Sniper Elite (5 page)

“Naeem has sent for antibiotics.”

Sandra watched her tend to the wound, preparing a new dressing. “Where did you learn to speak English?”

“In Pakistan,” Badira said. “I was enrolled in medical school in Islamabad until the Taliban took over the government here. After that, my father demanded that I return.” What Badira did not go on to share was that she had been called home to marry the son of a man to whom her father owed a financial debt, a local leader who had supported the Taliban's rise to power. And those who found themselves owing money to Taliban officials were severely mistreated.

“Can I have something else to wear?” Sandra asked.

“I will cover you.”

“And I need to be . . .” Sandra's voice cracked involuntarily. “I need to clean myself.”

Badira understood. “I still cannot untie you, but I will clean you.”

Sandra closed her eyes, forbidding herself to cry. “Thank you.”

“You must not forget where you are,” Badira admonished her as she began rooting through the medical bag. “You are not in New York City. You are in Afghanistan, and if you are going to survive here, you cannot be weak. You must be strong or you will die.” She paused to look up. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Sandra nodded. “What's your name?”

“I am Badira.”

“Thank you, Badira. I'll try.”

Badira went back to rooting in the bag. “I am afraid you will have to do better than that, Sandra Brux.”

As the hydraulic ramp was lowered on the C-130E military transport, Master Chief Halligan Steelyard stood by pensively chewing the end of an imported Cohiba Robusto cigar. His face grew taut as Master Chief Gil Shannon sauntered down the ramp with his SR-25 slung over his shoulder. The rest of Gil's gear, including the .338 Lapua McMillan sniper rifle and .308 Remington Modular sniper rifle, was stowed in the hold of the aircraft in eight different cruise boxes to be unloaded by the crew. The SR-25 was a semiauto, 7.62 mm, limited-range sniper rifle that could also be used for patrol work.

Gil didn't do much actual
patrol
work now that he was attached to SOG, but if the air base was attacked during his stay, he wanted the versatility and all-around knock-down power that a weapon such
as the SR-25 might offer him over the standard M4 carbine which was chambered for the 5.56 mm NATO round.

The trouble with the M4 wasn't with the weapon itself, but rather with the modern ammunition. The 5.56 mm NATO wasn't the same as the 5.56 round that was used during the latter part of the Vietnam War. The current NATO round was designed to defeat the newest Russian body armor, before breaking up inside the body for the most devastating effect. Taliban and Al Qaeda fighters, however, wore no armor at all, so the round did not break up, or even tumble through the body in many cases, and this too often allowed the M4 rounds to pass straight through an enemy without putting him down. The bad guy might bleed out later on, but that wasn't much good if he ended up killing you in the meantime.

Gil shook hands with Steelyard. “What I miss, Chief?” They were of equal rank, but the sixty-five-year-old Steelyard had a great deal more time in grade, and Gil respected him more than anyone else he knew, so he was always
Chief
.

The graying, hard-eyed Steelyard didn't stand a millimeter taller than 5'6", and he didn't weigh an ounce over 150 pounds. A veteran of the Gulf War I, he was rock-hard muscle from his ears to his toes. “Gil, I hope you ate a light breakfast.”

“Fuck breakfast,” Gil said, the hair rising on the back of his neck. “How soon do we move?”

“Patience, grasshopper.”

Steelyard led the way, setting a brisk pace across the tarmac. Aircraft came and went all around them—fixed and rotary wing alike. Black Hawks setting down and taking off, a number of the big Chinooks, a few of the battered old Russian Mi-17s operated by the Afghan National Police force. There was even a matte-black Iroquois Huey, without markings or tail numbers, sitting in front of a lone hangar on the far side of the airport.

“That's where we're headed,” Steelyard remarked, gesturing with the wet end of the Cohiba.

They climbed into a waiting Humvee, and Steelyard drove them in a circuitous route to the far side of the tarmac where the black Iroquois sat before the hangar. Outside, they could see a pair of bored pilots lounging in the back with their feet up, playing some kind of handheld video game.

Immediately upon their approach to the hangar, Gil noted a pair of black MH-6 Killer Eggs—highly modified Cayuse attack helicopters—resting on wheeled dollies under armed guard inside the hangar. He had only seen the model up close one other time. A pair of black Black Hawk MH-60Ls sat near a pair of MH-60Ks on the far side of the hangar, hidden from general view, also under armed guard.

“I take it SOAR's here in force?”

“On unofficial extended engagement,” Steelyard grumbled. “You'll understand soon enough.”

They dismounted the Humvee and entered the hangar where Gil encountered half a dozen of his fellow DEVGRU members checking gear and cleaning weapons. There was an unmistakable tension in the air, and none of the crude jokes or insulting banter he would normally expect, only grim nods. He realized something had occurred since he'd boarded the C-130 late the night before in Oman. He couldn't pin it down because the tension he felt had an uncommonly hostile vibe to it.

Steelyard preceded him into a situation room on the far side of the hangar where Lt. Commander Perez stood talking with an investigator from NCIS. Gil had never gotten along very well with Perez, so he came to full attention, snapping a smart salute.

“As you were, Gil,” Perez said, almost casually, before giving his attention back to the NCIS man.

That was all it took for Gil to know, unequivocally, that something, somewhere was very definitely fucked up. In the two years that he had been their intelligence officer, the lanky Perez had never called him by his first name. It was always Chief Shannon, and he was never casual. The fucking chip he carried around on his shoulder was too damn big for that.

The NCIS man was a personal friend of Steelyard's, and more than just an acquaintance of Gil's. He was a civilian named Raymond Chou, second-generation Chinese. He finished talking with Perez, then turned to shake hands with Gil.

“Sorry you had to cut your leave time short, buddy.”

“I'm here by choice, Ray. What I miss?”

Chou sighed and looked at his watch. “These guys can get you up to speed. I'm already going to have trouble explaining where the hell I've been all morning.” He returned his attention to Steelyard and Perez. “Listen, guys, I'm sorry I don't have any actionable intel for you—nobody does yet—but I thought you should at least see that damn thing.”

Steelyard clapped him grimly on the back. “Indebted to you.”

“Nonsense. But listen, I gotta get that chopper back before the wrong people start to wonder where it went. Just remember that I was never here, and you guys didn't get that damn thing from me, okay?”

“You got it,” Perez assured him.

Now Gil was irritated. It always took some time to catch up and become “part of the group” again after returning from a leave, but Perez was not a “you got it” kind of guy, and he sure as hell wasn't the type of officer who conspired with enlisted personnel or noncommissioned officers. In fact, he normally bordered on being a sycophant to the higher brass.

So what the hell was going on?

Chou left the building and Gil stood staring at Perez. “Sir?”

Perez shook his head and looked at Steelyard. “Hal, I'll leave you guys to it.” He nodded at Gil and left the room.

“Chief, what the fuck?”

“Come on.”

Steelyard led him into the locker room where a laptop computer sat on a bench. He gestured for Gil to have a seat and thumbed the touch pad to bring the darkened screen back to life.

“I want to warn you, Gil. If watching the Towers come down shook you up . . . this'll be tough to take.” He started out of the room, then paused and turned around. “And I suggest you leave the volume set where it's at.”

He closed the door on his way out, and Gil prepped himself for the worst as he clicked the Play button on the screen.

The video started, and he sat watching as five men stood crowded around the same side of a bed, their backs to the cameraman who was obviously filming them through the doorway of an adjacent room. The men were laughing and struggling for position, almost as if they were competing for the opportunity to shake hands with whoever was lying on the bed. Then someone off camera shouted at them, and entered from stage right, shoving them out of the way. He turned toward the cameraman, revealing his bearded face and bloody eyeball. The cameraman waved the other five men out of the way with his free hand.

That's when Gil clearly saw the pale, naked form of Sandra Brux tied spread eagle to the bed, a vicious bullet wound to her leg, eyes clamped shut, nipples flame red from having just been twisted and pinched. The bearded man dropped his trousers and climbed onto the bed with her.

Gil clearly made out the Pashto word for
whore
, which was
dammay zo
. And then he made out, almost as clearly,
kuss di ughame
, which he knew was Pashto for “fuck your ass.”

Sandra began screaming a few moments later, and the cameraman
made sure to get the angle correct so the penetration would be clearly visible. Gil did not watch it directly, turning the volume down as low as it would go without muting it. The rape itself lasted nearly eight horrific minutes, and Sandra screamed the entire time. It was the most unholy thing he had ever witnessed, and the close-up of her face at the end, of her shattered humanity, brought tears to his eyes. He sat on the bench with his face in his hands for a long time after the video had finished, having never known such rage.

After a while, Steelyard returned and stood leaning against a locker with his arms folded.

Gil looked up, speaking in a calm voice, “When they made the video of Daniel Pearl's execution I could at least understand what they were trying to accomplish.” He reached and closed the laptop. “But what can these fuckin' bastards hope to gain with this here . . . other than a violent death?”

Steelyard stood away from the locker, arms still crossed, toeing the floor with his boot. “They expect to gain twenty-five million dollars.”

Gil's mouth fell open.

“They want twenty-five million dollars within seven days,” Steelyard explained. “Otherwise, they promise to make an even more brutal video for Al Jazeera. All of this information is highly classified, so if word gets back to CID that we've seen this video, Ray's ass is grass. His opposite number with CID showed him in complete confidence, and the guy doesn't know Ray managed to burn a copy.”

“We got any leads on where she is?”

“Nothing actionable, but the second there's a lead, I'm recommending you for the infiltration and identification—if you want the mission.”

Gil was on his feet. “We're killin' these people, right? Every fuckin' one of 'em?”

Steelyard shrugged. “Nothing's come down from the Head Shed yet. I think maybe they're considering paying the ransom.”

“That's no reason not to put DEVGRU on alert. Or are they going with Delta?”

“From what I've heard,” Steelyard said, “nobody in SOG has been officially alerted yet.”

“That doesn't make any damn sense.”

“Well, I'm hearing through unofficial channels that Karzai's office has offered to function as the intermediary for a ransom exchange.”

“Somebody needs to get rid of that son of a bitch,” Gil said. “He's been playing footsie with these Hezbi cocksuckers for the last twelve months. Hell, he's the reason we've pulled out of almost every northern province.”

Steelyard took the cigar from his mouth. “He's got a country to run, Gil. If he doesn't make deals with the local warlords, he gets deposed ten minutes after we pull out of this shit box. You know that.”

“That cocksucker knows who has her, Chief!”

“I doubt that.”

“Yeah? Then why the hell is he already offering to play the bagman?”

Steelyard put a boot up on the bench, bracing his elbow on his knee. “I understand you're pissed, Gilligan, but even if you're right, the situation remains the same. We're just pawns on the board like everybody else.”

Gil kicked an empty trash can across the room. “Has SOAR seen that video?”

Steelyard gave him a wry look. “There's a pair of Killer Eggs and four MH-60s hidden out there in the hangar. What the fuck do you think?”

“Okay, so Chou musta paid them a visit even before he showed up here.”

“Sandra's a Night Stalker, Gil, the first and only female pilot the 160th has ever recruited. They don't intend to leave her out there.
They've already decided that if we get actionable intel on this, they're going in after her—with orders or without. If they go in without, the question's going to be who's going in with them—DEVGRU or Delta?”

“Well, that's easy. We're already here. Delta's clear down in Kandahar.”

“But you're okay if Delta sends a representative up to go along?”

An ironic smile spread across Gil's face. “I take it you've already had this discussion with your opposite number down in Kandahar?”

“It's the noncoms who run the fucking show, you know that.”

Gil didn't need to think about who to ask for. “See if they'll cut that candy ass Crosswhite loose for a few days.”

Steelyard stuck the cigar between his teeth. “That's exactly who we had in mind.”