piloted the drones. He wondered about them. From what he’d heard, they were mostly contractors in their twenties and thirties, some ex-military, some civilian. Were they normals, or Shadows like him? Did they see the red mist when they closed their eyes?
Probably not. Probably they pushed a button when their bosses gave them the okay. A few seconds later, they watched a house disappear on-screen in a little puff of smoke. Like a video game. Shift work. When they were done, they drove home from Nellis AFB to their families in the Vegas suburbs. Without their toys and their satellite links, they were nothing. They hadn’t earned any of the power they’d been given, hadn’t paid for it in any way. Did they think they were tough? They were nothing, and he’d gladly show them—
The front gate opened, pulling him out of his homicidal reverie. Stan walked out and slid into the pickup’s passenger seat and they rolled off. No rush. The roads at KAF were dirt and gravel, and traffic was heavy. Francesca had no idea what all these inside-the-wire dudes did, but driving around the base seemed to be a big part of it.
“My man. My man Afghani-stan.” Of course, Francesca knew Stan’s real name. But he liked the alias. It was pretty funny.
“Danny. Long time no see.” They bumped fists. Neither was the hugging type.
“What’s going on in there?”
“At the home of the drones? The usual. GD promises that for just a few hundred million more they can give the Beast ass-wiping functionality. They did a PowerPoint and everything.”
“If technology could win guerrilla wars, we would have ended this nonsense a long time ago.”
“Yeah, I suspect you’re not going out of business anytime soon. Bang, bang, you’re dead.” Stan sighed. He looked like he’d aged ten years in the last two. His hair had gone from jet-black to mostly gray. He’d lost weight, too. Of course, he had good reason.
“You look good, my friend,” Francesca said.
“That’s a lie.”
“Come on. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. The Brits have a new girl working the counter.” KAF had a half dozen privately staffed coffeehouses. By common agreement, the British had the best-tasting drinks, and the best- looking staff.
“Wish I could, but I have to meet the J-2”—the intelligence chief for all military operations in Kandahar—“at noon. And I ought to be there on time.”
“Aren’t you fancy?”
“You tell me to come down and see you, I need an excuse. Meeting the J-2’s a pretty good excuse. So no crap. Let’s just take a spin around the perimeter, put the windows down, breathe our fill of that Kandahar dust. ’Cause I’m glad you called. I have something to tell you, too.”
UNTIL NOW, Francesca had kept Ricky Fowler’s killing to himself. He figured Weston and Rodriguez had their platoon under control. Stan had enough to worry about. But with this douche Coleman Young making trouble, he figured he had to tell.
“My Strykers may have a problem,” Francesca explained.
“Wish you’d told me before,” Stan said, when he was finished.
“Didn’t want to bother you.”
“Didn’t want to mess up the gravy train, you mean. This guy Fowler, anybody actively looking into his death?”
“Weston says no.”
“You believe him.”
“I do. Weston even called Fowler’s mom and dad, talked to them for a while, told them what a great guy their son was. Checking to see if he would get any vibe from them that they were making noise, calling the battalion to complain that they didn’t understand what had happened. Because Fowler was real close with his folks. But Weston said when he was done, he was sure they weren’t doing anything like that.”
“I’m glad he checked.”
“Didn’t really surprise me.” In Francesca’s experience, the families of the dead went one way or the other. Some wanted to know every last detail, to
“So the family’s no problem. And the sergeant, Young, hasn’t gone to CID or the battalion chaplain or anybody else?”
“Not as far as Weston knows, and I think he’d hear. Either formally or somebody would tap him on the shoulder and tell him, ‘Watch out.’”
“So it’s just these letters Coleman sent, or claims he sent. Protecting himself.”
“Correct. After it happened, I told Weston to make Young a deal, send him here for the rest of the tour. But Young said no. Fowler was his buddy. It’s like he’s too scared to do anything about it, but he can’t let it go either.”
“I can see that.”
“But since then, Weston called me, asked me if I’d take care of it.”
“Not very sporting of them.”
Every so often, Stan got on with that kind of nonsense, like he was the second coming of James Bond. “They think I can do it, no muss, no fuss.”
“Can you?”
“Obviously I can’t use my rifle. Would look a little strange if an American soldier got taken down with a.50 cal. I’ll have to get a Dragunov from somewhere—”
“I can handle that.” The Dragunov was a long-range Russian rifle that Taliban snipers favored.
“You can?”
“I think so.”
“That would be handy. Sooner you set it up, the better. No way will I be as accurate on it as on the Barrett. But it would help to have a couple chances to practice. Plus Young’s going to be wearing Kevlar and a helmet every time he goes outside the wire. Inside, too, for all I know. Weston said he’s being real careful. And I’m only gonna get one shot. I miss, he goes running to his battalion commander, CID, whoever. They’ll pay more attention to him if he’s got a round stuck in his Kevlar. Even best case, it’s a clean kill, it looks weird, he’s telling people his own guys are threatening him. Then he gets hit.”
“Is there any way that he could know your name?”
“Not unless Weston or Rodriguez told him. And they wouldn’t. They know better.”
“Then here’s what I think. Forget Young, unless he seems to know you. Sit tight. Those Stryker units will be home in two, two and a half months. After that, Young can squawk all he likes. He’s got no evidence. Not even enough for CID to open an investigation. And if Weston and Rodriguez get brought in somehow, they just have to keep their mouths shut. They smart enough to do that?”
“No doubt.”
“That’s it then. And Young must have figured that, too, because if he thought he could get an investigation opened, he’d try.”
“All right. I’ll tell them.”
“And tell them not to freelance, in case they have any ideas.”
Francesca nodded. “Something else I wanted to ask. We gonna keep this going after those guys leave?”
Stan grunted, like he hadn’t given the question much thought. Which surprised Francesca. Stan was making more money than anyone. “Your tour’s up, too,” he said after a few seconds.
“Sniping, yeah, but I can stay in if I like.”
“Didn’t know you were thinking that way.”
“The money’s right. And it’s not like I got anything waiting at home.”
“Then maybe we will.”
They made their way around the northern perimeter and now turned left, to the west side of the base. Dirt
