Sniper

PROLOGUE

January 10, 2008

Afghanistan/Pakistan border

Ten meters to go. Not far, but in the barren wasteland of Pakistan, it can be a mile for someone intent on not being seen. The rocky outcrop beckoned as the two camouflaged figures slid forward like moving parts of the earth. They were now thirteen clicks inside Pakistan, a place where they were not allowed; a very dangerous place to be.

At the rocks, one of the two men brushed aside the string-like material that hung from his helmet and removed an awkward rifle from its sand-colored cloth case. Snapping the lens covers from the scope, he squinted through the eyepiece at a distant cluster of men gathered around an open fire. Beyond the cluster was a group of clapboard buildings, several obstacle courses and a firing range with targets at varying distances. The camouflaged figures were at the right place.

The second man opened a smaller case and removed a spotting scope and range finder. He set both instruments on short tripods and began viewing the same knot of men

Do you see him, Eagle? asked the first man in a low voice.

The second man slowly moved the spotting scope from left to right, careful not to jiggle its mounts. Not yet, Hawk, he whispered.

Check on distance.

Eagle peered through his range finder. Distance 1,942 yards to the center of group.

Wind?

Minimal, maybe two from the left. Suggest you allow five inches.

Any target yet?

Negative. No, wait. He’s coming out of the tent.

Positive?

Eagle studied the target through the spotting scope as he took a seat next to the fire. Positive, target confirmed. He’s our man.

Third from right at the fire?

Affirmative. Yellow shawl.

Hawk placed his forefinger on the set trigger and squeezed. I have target with yellow shawl. Secondary?

Eagle studied the group. Next to primary on your left. Large man with red band on turban. You see?

Affirmative. Ready to fire.

No change in wind or distance. Go fire.

Hawk slid his finger to the rear trigger and squeezed. The recoil of the 82A1 obscured his view for a fraction of a second, but the next round was on the way before the first reached its target.

Eagle watched through his spotting scope as the first victim was thrown from his stool like a rag doll in a windstorm. The secondary target’s only reaction was to turn his head toward his fallen leader, just before he, too, vaulted from his seat.

The sniper team watched as the remainder of the rebels scrambled in all directions in search of cover from the unknown blast of death. The score for the day: Eagle and Hawk two, Taliban zero.

CHAPTER ONE

December 20, 2009 - 1920 hours

Los Angeles, California

Using a dimmed headlamp, Sayid al Masri moved carefully through the inside of the panel truck, counting each box of dynamite. Twelve fifty-pound cases, not nearly as many as he would like, but the six hundred pounds represented over half the explosives at their disposal. Properly placed, a bomb of this size should end the lives of many infidels.

At the head of the storage area, directly behind the driver’s seat, was the most important component of their bomb: the detonator. The single electric blasting cap was inserted into one stick of dynamite, and then replaced into its case. Taped to the top of the case of dynamite was a cell phone. Its call number had previously been entered into the autodial of Sayid’s personal cell phone. Wires from the blasting cap were hooked directly to the taped phone. One touch of the autodial button would arm the detonator; one touch of the number 3 button, and . . .

Satisfied, Sayid moved from the van to a dimly-lit garage where eight soldiers of Allah awaited his arrival. It is a great day! declared Sayid, looking at each of the men who would soon become martyrs. Not since the towers fell in a heap of ashes has such a blow been struck against the pigs of the West.

Murmurs of assent came from each of the shadowy figures.

I wish to go over our plan one more time, said Sayid, so everyone is aware of what he must do. In groups of four, you will arrive at the south terminal in separate cars. The first car will stop at Gate One; the second at Gate Four. At the same time, I will deliver our little surprise to Gate Ten. At my signal, you will leave your cars and enter the terminal. There should be long lines of passengers waiting to buy tickets; they will be encumbered by that silly strapping that keeps them in line, so begin the killing there. However, look for armed police and take them out first. The people will be like frightened cattle and stampede toward Gate Ten. When sufficient numbers have arrived, I will remotely detonate the bomb!

The eight soldiers of Allah murmured their approval. They were ready!

As the caravan of two cars and the panel truck moved down the freeway toward the airport, Sayid set the pace, making sure they did not violate the speed law. Each vehicle spaced enough distance apart so if one encountered trouble, the others could proceed with the mission. This, of course, would not apply if it was the vehicle carrying the explosives.

At the airport exit, traffic built up, causing a lengthy delay at a traffic light. Sayid was driving the first vehicle and made it across the intersection, but the other two cars were stranded behind another red light.

Looking intently into the rearview mirror, Sayid drove as slowly as possible, hoping the balance of his group would catch up. His attention diverted, he drove too far to the center and his front tire struck a traffic divider.

The impact caused the van to jump a foot off the pavement and the sensitive cargo made a loud noise as it resettled. Back in the proper lane, Sayid let a held breath escape. The tire had survived, as did his cargo, and no one had noticed.

He drove slowly past the early gates and maneuvered the van to the curb thirty feet past Gate Ten. Opening his door, he looked back toward Gates One and Four, but there was no sign of the other two vehicles. He locked the doors of the van and walked to the other side of the street, back toward Gate One. Stopping just shy of the area where the two cars had been directed to go, Sayid could see his van as well as where the other cars would to stop.

After five minutes, a uniformed policeman walked up to the van and tried the locked doors. He circled the van, peering through the only windows in the driver’s compartment. A sign at the curb stated the obvious: DRIVERS MUST STAY WITH VEHICLES. Looking around the busy crowd for the driver, the policeman began speaking into a two-way radio attached to the shoulder of his blue uniform. Sayid looked again toward Gates One and Four; still no sign of his colleagues.

Something was wrong. Could they have missed the turn? They had practiced the route many times, but always in the daylight; things looked different in the dark. Looking back towards the van, Sayid was shocked to see a tow truck hooking chains to it. He could wait no longer!

A woman’s scream brought Sayid’s attention back to Gate One where four men had just jumped from a dark sedan. Just before they disappeared through the glass doors, a single burst of automatic fire sprawled the screaming woman to the sidewalk.

The second car careened to a stop in the middle of the road at Gate Four. As the men left the car, sporadic gunfire could be heard from inside the terminal. The terminal doors were now alive with frightened passengers exiting the building, and the new arrivals began methodically cutting them down in a hail of gunfire. As the second group approached the entry door, two of his men staggered and fell to the ground. The return fire was coming from the policeman who, moments before, had been directing the removal of his van.

Sayid had no gun so he tried to shout a warning about the approaching policeman, but he could not be heard over the din of screams and gunfire. A third assailant fell to the ground, the blood from a fatal head wound splattering against the glass of the door. The last remaining fighter spun around, bringing his machine pistol to bear when a .38 caliber slug caught him squarely in the chest.

The last shots from inside the terminal were from someone’s sidearm, proof that all of his men were now dead. With a gleeful look, Sayid turned to the panel truck that was still hooked to the tow truck. Without haste, he removed his cell phone from his pocket.

Looking skyward, he pressed the button that armed the bomb.

The walkway was now full of crying, hysterical people who had exited the terminal.

Sayid’s smile broadened. Goodbye, you filthy dogs! he shouted, and pressed the number 3. Nothing happened. In a panic, he went through the sequence again; press autodial, press number 3. Still nothing. The curb! He had hit the curb! It must have disconnected the wires to the detonator.

Terribly disappointed, and shocked by the overall failure, Sayid turned and made his way through the thickening crowd. At a waste disposal can, he discarded his cell phone, looking back one more time at a crowd that should have been in pieces.

Next time, pigs! There will be a next time!

CHAPTER TWO

June 12, 2010 - 0930 hours

Office of Jerome Gonzales

Section Chief, Federal Bureau of Investigation

San Francisco, California

Section Chief Jerome Gonzales listened to the muted buzz emanating from a small red phone purposely secured in a locked desk drawer. Without haste, he selected a key from a ring attached to his belt and unlocked the drawer. Lifting the receiver, Jerome asked a simple question: Are we secure?

We are on a secure line, was the calm response.

How can we be of service?

Time presses. We must move forward.

Gonzales smiled at the almost Boy Scout use of daily passwords in the name of security. The little red phone was part of a new program that ordered all federal agencies to share information with each other. Total cooperation, they said, but to-date the only time Gonzales’ phone rang was to conduct a test. However, the unknown voice at the other end of the line had given the proper code answers, so his next step in the written directive was to identify the caller. And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?.

This is Amos Latermer, Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security.

The smile faded from the Section Chief’s face. The name rang a bell, a very loud bell. This was not a test. I apologize, Deputy Secretary. I just assumed this was another test of the system.

No apology necessary, but I can assure you this is not a test, Latermer said and hesitated.

Jerome Gonzales thought maybe the Deputy Secretary was trying to get his thoughts in order, or perhaps wondering if passing on any classified information to someone who didn’t take government directives seriously was the wise thing to do?

But then Latermer began to speak. After 9/11, a number of names came to our attention as people of interest who needed vetting, with some rejected, while others stayed on the radar. One of those names, Mohammed Mahfouz, was placed on the no-interest list after a year of monitoring. Mahfouz is an Egyptian Nationalist here in the U.S. on an educational visa and is in his third year at Sacramento State. During his year of scrutiny, he showed no signs of subversion or any connection to al-Qaida or any other Jihad group. Are you following me so far, Jerome?

In Jerome’s mind, the question was an insult, like a father schooling his small son in proper table manners. Earlier, his answer might have been quite different, negative and to the point. But that was before 9/11 and the cooperation directive. All federal agencies: FBI, CIA, ICE. BATF, DOD, and any federal agency in the business of law enforcement or intelligence-gathering were directed to share all pertinent information that might lead to the prevention of future terrorist attacks on the Unites States. Full cooperation was expected.

From the bowels of this new mandate rose the new kid on the block, who quickly turned into the 500-pound gorilla: The Department of Homeland Security.

Some in the FBI resisted the directive, relying on long-established habits of competition between agencies. Jerome assumed those individuals were now monitoring the offshore fishing trade in Alaska, the drug trade in the deserts of New Mexico, or worst yet, looking for a new line of work. So, Jerome’s answer was predictable.

Yes, sir, I am.

Fine. Our lack of interest changed when a radio monitor operating in Iraq picked up some scatter that mentioned Mr. Mahfouz’s name on two occasions. Three days ago, we placed a tap on his line and have developed some interesting and pressing information.

Jerome again thought of interrupting, but decided silence was the best approach.

It now appears that our friend may be a key member of a newly-formed Jihadist cell bent on doing harm to our country.

A brief pause allowed room for a question.

It sounds serious, sir. How can we be of help?

We want you to put together a team to make a stealth raid on Mohammed Mahfouz’s home and place him under arrest. It is important that he not have time to destroy any records, and he must be taken alive. So, surprise and stealth are your mandates.

Jerome suppressed a smile. Yes, sir, I have just the team in mind to accomplish that goal.

Another pause, perhaps to evaluate the sincerity of Jerome’s response.

Fine. Before noon, you will have a visit from a courier with a sealed packet containing all the pertinent information you will need. Time is of the essence, Mr. Gonzales, so put this matter on the front burner.

With this last curt order, the line went dead.

As Jerome Gonzales replaced the little red phone, locking the drawer, he allowed a smile to crease his features. Yes, Mr. Big Shot,. I have the ideal team in mind. Led by William Wild Bill Collins, an ex Los Angeles Swat Team member. Just freshly returned from suspension, and perhaps a little trigger happy, but a man who always gets the job done.

June 12, 2010 - 1230 hours

Office of Amos Latermer, Deputy Secretary

Department of Homeland Security

For a long moment, Amos Latermer let his hand rest on the red phone before closing and locking the drawer. It was there again. Something about the tone of the man’s voice reeked with insolence. This was not the first time Amos had detected such disrespect. Most of the so-called old-timers in law enforcement looked down their noses at political appointees like himself, and his boss, for that matter.

For his part, he was a one-term congressman from an obscure district in upper Michigan. He lost his re-election bid by a scant two percent; an outcome Amos blamed on a low turnout. Yes, he had no experience in law enforcement, but he was also not stuck in old procedural ruts that slowed the wheels of justice. Besides, Amos Latermer was no dummy. He had a very workable philosophy: surround yourself with good and experienced people and take credit for their successes. Of course, you blamed them should anything go wrong.

Amos looked out across the conference table, where the fruits of that philosophy sat waiting for their meeting to resume. Robert Campbell Jr., General, U.S. Army, retired; Lawrence Ratkey, attorney, U.S. Justice Department; Joseph Carr, former Police Commissioner, Washington DC.

These men represented Latermer’s team, all chosen for their expertise in separate but equally important areas of concern relative to national security. Campbell was the cold-eyed military man, hell-bent on crushing anyone who would threaten his beloved country. Ratkey would keep in check any over-exuberance that might lead the team into legal problems. Carr, Amos thought, might well be the most important member of the team. Trained and tried in all forms of criminal activity, Carr could sniff out a crime that most men failed to see. And, after all, sabotage was just another crime. However, a crime that affected a hell of a lot more people. As Amos appraised the team before him, he couldn’t help but wonder what they thought of their new positions.

Robert Campbell sat in an erect military posture while he waited patiently for his new boss to begin the briefing. Despite his sixty-eight years, Robert’s trim body and lack of facial imperfections made him appear closer to fifty. His steel gray hair, cropped too short to part, showed no sign of thinning.

Glancing down at the sleeve of his dark blue suit, Robert mourned the past; he missed his uniform . . . the rows of ribbons, the braids and stars. In fact, he missed the military, the regimented life and the respect his position demanded. Now, after thirty years of service, he had passed into obscurity. From the beginning, Robert Campbell had his role models: Generals Eisenhower, MacArthur, Bradley, and the infamous George S. Patton. But they had their wars, wars that united a country with a common desire to win. Now each man would pass into history as heroes.

Of course, Robert had his war also, a war the U.S. was destined to lose, unpopular with most of the country, and where returning warriors were treated as criminals. Not a good scenario for placing his name in the history books. The invitation to join the Homeland Security Investigation Team gave him another chance to elevate his status; at least he hoped it would.

Lawrence Ratkey had listened attentively to the telephone conversation between Latermer and the FBI Section Chief in California. Again, they were tiptoeing through a legal minefield. Since the passing of the USA Patriot Act of 2001, tapping of telephone conversations between sources outside the country and people who reside in the U.S. without court approval were controversial. Even if the origin of the calls were from individuals known to be subversive, the questions of constitutional rights were raised by many. In the case of Mohammed Mahfouz, there had been no time to secure a court order and because of the possible seriousness of the situation, it was decided to proceed without one. This case had the earmarks of trouble if not closely guarded.

At thirty-five, Lawrence was the youngest, and the most important, he thought, of the three-man Homeland Security Investigation Team. A graduate of Harvard School of Law, Lawrence had risen rapidly in the U.S. Justice Department. With a reputation of dogged determination, sharpened by a keen knowledge of the law, he had been a standout in the group considered for this important job. Minute in size, with thinning hair and rimless spectacles, Lawrence didn’t say a lot, but when he did, everyone listened.

Joseph Carr, with his bushy eyebrows and a walrus mustache contributing to an almost menacing look of his piercing blue eyes, was D.C.’s ex-Police Commissioner. A block-like head set on a thick neck and body displayed a physical strength that would cause an average man to take a step or two backwards. His reputation for crime-busting in the nation’s capital was well-known and well-earned. Starting as a street cop, Carr had risen through the ranks despite his lack of a formal education. Some said his elevation to the top was accomplished by walking on the backs of fellow officers, but he was respected by most and feared by many. The search for what Amos dubbed The Top Cop spanned the entire nation, with Carr being the clear winner. Joseph had rough edges that would never be smoothed, but his inner strength and brashness was the balance the team needed.

With the telephone conversation ended, Joseph removed an empty Bulldog pipe from clinched teeth and sniffed at its bowl. This routine had to suffice since the no-smoking ban had gone into effect in all federal buildings. Just like these do-nothing bastards, he thought as he sniffed, spending valuable time passing meaningless laws while the whole country is in jeopardy. Carr shifted his vision toward Deputy Director Latermer hanging up his little red phone.

The expression on Latermer’s face left the definite impression that things might not have gone as well as hoped.

Returning his pipe to his mouth, Carr broke the long silence at the conference table. You look worried, Amos. Our boy in California not too cooperative?

Latermer shook his head. No, that’s not it. He said all the right things; it’s just that I’m not sure of— I hate the fact that we don’t have total control of all aspects of any operation. But, we have our orders, and we’ll find a way to live with them.

Carr removed the pipe from his mouth again, pointing the stem in the direction of the Deputy Secretary. We could have a team assembled, fly up to wherever that bastard lives, and be at his house before dark.

I know you could, replied Amos, and I appreciate the offer, but there’s a little matter of our mandate to share information and responsibility with all federal agencies. In this case, that means the FBI. And besides, it’s too late; I’ve already passed it on.

June 12, 2010 - 2130 hours

Highway 101

Arcata, California

Special Agent Bill Collins of the Federal Bureau of Investigation shifted his attention from the California State Highway map to the city map of Arcata. Only three miles to go before he and his three-agent team were to arrive at the seaside city of 16,000 people. Tom Hardy was at the wheel, with Joel Johnston and Larry Becker sitting in the back seat. Bill had worked with this group before, and their combined fifty-five years of service in the FBI made him more comfortable with what lay ahead.

Collins had just returned to active duty from his second suspension - ‘conduct not reflective of an FBI agent: unjustified force while interrogating a suspect.’ All crap! Christ, the FBI is becoming an agency of pussies. Twenty-five years ago you did whatever you had to do to get things done. Now you had to kiss ass and follow a bunch of ridiculous rules or you might find yourself