CHAPTER 1
Sergeant first class Kyle Monroe was doing the one thing everyone in the U.S. Army had to do: paperwork. Napoleon said that an army moved on its stomach, but the twenty-first-century U.S. Army moved on piles of paper and computer files, liberally lubricated with red tape.
Kyle was an instructor at the U.S. Army Sniper School. At the moment, no class was in session. That didn’t stop the paperwork. Nothing stopped the paperwork. It was an enemy more pervasive, insidious, and overwhelming than the Nazis, the Communists, Muslim terrorists, and the IRS combined. At least, that was Kyle’s opinion.
His phone rang, and he was glad for the distraction. “U.S. Army Sniper School, Sergeant First Class Monroe, this is not a secure line, how may I help you, sir or ma’am?” The official phrase rolled off his tongue without conscious thought. Because to think about a line that long just to say hello was ridiculous.
“Sergeant Monroe, I’m wondering if we might discuss another assignment?” said the gravelly, powerful voice at the other end. Kyle recognized it at once. General Robash
“I suppose we might, sir,” he said, stalling for a moment to think. The last “assignment” had been a temporary one, a month of sheer hell in the highlands of Pakistan. The end result, however, had been a dead al Qaeda leader, a Bronze Star with Combat V, a Purple Heart, and a sharp reduction in terrorist activity in Europe.
And, Kyle recalled, a very pretty young local woman who’d hired on as their translator, gruesomely killed by a burst of machine-gun fire. That, added to the death of his spotter in Bosnia before that, was a heavy burden on his soul.
The general interrupted his musing with, “Good, let me give you the basics. We can talk more if you say yes.”
“Go ahead, sir,” he prompted.
“Romania. We’ve got someone staging through there with explosives for Europe, and it’s causing sheer hell for the NATO forces in Yugoslavia, er, Bosnia-Herzegovina, or Macedonia . . . all over that Government of the Month Club, whatever the hell they’re calling it now.” Robash was joking slightly, Kyle could tell from his tone. The general was very familiar with that area and its geography and politics. He had a Ph.D. in international relations, after all.
“What’s the game plan, sir?” he asked.
“Similar to last time. You and Wade”—that would be Staff Sergeant Wade Curtis, his spotter for the last mission—“with whatever gear you deem necessary. We’ll insert you quietly, the CIA will furnish you with intel as to these assholes’ whereabouts, and you eliminate the problem with a well-placed bullet or two. Or fifty. Whatever it takes, as long as civilian casualties are minimized.”
Kyle thought for a moment. Romania was far better than the wastelands of the Afghan/Pakistan border, he thought. Europe had plenty of water, food he would be partially familiar with, phones, and—language trouble aside—the alphabets would have to be easier to work with than translating Pashto.
Still. . . “I’d like to consider it, sir. Can I let you know tomorrow?”
“Sure. I’ll have an outline emailed to you. Will be coming through secure in about thirty minutes.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be back with you ASAP.”
“Rangers Lead the Way, Kyle.” It was a friendly greeting and farewell from one Ranger to another.
“All the Way, sir,” he said, and hung up.
Kyle finished his day’s paperwork and drove home automatically. He didn’t even notice the trip until he found himself opening his apartment door. Another assignment performing as what amounted to a role as an assassin. He had no moral qualms about shooting terrorists, but he didn’t want to encourage the idea that he was a hired gun. Hollywood glamour aside, there were too many agencies with too many agendas for that to be a safe job. Sooner or later the odds would catch up with him.
He unlaced his boots and grabbed a Sprite from the fridge without taking off his shirt. At one time he’d been a light drinker. Then he’d lost his spotter and become a heavy’ drinker. Then he’d been a very light drinker after returning from Pakistan. Gradually, he’d stopped altogether. Heavy drinking made him morose and depressed, light drinking didn’t do much of anything. There was no point in wasting money for the flavor of cheap beer, and expensive beer was not something he’d ever learned to appreciate. So he stuck to soft drinks.
He sprawled back in his recliner. It and a good used loveseat that didn’t match were the only casual furniture in the room. He had a small desk and computer against the wall, with an office chair. If he ever invited more than three people over, he’d need to get some cheap plastic seats.
The TV was in front of him, but he left it off. Right now he needed to think, and TV and thinking didn’t go together.
He stared at a place on the wall above it. On a cherrywood rack he’d built in the post hobby shop hung a World War I British Lee-Enfield rifle. It was uglier than hell, but had meaning for him.
The rifle had floated around for seventy years God knew where, then had been bought and refurbished by the U.S. government for the Afghan mujahideen during the early 1980s, with a shortened forestock and hard parkerized finish. After that, it found its way into Pakistan, where Kyle had bought it in a hole-in-the-wall shop for local use. It was less blatant and bulky than the massive M107 .50-caliber rifle he had taken, and better suited to the environment. At Kyle’s direction, a local smith had lengthened the butt ai built it up for precision shooting. The woe didn’t match, the finish was spotty, but it was amazingly accurate rifle for something so old and abused.
Battleworn, ugly, and deadly. It matched Kyle’s soul. Perhaps it was time to take it shooting again. Feel the kick, hear the roar, watch the bemused and bothered expressions at the piece of crap the sergeant was shooting.
Or maybe it was time to shoot something new. He sank back into his thoughts again.
A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. He rose automatically, quite sure who was, and opened it.
He’d been correct. It was Staff Sergeant Wade Curtis, a former Sniper School instructor and his spotter during the last mission. They were friends, despite being posted separately, and the fact that Wade was at Benning rather than his current posting of Meade meant that there’d already been some planning for this mission. Wade was grinning broadly, his mouth a yard of gleaming white teeth against his coffee skin. He carried a small cooler.
Kyle smiled, reached out a hand and pulled Wade into the apartment, into a manly hug and grip on his shoulder. “My man,” he said in greeting.
“Back in action! Their most hair-raising mission yet! Can our heroes top their previous brilliant exploits?”
“Get stuffed!” Kyle laughed. Wade had a knack for humor that took the edge off.
“How ya been, Kyle?”
“Getting better, I suppose. Have a seat,” he said, gesturing.
“Thanks.” Wade dropped down into the couch, the cushions whuffing out air from the impact of his 180 pounds. Both men were tall, lean, and in formidable shape for their early thirty-something ages. They were “old” by Army standards, but still at the far end of the curve as far as physical fitness.
“So what do you think? Romania. Europe, at least. Theoretically Western and modern,” Kyle offered to get things started. “We need weapons we can carry on the street that aren’t obvious. Stuff that blends in.”
“I’m waiting for them to figure out I don’t blend in some places,” Wade said.
Kyle laughed aloud, because he’d been thinking the same thing during their last mission Blacks did not blend in in Central Asia, and likely not in Eastern Europe, either.
“Yeah, you laugh,” Wade said. “Someday we’ll go to Zaire and I’ll be the one amused.”
“It might be one of those tribes who wear beaded skirts. You won’t laugh then.”
“Right,” Wade said. “So assuming we’re doing this, what are we going to use that’s discreet?” he asked, bringing the subject back to the mission. “Unless and until they change the rules of engagement on us?”
“I was thinking of a Ruger 10-22. Have you seen the takedown kits for backpackers?”
“No,” Wade said. “What about them?”
“Carbon fiber barrel, stainless liner. Slots in and snaps in with the fore end. Stock folds. Whole thing fits in a briefcase. Add a good scope, bipod and a silencer. We can use it near witnesses and no one will ever know.”
“Such nifty toys the free market system come up with. God Bless American Capitalist Greed," Wade said and they both laughed. “But how do we get close?”
“If it’s city, we’ll get a room or roof nearby and drop him. Cities are much the same tactically, whether it’s Bucharest or Hong Kong. And I did some in Bosnia.” That brought up more memories, though they were just ghosts now. “If he’s hiding in the mountains, then we either us a real rifle—the AR-10 will do fine—or we do Ranger sneak and get close enough to bag him with the .22 or pistols.”
“Given the choice, I prefer distance,” Wade said. “It’s neater.”
“Sure,” Kyle agreed. “I don’t want another knife fight if we can avoid it.”
“I’m not sure about the AR-10, though,” Wade said. “It’s blatantly American and new. We can get a Romanian SKS or AKM or even an AK-74 that will blend in much better.”
“Hmm. . .” Kyle considered. “Don’t they suck rocks, accuracy wise?”
“Yes,” Wade agreed. “But from what I understand, that’s mostly an ammo issue. If we work one over well and load some good ammo, it’s discreet. We can fit it with a suppressor, and have something good for four-hundred-meter shots.”
“I like it,” Kyle said. “Good idea. But let’s stick to seven point six two, not the five point four five.” The older AKs and SKSs came in 7.62 x 39 caliber. The newer AK74 was in 5.45 x 39. That was a good battlefield infantry round, but fast and with a tendency to oscillate. The 7.62 was a bit more stable, and being older, more common and nondescript. Properly loaded, it would be better for long-range shooting. It lacked the power of 7.62 x 51 NATO, the .308 Winchester round; or .338 Lapua or .300 Winchester Magnum, the monsters of the precision-shooting world, but one had to use what was least obvious. The only good large-caliber round in the area would be 7.62 x 54 Rimmed, the old Russian round that fit the Dragunov sniper rifle. But that was a large piece of hardware, and hard to hide.
“So, an old AK or SKS, and sixteen inches of barrel?” Wade asked.
Kyle nodded. “That should be accurate enough, if what you say is true.”
“Good. The bottom folding stock is an inch longer than the fixed wooden, which will let us pack it down in luggage or under a coat, and we can get a cheekpiece that snaps on for better long range.”
“You seem to know the weapon better than do. You take charge of it, you carry it. I’ll have the Ruger.”
“Good division of force,” Wade said. ‘T want some civvy ten-round magazines that are less bulky than the thirties, say two, with match ammo. Hell, it may as well all be match ammo. But we can load up with local 7.62 for suppression. Better sculpt the grips and stock, float the barrel, use a match barrel, the usual state-of-the-art precision modifications for which we, the world’s best observers and shooters, are justly infamous for.”
“You should switch to public affairs and writ press releases,” Kyle quipped, chuckling an rubbing his eyes. “Okay, so the gunsmith is going to be busy with your weapon, the contractors are going to be busy with mine, and Robash is going to be busy having his people write checks.”
“You know, I think that’s a very good division of labor,” Wade said. “Meanwhile, we shall study the maps and drink beer. That way, when they change the rules on us yet again, it might make sense.”
“Pistols,” Kyle reminded him.
“Pistols, of course. I need a suppressor for the Beretta. Damn, this is starting to feel very James Bondish. Think I should carry a Walther PPK?”
“.32 caliber?” Kyle asked, eyebrows raised.
“Right. Better stick to the nine. You going to leave that cannon of yours behind?”
“No way,” Kyle said firmly, shaking his head once. Kyle had a highly customized Ed Brown 1911, smooth and easy to draw, accurate and reliable, with all the internal mods necessary to shoot any junk ammo that came along. Typically, though, he shot high-quality ball, or jacketed hollowpoints when allowed. “I can get a silencer for a .45. Brown will have to make a threaded barrel to fit. And Uncle Sam is paying for it. They’d have to, anyway. And this way their name isn’t on the weapons.”
“What about your .380?” Wade asked. Kyle had a Colt Mustang stainless he carried for backup.
“If it gets that bad, noise is the least of our problems. I’ll take it as is.”
“It could really suck to be us.”
“Oh, Romanian jails can’t be fun,” Kyle said frowning. They would want to check on that They might be really unpleasant, and there was a strong if sporadic government presence to work around. “But the cops will have to deal with the government. And we don’t want to be caught in the first place.”
“We didn’t want to get caught last time, re member?” Wade said.
“Yeah. Nasima.” It was still a sore spot for Kyle, and would be for a long time. Especially the occasional half-snide comments he overheard about his “girlfriend.” She’d been a remarkable lady. It had been a strictly professional relationship, though he’d certainly wondered what it would have been like romantically. He wasn’t sure if the strict professionalism made it easier or tougher. All he knew was she was dead, and it was a waste of a good person. Then there’d been Jeremy, killed by that Bosnian countersniper. And why was that coming to mind now? Likely because they were going to the same part of the world again. What had Robash’s joke been: “The Government of the Month Club.”
Sadly, that was a fairly accurate statement.
His reverie was interrupted by Wade saying. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up a sore spot.”
“It’s okay. I’m not riddled with guilt. Just sad.” He really was okay. But it still hit him now and then. In which case, it was good he wasn’t a drinker.
“At least the alphabet is familiar,” he said, to get back on track and not dwell on life. “And Romanian’s not far from Spanish.”
“Really?” Wade said. “I guess that makes sense, given the name. I would have figured it for some Slavic thing if you hadn’t said anything.”
“Yeah. I had four years of Spanish in high school. A few days listening to a Spanish radio or TV station should get me brushed off and cleaned up. We should be able to manage. We’ll still need to talk to Mister Gober, though.”
“Right.” Bill Gober was a civilian contractor who seemed to know every language on Earth. He’d drilled them in Dari and Pashto before the trip to Pakistan, and they were assuming they’d meet him for this trip. “What else? This is essentially clandestine and more cloak-and-daggerish than front-line military.”
“Yeah,” Kyle agreed. They’d still need a lot of military hardware, but they’d have to trim the excess. “I suppose we can look like backpackers. Enough of them in Europe. We could pass you off as Algerian or Moroccan.”
“Kyle, you don’t know much about African history, do you?” Wade was chuckling and shaking his head.
“No,” he admitted. “Why?”
“Because we all look alike to you,” he said. His tone was friendly, though. “My ancestry is west and southern African. North African blacks have a lot of Berber, Arabic, and Mediterranean influence. I don’t look like them. I look like an American.”
“Oh,” was all Kyle could say. He was too embarrassed to continue.
“No sweat,” Wade said, breaking the pause “We can be reporters. We can use a good telephoto for initial spotting, and get some intel with the cameras while we’re at it. That will explain us having backpacks to travel with, and money . . . we are getting money, right?”
“I assume so,” Kyle said. Last time, they’d been handed $50,000 in cash in three currencies for expenses.
“Check on it. We need the money for our tuxes and to impress the fine ladies of Eastern Europe. Assuming we can find a couple with less facial hair than you.”
“Funny. I’d rather have it for renting cars, bribing petty thugs, and eating, thank you.”
“Well, there’s that, too,” Wade agreed. “But think we can pull off being reporters. We’ll take a laptop, audio recorders, and all that crap, wonder if we can get a good pair of walkie talkies and justify it?”
“They all look the same. I think Motorola has a military contract. It wouldn’t be surprising for reporters to have them. And we’ll have a satellite cell phone again, I’m sure.”
“Good,” Wade said. “Let’s make lists and cross check. Mind if I use your computer for a few minutes?” He rose as he spoke.
“It’ll be an hour, as slow as that dial-up relic is, but sure.”
“No hurry. And at least this time, we’re doing the chasing.”
“We agree we’re doing it, then?” Kyle asked, though he didn’t think either of them had doubted it. All they’d had to do was get in the right state of mind.
“Sure. We’re soldiers. It has an immediate, positive payoff. And it’s what we signed up to do.”
“Yes, that it is. Kill enemies. And these scum are everyone’s enemies. I just don’t want to lose any more friends.”
“That’s always what we want. . . but Kyle, even Nasima was a volunteer. It’s painful, but better than kids in day-care centers or on buses.” He stared levelly at Kyle.
“Yeah, I know,” Kyle said. It was true. It still hurt like hell. “Yeah, let’s do it.”
Wade reached down and drew a bottle of Heineken from his cooler, went to the kitchen nook, popped the cap and poured a bare taste in a glass for Kyle. He kept the bottle. “Toast?” he suggested.
It was barely a mouthful of beer. Kyle decided that was acceptable. He raised it and said, “Sure. Absent companions.”
“Absent companions,” Wade replied.
“And death to terrorist assholes.”
“Amen, brother.”