CHAPTER 2
They met with general Robash two days later, Thursday. As before, they all gathered at the Sniper School’s classroom. It was remote, quiet, and unobtrusive, and thus a perfect place for the purpose. The twittering birds and sunlight on red Georgia clay had always seemed to Kyle to be in ironic contrast to the controlled death discussed within.
“Sergeant Monroe, Sergeant Curtis.” Robash greeted the men as he walked in.
They stood to attention. “Sir,” they replied together.
“Please be seated. I’m informal, and we’re here to talk business.”
He fiddled with his unlit cigar for a few seconds while they relaxed their lanky forms out in chairs. Once everyone was comfortable, he said, “We’ve got a bit more lead time than last time, and better data to start with, as I said. We’ll go through what we can here, and more in theater. Also, Romania is more Western, urban, and modern, so it’s going to be a different operation.”
“What we’ve got, gentlemen, is a terrorist cell linked to al Qaeda who’s moving explosives from the east, across the Black Sea, through Romania, into Europe and parts of the Middle East, and killing people. We’ve linked them to bombs in Iraq, Bosnia, Germany, Israel, and Egypt. Likely the same group who supplied material for Spain last year and France this year. You’re going to help stop them the old-fashioned way.”
“Well-placed shots,” Kyle said.
“I knew you’d approve.” Robash grinned, eyes twinkling, and chewed on his cigar.
“The main pipeline is across the Black Sea through former Soviet Georgia and Azerbaijan. They were going through Turkey, but the Turks don’t take too kindly to it and shoot them readily. So they come from Pakistan’s fundamentalist areas and Iran, across the Caspian and Black Seas, into Romania and up into the rest of Europe.”
“Why not stop them on the sea?”
“We’re doing some of that, our SEALs and the Turkish Su Alti Taarruz, but there’s a lot of ships and it only takes a few pounds of explosives here and there. That slows them down. To stop them, we have to nail the command and control, which is based out of the Carpathians. We have names, we have the general area. What we can’t find is a base of operations. We're trying to get a live one for that information, or bag a few at meetings."
“How's the Romanian government on this?"
“It sucks, to be frank," Robash said, tapping his lip with his cigar stub. “We've made some inquiries, and they were favorable in response. Bu there’s so many holes over there that we can't risk setting it up. Unlike Pakistan, there's no dictator we can talk to as sole source. We’d have to talk it over with the cabinet and defense ministry That would mean leaks. All I can promise you is that I'll back you to the hilt if you get in trouble with the locals. But that does mean the mission is likely to be compromised."
“Mission, yes. but will the U.S. be in trouble?' Wade asked. Kyle understood what he was ask mg. Were they deniable and expendable?
“We've got a good cover story. Not that you wandered over the border, but something that will cause the whole incident to be forgotten in a couple of days. We won't leave your asses hanging out."
“Good. It's the only ass I've got," Kyle said.
“Beat me to it." came from Wade. He continued. “We'll be as discreet as we can until it hits the fan. I don't think we can promise after that, sir. Once we nail a bad guy, the rest seem to respond unfavorably."
“So we noticed last time," Robash said. He slipped the stogie back in his mouth. “If it’s quiet, walk out. If not, we'll come get you. But you won't have to wait long for pickup, we hope. Air Force Pararescue will be ready in Turkey, about two hours away, to do a low-key extraction. If it gets really messy, just go to ground and we’ll have some Rangers ready, too. We’ll drop them in. Of course, that means we’ll need permission from the Romanians.”
“What if they don’t want to give that permission?” Kyle asked.
“Then it’s going to be ugly, so try to throw yourselves on any local official. We’ll have the embassy and CIA take it from there.”
It didn’t sound very reassuring. Hope the locals played along and didn’t shoot them, or weren’t in cahoots with the terrorists, who likely spent much money locally for cover, or that it was quiet enough to allow them to sneak out or be roped by a chopper, or that some bureaucrat gave permission for a drop. Kyle said so.
“Yeah, it’s your turn in the barrel,” Robash said. “But we have set up a war game in that general time frame, forty to seventy days from now. If you can make this happen in that window, we can have an ‘accident,’ where a drop goes bad, and run you out in spare uniforms.” Kyle nodded. It wouldn’t be quite that easy. Governments generally wanted passports and ID from any foreign soldiers coming in to play games—and again on the way out, just in case they were spies trying to infiltrate. Still, it had obviously been thought about in some detail. “This is getting a bit spooky,” he said, referring to spycraft, not ghosts.
“Yes, it is,” Robash agreed. “But you’re the men we’ve got. It worked last time, even after everything turned to crap. It should work now.”
“Yeah, it should. I agree. Wade?”
“Hell, it’s why we’re here. Kick ass and take names, chew bubble gum and drink coffee. Or some junk.”
“We’re on,” Kyle confirmed with a nod, as team leader.
“Outstanding, gentlemen,” Robash said. “Our intel people will find what they can, you get in close and observe, pull out all the details and photos possible, and make the shots. Done right, we’ll severely cramp their planning and execution, which will make it easier for the locals to find them. We’ll feed you, you shoot. Rangers Lead the Way.”
“All the Way, sir,” they both replied.
“Stop shaving now and grow some hair. Scruffy is good. Moustaches are good.”
They nodded. That was expected under the circumstances, and thirty days was enough to get a bit shaggy.
Robash continued, “Now, as to transport, you’ll fly in on the Rotator as far as Aviano, Italy, catch a hop to Rome, fly commercial to Bucharest. After you get your gear and meet with the embassy intel people, they’ll brief you up to date and help arrange local accommodations as needed.”
“Your contact is Mister Mick Cafferty at the embassy, and he’ll provide you with local links for more stuff. You’ll rent a car, because you may have to travel some distance, and follow targets from the sea up to the mountains.”
“Communications?” Kyle asked. “Anything special?”
“Will be available there,” was the reply with a nod. “We’re giving you both new encrypted satellite cells plus Motorola civilian jobs with headset radios to keep in touch with. They look like cell phones, because they’re that, too.” That was something Kyle and Wade had discussed, so it was one less thing for them to chase down.
“Good,” Kyle replied. “What about other gear?”
“Laptop, PDAs, anything you can think of for cover,” Robash agreed.
“Cameras,” Wade said. “And other stuff to make us look like reporters. We might even get some footage you can leak or even sell.”
“Yes to the gear, maybe to the pictures, no to selling anything for cash due to conflict of interest, and no to the Army publicly admitting we did this.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” Wade agreed.
“Two stars says it’s fair, sergeant,” Robash grinned while tapping his collar insignia. It was friendly. “But if you get a chance to get good pictures without risking the mission, by all means do. It’s PR, it’s also evidence and intelligence.”
“Yes, sir,” Wade said. He looked happy.
Kyle was fairly happy, too. It was definitely going to be a better mission than the last one. The Army did learn from mistakes on occasion.
“What about disposable assets?” Kyle asked, humor in his voice. Though the question was real and serious.
“Your mission cash is going to be U.S. dollars, euros, and lei,” Robash stated.
“Lei? Like the Hawaiian wreath?”
“Same spelling, different language. We’ll make sure you get leid,” he joked.
“About time the Army took care of important needs like that,” Wade returned.
“So we do have on-site intel this time?” Kyle asked.
“Yes. CIA has information from the Romanians, their own digging and whatever they get from our intel-sharing program. Of course, the Saudis and the Pakistanis only tell us as much as they think won’t send the Wahhabis into a bombing frenzy, and there’s so many holes in their intel that we have to double-check all of it. But you’ll have in-nation backup. That was the big problem last time; we assumed the starting intel was accurate.”
“Yeah,” Kyle said. After a moment he added, “Sir.” He didn’t want to think about that last mission, or the one before it. Whenever there was a screwup, someone died, and there was always a screwup. All you could hope for was that it was someone else who took the bullet, and that the mission got accomplished anyway.
“Also, we’ve got a month to prepare. Gather what you need and train up. I’ve got you a language briefing, a political briefing, and some tourist books to read so you’re familiar with the area.”
“Good,” Kyle said. Robash was a good man, and tried his damnedest to take care of his troops. He also accepted responsibility for mistakes and tried to prevent recurrences. In this cover-your-ass-and-pass-the-blame era, that was something to inspire confidence.
“Have you given any thought to weapons yet?” Robash asked.
“Yes, sir,” Kyle said. “I’ve got a list.”
“Good. Finalize it, find NSN numbers on everything you can, and push it through Colonel Wiesinger. You remember him?”
“Yes, sir,” Kyle said. Wiesinger was the nominal intermediary between them and Robash, through 3rd Infantry Division, whom they had been temporarily assigned to for the last mission. Kyle remembered him as an overbearing ass more concerned with administrative details, most of which he got wrong, and throwing around his weight, which Kyle had heard was considerable and above Army standards, than with getting a job done.
Still, there was nothing in Army regs that said you had to like people you served with, or that they had to be competent. You just did what you had to and tried to keep a safe distance from idiots. Wiesinger was in Washington, only at the end of a phone line. That seemed a safe distance to Kyle.
After emailing his list in, he wasn’t so sure.
He spent all morning the next day looking at National Stock Numbers, with their thirteen digits, all seeming to start with 8 and with a 00 or 01 in the fifth and sixth places. Everything in the military, from buttons and paperclips to tanks, had an NSN. At least Kyle could look them up on computer. He’d heard horror stories of the days when they’d been in huge binders.
The radios and other communication gear, the cell phones and PDAs, already were listed and numbered. The weapons were a bit trickier. Wade had read up and decided to go with an AK104, a later, better variant. A few did exist in the U.S. military for training purposes and clandestine missions, but were not readily available. The suppressors, on the other hand, were custom, and the takedown Ruger had never been issued.
It took some time to find a soldier at the post armory who could tell him which form to use to request custom-made weapons. Then he had to provide justification, in the form of a mission order. Naturally, being non-standard, those were questioned. If he’d ordered a bomber and a nuke, likely they would have flown in within the day, no questions asked; they had numbers. But try doing something different. . .
He knew there was a problem when the phone rang. He could feel it. Someone had seen the request, called in on the orders, asked for a decision from higher up, and now shit was rolling downhill. He also knew who the problem was before he picked it up.
He’d barely identified himself when the ranting started.
“Sergeant Monroe, why are there civilian weapons on this list? And mods for your personal sidearm?” It was Wiesinger, of course.
“Easiest and best way to handle the job, sir,” Kyle said. He supposed it did look a bit funny, but he’d included a detailed write-up of what and why.
“You’re wanting a militia survival-nut .22 with space-age gadgets, and a silencer for a very expensive personal pistol, plus extensive custom work to a cheap-ass former Commie rifle. Any idea how that looks to Uncle Sam, Sergeant?”
“Sir, I included an explanation for the request,” he said. “It’s—”
“Yeah, I read it. Nice try. But I’m not going for it. You can use standard Army issue rifles and carbines, or buy something locally with the cash you’ll be issued. A local weapon which you will not attempt to bring back CONUS this time, you understand.” CONtinental U.S. The man was too much an official prig to say “Stateside.”
“Sir,” Kyle started, then took a second for a very deep breath to get his anger under control.
This pencil-pushing REMF was going to be a pain in his ass. “Sir, we need to be discreet, and we need accurate weapons for intermediate range. The two circumstances are contradictory in nature, and therefore—”
Wiesinger cut him off, which was a shame, as he thought he’d sounded properly bureaucratic.
“You’re not going to be discreet with a God-knows-how-expensive pistol with a silencer on the end. You’re a goddamned soldier, not James Fucking Bond!”
There was just no way this jerk was going to grasp what they were doing. He could try to explain that no one should see the pistol until too late to worry about it, that few people including soldiers would be familiar enough with the hotrod gun market to identify it, and that it was backup only for close range in an urban environment, but it would be a waste of breath. “As you say, sir,” he said.
“Just do your damned job and don’t try to think too much, Monroe,” Wiesinger said.
“No problem, sir. I’ll leave it to you.” He gritted his teeth and scowled. Ten more seconds. He just needed to hold on ten more seconds.
“You do that. Resubmit your list and I’ll approve everything reasonable.” His voice had a sneering tone that almost pushed Kyle over the edge.
“Yes, sir,” he agreed, and waited for the click.
He placed the phone carefully down, dropped his fists to his desk, and clenched and shook. He hated what was going to happen next, but he was damned if some desk-warming bean counter was going to screw Kyle’s mission over an amateur opinion of how it should be done.
Deep breath, he told himself. Deep breath. He let the shakes and the flush subside.
That done, he leaned back and smiled faintly. He punched another number into the phone and leaned back in his chair.
“General Robash? I seem to have run into a problem . . .”
*****
When Kyle finished the call, he turned to see the school commander standing in the doorway, smiling faintly.
The current commander of the Sniper School and Kyle’s immediate commander was Captain Schorlin. He was not yet thirty, but deadly competent and with a very sharp mind. “TDY again, Kyle?”
“Er, yes, I meant to tell you, sir. But we’ve been busy.”
“It’s okay,” Schorlin smiled. “The general did brace me first. He’s not stealing you from under me.”
“That’s good,” Kyle said. He realized he hadn’t thought about his chain of command and how his leaving would affect the training schedule. All of a sudden, he was back, his mind working on exercise problems and thinking about the weather and curricula. He shook his head to come back to the matter at hand. “We’re not clearing post for about a month, but I’ll be TDY at once, briefing and prepping. I’ll be using my office here, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. If it helps you, and lets me claim the materials on our budget.”
“Thanks, sir. As to mission, I’m not sure. I’d say at least thirty days. Maybe longer.” He frowned slightly. This was rather open-ended.
“Just do come back, Kyle. We need you here.”
“Planning on it, sir. I’m not looking for fame, just to do a job. Can you do me a favor and watch out for Lucas? He’s overeager with the students, and . . .”
Schorlin cut him off with a faint smile. “We’ll manage, Sergeant. Go kill terrorists.”
Kyle smiled despite himself. “Yes, sir.”
*****
The weapons were delivered despite Wiesinger’s complaints. No doubt he was shitting a brick somewhere in the bowels of the Pentagon, Kyle thought, smiling thinly to himself. Not that he gave a rat’s ass.
Actually, he did. Anything that inconvenienced a bureaucrat was a good thing. It wasn’t that most of them were bad, though most were, but that almost all of them got out of the habit of thinking. Choose an option A through G. Refer to manual 35-10. Fill out form NMS-2112 in triplicate. Why think, when one could refer the decision elsewhere? And when enough decisions got referred, nothing got done.
Although, Kyle thought, where the government generally was concerned, that might not be a bad thing.
He called Wade and they got together at his apartment. Technically, the weapon shouldn’t be there. But it was a private place to meet and the weapon was perfectly civilian legal if a bit unusual in the configuration in question. Kyle made the decision, and there was no one to know he’d violated the reg. Except Wade.
The little Ruger and kit was as Kyle had said. It had been purchased new from Butler Creek, under the category of “training weapons,” which wasn’t entirely false; they were going to train with it. The receiver and its custom folding stock were one assembly, with the barrel separate. It assembled as a break action shotgun would, the fore end snapping in place, thanks to Ruger’s clever wedge attachment for the barrel/receiver mate. The case also held a fine Leupold scope, two factory ten-round rotary magazines, and two twenty-five-round curved box magazines. The barrel was short, barely legal for civilian use, barely long enough for good velocity. It couldn’t be shortened further, being a wrapped carbon-fiber sleeve around a stainless steel liner, with a screw adjustment for tension. “That’s going to make a silencer hard,” Wade commented. There was no way to thread the carbon.
“No,” Kyle said. “G-Tech in Indiana is building one that slips over the front sight, from aluminum, that will muffle it down to nothing Light weight, thirty-eight decibel reduction.”
“Damn!” Wade said. “That’s as close to silent as you get. Subsonic ammo?” With the muzzle blast dissipated and no supersonic crack, the weapon would be untraceable even in the dark.
“Yes, but also some hypervelocity,” Kyle said, “I’ll see if CCI can special-load us some even hotter than their Stinger loads. Damned near twenty-two-magnum energy. We won’t always want close and quiet, after all, and pistols aren't the best for sniping.”
“ ‘Aren’t the best,’ ” Wade replied, snickering “Aren’t you funny?”
“Anyway,” Kyle said. “It fits in a standard briefcase with room to spare for ammo, we can carry extra in our pockets if need be, I’ll fit with a picatinny rail for the scope and whatever else, and I think with practice we can get down to thirty seconds to uncase, assemble, and shoot.”
“That sounds like fun,” Wade said. “The practice, I mean. Not that gapping terrorists is less fun.”
“Remember to be professional,” Kyle replied with a grin.
“Always,” Wade said. “But there’s nothing wrong with enjoying my work.”
“Right.”
“Going to use that scope?” Wade asked. “We’ll take it along. I’ll also bring an AN/PV10 scope, in case we need to shoot at night. Actually, I’d prefer to shoot at night.”
“Suppressed .22 in thick, cold, humid air in the dark would be ideal,” Wade agreed. “So naturally, we’ll have to do it in daylight.”
“Yeah, Murphy’s already packed his bags, I’m sure. Anyway, we’re waiting on the suppressors at my end, and CCI’s hottest ammo. How’s yours?”
“Got the AK,” Wade acknowledged. “The armorer is flogging it. It actually doesn’t need much, because the barrel’s the right length and it’s already got fiberglass furniture. He’s removing the bayonet lug and cleaning rod—I won’t need those—and threading it. So we’re waiting on a suppressor and some custom ammo. I ordered a thousand rounds from a civilian loader who insists that it won’t possibly work properly. I told him it was for a custom hunting pistol. He seemed to buy that.”
“Fair enough. Where’d you get the ballistics figures for the round?”
“I asked a ballistician at Natick Research Center, who checked with a physicist and with Olin. They offered to load some rounds up, but it would take four months and they have a two-hundred-thousand round minimum order.”
“Uh . . . yeah,” Kyle said. “So we’ll need to test this ammo, then.” It wasn’t a question. Sniping was as much science as art, and everything was checked and measured before being tried in the field.
“I figure to use half the ammo for practice,” Wade said. “Maybe more. I’m hoping not to shoot more than a magazine of the special stuff for keeps. Standard Eastern Bloc fodder can fill in the rest, and I’m taking some civilian stuff that I know is reliable, too. But I have a question.”
“Yes?” Kyle asked.
“How the hell do we get the weapons there?”
“I’m told State Department will ship them to the embassy, and that it’s done all the time.”
“Oh. Reassuring. I think.”
Kyle understood. They shipped special weapons into embassies all the time? How many operations like this were being run by the CIA, NSA, FBI, and God only knew how many other agencies?
“Yeah, that was my reaction.”