ready?”

“Yes, I am. What kind of trouble?”

He straddled a kitchen chair and told her the story. “That’s the secret, girl. Now, I’ve called a meeting of our people in the great room, and will announce to that our good buddy Kyle Swanson has a broken neck and is in a coma. At that point, you break down crying as if your soul had been torn out. Everyone already knows the stress and grief you’ve suffered because of Mickey, and now it’s being compounded by the horrible fate that has befallen Kyle. You gotta sell this, Coastie. Make them believe. Can you do that?”

Beth Ledford knew she could do it. The very thought of losing Kyle or Double-Oh or any member of the old Task Force Trident was enough to bring on the tears. “Yeah. Then what? We just stay here among the maple trees? With Kyle hurting?”

“Of course not. Pack your bag. We’ll leave for London immediately.”