“It’s all right, sir. I just want to know everything about what has happened. My whole theory is based on Joey having seen something that I would recognize. I have to look at everything if we want to figure it out.” She carefully took the pictures, forcing herself to stay calm. Joey would still be dead, no matter whether or not she saw the ugly pictures of his ravaged body.
Master Gunny O. O. Dawkins pulled at his cheek as he thought. “The fuckin’ State Department is covering this up?”
“We don’t know that for sure, Double-Oh,” replied Swanson, “but according to my Feeb, that is where the information funnel narrows. That way, the incident is moved out of reach of any investigating arm and disappears into the diplomatic arena. Cables will be exchanged saying it was a tragic situation. No fault to be assigned beyond the Taliban gunmen who are also now dead and cannot challenge any official version.”
Middleton gathered the photos and returned them to the stack and straightened the corners. He closed his eyes for a moment before speaking. “All right. Here’s what we’re going to do. I want a plan to put some boots on the ground over there. Lizard, you get some overhead images of the area. Swanson will take Petty Officer Ledford in to see whatever it was her brother found. Go in, then get the hell out quick. Stay out of trouble, if you can. Should be a piece of cake, since the Paki army swears they have control of the area.”
“Sir!” Kyle almost came out of his chair in surprise. “All due respect, general, but Petty Officer Ledford isn’t qualified to do a special ops mission.”
“I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Gunnery Sergeant. You will take her in there, find what needs to be found, and then bring her out again. Are we clear?”
Swanson gave up. No use arguing with Middleton, who wore two stars on each shoulder. He knew the general was already thinking several moves ahead. “Aye-aye, sir. We’re clear.”
Beth Ledford was out of her chair in an instant, standing at rigid attention. “Sir. May I speak freely?”
Middleton’s brow furrowed. “Go ahead.”
“Sir, I do not feel that Gunnery Sergeant Swanson is the right man for this job. I don’t trust him. He is condescending, and if he does not believe I am up to the mission, he will be distracted and could get us both killed.”
Swanson jumped up to attention, too. “Sir!”
Middleton slammed his desk so hard that it sounded like a gunshot. “Sit down! Both of you! Jesus H. Christ on a shingle. What’s the matter with you two? This is not some junior high school hayride, nor is it a democracy. I make the decisions around here. I gave an order and you will obey it. You don’t have to like it; you just have to do it.
“Yes, sir,” said Swanson.
“Yes, sir,” said Ledford.
“Good. A warning for both of you. You will get your shit together and work as a team. Put your differences on the shelf, because I don’t care whether you like each other. But you screw up this mission over something that minor and I’ll put you both in front of a court-martial. If my estimation is correct, Dr. Ledford stumbled on something that may be of great importance for our country’s security. Master Gunny Dawkins, we will give this priority over the Green Light on Charlie Brown. He gets to live a few more days.”
7
THE MORNING SUN CAME up like a bright ball over the Atlantic horizon. First there was a hint of the coming dawn, then the first bars of sunshine hit the black water, and in only a few minutes, it was daylight at the Unknown Distance Range on the Marine Corps base in Quantico, Virginia. Chilly. Kyle Swanson was sitting on a fender of a Humvee, watching the dawn and drinking coffee from a thermos. He was still angry at Beth Ledford for saying she did not trust him. He was right in the argument, because the woman was not spec op trained. Freakin’ Coastie. There was an old ditty about their motto:
Turning to the Humvee, he saw Ledford sitting in the passenger seat, still huddled in a jacket, arms crossed, obviously as miffed with him as he was with her. “Ledford, I would be very much obliged if you would begin, if you please.” Exact, phony, politically correct politeness.
“I told you earlier, Gunnery Sergeant Swanson. I don’t do exhibitions. You want to see trick shooting, go to a carnival, put down a dollar, and I’ll win you a teddy bear.”
Swanson stalked to the back of the Hummer and lifted an M-14 with a scope from the cushioned carrying case, then an ammunition clip. To hell with polite. His voice hardened. “Listen, Ledford, the general and I agree that we’re not going anywhere until I can figure out what kind of skills you have. That information is pertinent to this mission.”
She had her own cup of steaming coffee and was still drinking it slowly. A black watch cap was pulled low on her forehead, low enough to touch her eyebrows. “How can you lead us anywhere, when you don’t know where we’re going? You’re just along for the ride, Swanson—my personal bouncer.”
He thrust the rifle at her and dropped the ammo clip in her lap. “I don’t know what world you’re living in, woman. You bring nothing to the mission but possible geographical recognition. You’re just a GPS tracking system; no more, no less.”
“I’m a sniper,” she said. “OK?”
“No, Ledford, that is not OK. You are a Coast Guard sniper, which I personally rate as being at the level of a designated marksman, the guy who is the best shot in any Marine squad. The Coast Guard may be great for rescuing dogs off rooftops and stopping sailboats carrying weed. It is not, in my opinion, a combat arm of the United States military.”
“Screw you, jarhead. Marines are antiques and should be dissolved into the Army and Navy. It would save a lot of money and be a big relief to everyone that has to put up with your constant bragging.”
Kyle ignored her and walked away carrying a large heavy-paper target, the black silhouette of a man’s torso and head. Except for Ledford and Swanson, the range was empty at this time of early morning, a wide swath of carefully prepared ground that was graded specifically for firing weapons and soaking up the bullets. He heard the choppy sound of a helicopter, normal around any military installation. The bird was flying high, dipping down and climbing again, orbiting. Probably a pilot logging some stick time for his flight pay.
At the five-hundred-meter marker, Swanson secured the target to a post. When he looked back, Beth Ledford was out of the Humvee, standing at the firing line, resting the butt of the M-14 on her hip, checking it, and adjusting the sling. “That weapon had better be unloaded, Ledford!” he shouted. “You saw me downrange. Didn’t the Coast Guard even teach you range safety procedures?”
“Oh. Gee, mister. I am so sorry. Is that how the Marines do it? I didn’t know that.” She waved the clip of ammo in her free hand. “This bullet-holder thingie is, like, way cool. And there’s even a cute little telescope on the top of this gun.”
Kyle huffed a deep breath and returned to the Humvee to get the monocular spotting scope. As he reached into the vehicle, he heard the crisp mechanical snap of the ammo clip being slapped home and the sharp
She casually tucked the rifle under her right arm, picked up her coffee cup, and drank while staring at him with the malicious look of a naughty child. “Oops. Was I supposed to wait? You weren’t standing in front of the target anymore, so I thought you wanted me to shoot. Sorry again. My bad.”
Swanson felt the anger growing from the back of his neck. She was giving him a headache. Ledford was violating every rule of procedure. He exhaled, but it was a fight to keep himself under control in this battle of wills. With the spotting scope in his hand, he walked back to the line and focused it on the target, until it loomed large and clear. It was grinning at him—two holes for eyes, one for a nose, and three in a tight V for the mouth. For good measure, she had put three more holes right in the in-center mass-ten ring.
“Keep watching, cowboy,” Ledford said. He glanced over and saw that she had picked up the rifle again, this
