Sniper Elite (33 page)

He crept along the river to within one hundred yards of the first two sentries he would have to eliminate before penetrating the southern perimeter of Bazarak. He crouched behind a stone wall, unfolding the stock of the MSR and pulling it into his shoulder. The two men stood close together on the far side of the farm plot smoking beneath a coppice of trees, standing out as plain as day in the night vision.

Judging that he could take both targets out with one shot by
shifting his angle a few degrees, he hurried to take up a new position halfway down the wall, centering the reticle on the lower back of the man closest to him, and squeezed the trigger. The gun recoiled with a whisper as the subsonic round left the barrel. Both men went down in a heap, their guts blown apart by the hydrostatic shock. He put a second round into each of them to make sure they were dead. It wouldn't be necessary to hide their bodies because they had chosen such a well-secluded spot to smoke.

Now it was time to engage the rooftop snipers. The first and closest of the three would be the easiest to eliminate. He was perched on a lower building than the other two and out of their immediate line of sight. The second two would be tricky because they could see each other and were only about a hundred yards apart from east to west. Gil judged he could hit the first from where he was, but sniper work could sometimes be like a game of pool. A player wanted to sink each of his shots in such a way as to leave the cue ball in good position for the next. From his present position, he would have to displace rapidly after taking the first sniper, leaving a time lag before placing his shots on the second two, which he preferred to avoid for the sake of efficiency and safety.

He hopped the wall and skirted around the farm plot to the east side on a northerly heading, moving away from the river to stop near the rusted-out hull of the T-34/85, a hundred fifty yards south of the farthest snipers out to his left and right. The closest shooter was only half that distance away, perched at the acute angle of an inverted isosceles triangle. Placing the reticle on the shooter's sternum, he squeezed the trigger and the rifle did its whisper kick.

The target flew backward as if he'd been mule kicked in the chest and landed flat on his back. Gil saw his Dragunov go flying off the edge of the roof and out of sight, and he knelt behind the tank waiting for the telltale shouting that would signal he'd just screwed the pooch. After a minute of silence, he raised up to check on the other
two sentries. Neither of them seemed aware anything untoward had taken place, so he took a few moments to practice moving the rifle within the confines of the arc between them. It was a fairly large sweep at almost 45 degrees.

The plan was to hit one of them when the other wasn't looking, then sweep across the arc to tag the second one before he realized his counterpart had just been blown out of his socks from a hundred yards across the village. The sniper on the right seemed to be the less vigilant of the two, so, technically speaking, it would be best to start with the sniper on the left, but Gil preferred to sweep right to left, rather than left to right whenever sweeping more than 20 degrees. The movement was more natural to the body, and he would be slightly faster on the bolt.

He waited until the sniper to the left wasn't looking in the other's direction, then swept to the right, shot his target in the center of the back over the heart, and swept back to the left again, working the bolt without taking his eye from the scope and finding that the third sniper had disappeared from the rooftop just that fast. Gil held his position, visualizing the posture of the sniper's body as he'd swept the scope off to the right. Had the shooter been pivoting to turn, already moving down the staircase before Gil squeezed the trigger on his buddy? It was possible, and if so, the alarm might not be about to sound. The sniper may simply have gone below to grab a cup of hot Joe or take a dump.

Five long minutes passed in utter silence before the sniper reemerged with a plate of food, his Dragunov slung over his shoulder. The fact that his counterpart was facedown on the rooftop a hundred yards away did not even register with him.

“Apparently, it's amateur night here in Bazarak,” Gil muttered, half criticizing himself. He shot the sniper through the side of the head and moved out. There was no telling how soon the bodies would be detected, and there was no time to lose.

He skirted back toward the river to the west, moving up the grade into the village through a patch of trees, spotting a pair of roving sentries making their way toward him down the worn and rocky path at forty yards. Going immediately to ground, he pulled the rifle into his shoulder. The men were only sauntering along, talking quietly with each other with their AK-47s slung. Gil waited for one of them to lag a step or two behind the other, but they continued to stay abreast, coming toward his position. If he shot one of them now, the other might realize what had happened quickly enough to shout a warning before Gil could cycle the bolt and fire the second round.

He set the rifle down and drew the 1911 pistol, waiting for them to draw within fifty feet. Concentrating on the illuminated front sight, he squeezed off the first round, blowing the target's brains out the back of his skull. His partner had just enough time to gasp and turn his head before Gil put 230 grains of lead through his right ear.

Even before the second fellow was twitching in the dirt, Gil was up and moving, slinging the rifle around his back as he ran to grab him by the ankle, dragging him from the trail into the shadowy dark. Seconds later, with both bodies off the trail, he was crouched beside a thick Chilgoza pine, scanning the darkness through the helmet-mounted monocular. On missions like this he always went with the monocular mount to keep his left eye adjusted to the darkness.

He moved up the trail to a clearing and took a knee near yet another stone wall, this one stacked chest-high with firewood. He was about to move across the open expanse toward a manger where a small flock of sheep were held, when raw instinct gave him a moment's pause. Someone coughed in the night, and he turned his head to spot a lone sentry perched atop a stone building with his back against the chimney. A Dragunov SRV stood upright between his knees, and he was almost invisible, even in the night vision, the rumpled shape of his winter clothing blending perfectly with the large stones used to construct the chimney.

From a hundred feet, Gil shot him in the center of the face. The only sound was that of the body and the Dragunov hitting the ground, but this was enough to bring someone from inside the house to investigate. Gil got him in his sights and fingered the trigger, realizing the villager was probably a Tajik, and therefore, in all likelihood, an ally of the West. He felt a cold sweat break out across his chest as he prepared to kill the first innocent human being of his career. In these final instants before it became necessary to make his decision, Gil recalled the stories that his Green Beret father had told him of the Vietnam War, of the dozens of innocent villagers—men, women, and children alike—he had been forced to kill during his countless LRRP (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol) missions north of the DMZ. In the end, his father had not been able to live with his conscience and drank himself to death.

Just go back inside, Gil said to himself.

The man crouched down to check the body and recoiled the instant he realized the sentry had no face, shrinking against the wall and retreating quickly back into the house. Gil waited three full minutes to see if he would reemerge to sound the alarm. There was only one way to make certain the villager stayed quiet, so he moved to the end of the stone wall, then crossed to the building, where he knocked lightly on the door, knowing the incredible risk he was taking.

The door opened a crack, and he pulled it all the way open, grabbing the villager by his clothing to yank him outside and using hand signals to order him to drag the body into the house. The villager hurried to comply, and Gil picked up the enemy rifle and followed him inside, where a dim oil lamp burned on a table in the center of the room. He stared hard at the villager, weighing the man's mettle. His eyes were steady and guileless, and he didn't stink of fear the way the deceitful so often did. This was no guarantee, but it was good enough for Gil. He put a finger to his lips, and the Tajik nodded once, indicating that he understood.

A mountain cloak hung from a nail beside the door. Gil pointed to it and then back at himself, asking with his eyes if he could have it. The man nodded and gestured for him to take it. Gil let the MSR dangle from its sling and shrugged into the heavy cloak. The villager showed him how to shape the hood so it would cover his IBH helmet, leaving only the monocular showing, and then reached for the Dragunov Gil had placed against the wall, offering it with both hands.

Gil tucked the Remington inside the cloak and slung the Dragunov. He didn't like having to lug the bulky hunk of junk, but the villager was right about it helping him to blend in.

The Tajik stood back to look him over, making a “good enough” expression and cracking a smile.

Knowing the Afghan people considered it rude to shake hands with gloves on, Gil pulled off his Oakley tactical glove and offered his right hand. The Tajik's grip was firm and confident. Gil nodded his thanks and slipped carefully out of the house.

General Couture stood up from the table in the darkened command center to extend his hand as Captain Metcalf entered the room looking half asleep. “Thanks for coming over, Glen. Sorry to wake you up.”

Metcalf shook his head. “Don't be silly, General. What've we got?”

Couture turned to indicate the large plasma screen on the wall. He and his staff were watching the UAV feed from over Bazarak in real time. “What do you make of that strobe on the rooftop there?”

Metcalf stepped forward, staring at the black-and-white infrared video of the Panjshir Valley. The steady flash of the infrared strobe that Forogh had tossed onto the roof of Sandra's building was clearly visible in the center of the screen. “Can you zoom in?”

Couture turned to the Air Force lieutenant. “Cynthia, advise Creech you're taking control of the aircraft, will you please?”

“Yes, sir.” A few seconds later, they were looking at a tight enough shot of the strobe light to see that it was an MS/2000 Firefly, the same model used by American forces.

Metcalf turned around. “Somebody's sure as hell up to something, aren't they? Has there been any indication the enemy knows it's there?”

Couture shook his head, jutting his chin toward the soundproof office at the back of the room. “Talk to you a minute?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Metcalf followed Couture into the office and pulled the door closed after him. They could still see everything that was taking place on the screen, but here in the glass room they could speak freely.

Couture sat down on the corner of the desk. “I hate to ask you this, Glen, but do you have any idea what the fuck is going on? Over the past ten days, we've spent a few million dollars' worth of taxpayer money in preparation for Fell Swoop, and now it looks like we may have to scrub the entire goddamn operation.”

Though the general was maintaining a military bearing, Metcalf could see that he was on the boil. It was no secret that Operation Fell Swoop was to be his first large-scale offensive since taking command of the ATO the year before. With the scheduled drawdown of troops, it was unlikely he would get another opportunity. “No, sir. I have no idea what's going on.”

“But you knew about Bank Heist, correct? Don't lie to me, Glen. I'm not looking to—”

“I had an inkling about Bank Heist, General, yes. But I have absolutely no idea what's taking place on the ground in the Panjshir Valley tonight. In fact, I know even less than you do because I just got here.”

“Okay, I believe you.” Couture put his hands on his hips, chewing the inside of his scarred cheek. “But goddamnit, this has SOG written all over it. If this is another unauthorized rescue attempt, the president's going to fire everybody from here to Diego Garcia. It'll make Stalin's purge look like a night at the fucking Oscars.”

At this point Metcalf realized Couture feared for his career. The president must have handed down some pretty serious threats in private after Bank Heist. There was only one consolation that Metcalf could think to offer the general. “Well, sir, if this is another unauthorized rescue attempt—and I repeat that I have no intelligence to that effect—it may well be in our interest to provide whatever help we can to see that it succeeds.”

“And suppose it does. Then what?”

Metcalf smiled. “Well, General, it's obvious you'll have to take credit for it—as will the president once it gets kicked up to him.”

Couture blew out a gust of air. “And if it fails?”

Metcalf shrugged and sadly shook his head. “I can only speak for myself, General, but I'll be too busy mourning Sandra's death to feel sorry for myself. I've had a good career.”

“Goddamnit,” Couture muttered. “I'd like to hang these bastards over a fire by their bootlaces—whoever they are.”

There was a rap at the window. The general's aide was pointing at the screen where the white infrared image of a soldier was running parallel to the Panjshir River.

Both men slipped out of the office to find a couple of chairs just as Gil was setting up to take out the two men on the far side of the farm plot. The trees mostly obscured what they were up to, but it was easy enough to see that Gil took them both out with a single shot.

“Now, damnit, that's one of our people!” Couture insisted, getting back to his feet. “Cynthia, give me a tight in-shot, as tight as you can get.”

The Air Force lieutenant zoomed in on Gil as he hopped the wall and bolted for the trees west of the farm plot.

The UAV was not directly above the target, but the angle was too acute for a positive ident. Still, it was good enough for Captain Metcalf to be confident he was witnessing one of his SEALs in action. He looked over at the general's aide-de-camp with the dual Glock pistols.
“Major, would you please call the MPs at Jalalabad Air Base and tell them to locate Master Chiefs Shannon and Steelyard?”