BETH LEDFORD HAD TO leave her rented town house in Alexandria, Virginia, before dawn, but it still took an hour to get up to Glen Burnie, Maryland, in time to park in the long-term lot, then get through security and aboard the flight from the Baltimore Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport to San Diego. She pulled a blue blanket and a small pillow from the overhead, and just after takeoff she was sound asleep, her head on the pillow against the window.
She awakened an hour later, went to the restroom to freshen up, then got a cup of coffee from the attendant’s station and returned to her seat. An egg-and-cheese croissant that she had made and left in the refrigerator the night before, then put in her bag that morning, had warmed during the flight, and she ate it slowly, enjoying the flavor. That drew a disapproving glance from the man beside her, who was making do with airline food, a combo bag of pretzels and peanuts.
As the sun rose behind the plane, Beth was alone with her thoughts, eagerly anticipating spending a few days with her mother, playing tourist in southern California. See the whale jump, shop in La Jolla, get some quality beach time by the cliffs in Del Mar, enjoy spicy Mexican food, and drive up the coast. After Pakistan, doing nothing but hanging out with Mom sounded pretty good.
The flight crossed the country and several time zones in only four and a half hours, touching down at Lindbergh at 10:50 A.M., Pacific, which was almost two o’clock in the afternoon back on the East Coast. It felt like she had been given three hours to live all over again, and she smiled as she came out into the California sunshine. The iPod stack she had chosen for the long trip was on the
Her private cell phone chirped, and she dug it out of her purse to look at the calling number. Mom. She softened the music and took out a bud so she could press the phone to her ear. “Hi, Mom. I just got in. Are you at the hotel?”
“Beth?” Margaret Ledford’s voice trembled, and her mom never got nervous. Something wasn’t right.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Can anyone else hear this conversation?”
“Not really. I’m in line for a cab. What’s up?”
“You have to talk to this man. I’ve been, uh, kidnapped, and he wants to talk to you. I’m OK, Beth…”
Ledford tensed, and had to fight to not to stagger and fall.
The voice of a man took over, serious and calm. “Petty Officer Ledford, listen carefully to me and your mother will not be harmed. You are unaccompanied, are you not?”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t try to be a hero. You and Kyle Swanson did enough of that at the bridge in Pakistan.”
“OK. I understand. Who is this?” Someone got into a taxi, and the line moved forward. She shuffled along with it.
“I have been trying to find you for some time, but you and Swanson are quite elusive. Now do you know who I am? Do not say my name out loud.”
Undersecretary Curtis had rejoined the game, despite being the most hunted man in America. “Yes. I know.”
“Good. Then follow my instructions, and do not vary at all, because there will be no second chance for mommy dearest. For now, proceed to your reserved room at the Hacienda Hotel in Old Town. Do not contact law enforcement. I’ll call you there and give you more directions.”
“Let me speak—”
“You want to hear her? Listen.” There was the startling sound of a loud slap, followed by a woman’s scream. “Did you hear that well enough, bitch? Don’t even try to think you’re going to control this situation. I will call you at the hotel.”
The connection was broken, and Beth Ledford just stood there momentarily, staring straight ahead, listening to the buzz, before folding it up and putting it away. She stepped out of the taxi line and moved to a quieter zone, thinking hard while the tango girls sang low about how the men they had murdered had it comin’ and only had themselves to blame.
It was late morning on Range 400 at the sprawling Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center in 29 Palms, and Kyle Swanson lay sprawled on his belly, slowly taking in the slack of the trigger, bringing it straight back. The big Excalibur was resting on a bipod, trailing lines of wires that linked it to sensitive computer-monitored data collection gear lined up on a small table. Seated in a chair was J. Horace “Verify” Wellington, a short, bespectacled man buttoned up in a scientist’s white frock coat, with thick earmuffs to protect his hearing. He looked like a clockmaker, had never served in the military, and still was recognized as the best gunsmith in Great Britain. In the old days of swords, a blade forged of Birmingham steel was considered the ultimate weapon. In the modern day, a rifle bearing Wellington’s imprint had the same value. He was called “Verify” because he tested and retested and retested before clearing anything on which he worked. The Excalibur 3GX had not yet earned his stamp of approval, although he had been on the project from the start.
“Ready,” said Swanson.
“You may fire,” replied Verify Wellington, and Kyle finished the trigger pull. The big gun bucked with a burst of high energy as it spat a .50 caliber round downrange. Swanson took the big recoil but did not reposition the gun. Instead, he moved away as Wellington approached with more measuring instruments.
Kyle removed his soft utilities cap and wiped his brow. He had chosen Range 400 on a weekend when there were not too many other people about, but had to piggyback on a previously scheduled live-fire exercise. Rifles, heavy machine guns, and mortars all banged away at targets.
Private Jerry Hubbard punched an elbow into Private K’Shan Lincoln. “Hey, K, ain’t that the Ghost over there?”
Lincoln squinted. “I think so. Look at the freakin’ gun he’s got.”
“Holy shit, dude, did you hear the sound of that thing? Sounded like a cannon!”
“Let’s go say hello. The LT won’t mind, and we’re on a ten-minute break anyway.”
The two young Marines moved before they had second thoughts and trotted the twenty-five yards to where Kyle Swanson was watching Verify do his thing. They stopped, came to attention, and gave sharp salutes. “Gunny Swanson? Privates Lincoln and Hubbard, sir.”
Swanson returned the salute. “Don’t call me sir, privates, I work for a living. And I don’t like being saluted.”
“Aw, c’mon, Gunny; you’re a living Medal of Honor winner. Even the commandant has to salute you.” Lincoln smiled broadly. “Wow, man, this is an honor.”
Kyle had won the nation’s highest award for bravery by saving General Middleton from terrorists in Syria, but Middleton insisted that Kyle was just lucky—it was an accident of fate, and he had been about to escape all by himself when the sniper showed up and ruined everything. The general knew that wasn’t the way it happened, of course, but he felt bound to needle Swanson at every opportunity.
The Medal could at times be a heavy weight to carry, and Swanson felt a duty to play the role when necessary. This was one of those times that he had to be an ambassador, take the opportunity to teach some young Marines about respect and the meaning of the Corps. They were good kids, and since Verify was still probing and measuring and taking barrel temperatures, Swanson walked with them back to their group, shook hands all around, and talked for a while about the big Excalibur without revealing its secrets. They would have to graduate from Scout Sniper School before they could ever touch that weapon.
When his cell phone rang, he gave them a wave and a Semper Fi and went back to his position. He recognized the number. “Beth,” he said. “Wassup?”
