cushion full of needles and pins pushed high on her arm. Juba smiled in greeting, closed the door, turned, and shot her twice in the head with a silenced pistol. He spun the CLOSED sign around, locked the door, dumped the body out of sight, and arranged multicolored bolts of cloth into a crude rifle rest away from the open window. He retrieved the Steyr from his car, settled into the back of the room, and checked the scope; a clear view of the police station. Several American Humvees were parked out front, indicating that there were some discussions going on, probably about him.
He studied the building at the end of the street and sketched a range card while he waited. After an hour, he drank some water, then returned his eye to the scope, watching people go in and out of the ornate main entrance of the station. Some American soldiers, probably the drivers, were talking with some Iraqi policemen. Laughing. Cordial. Friends.
A stir rustled the small crowd. The soldiers shook hands with the cops and climbed behind the steering wheels of the Humvees. Two men were at the door, then at the top of the steps. Juba focused on the Iraqi officer dressed in dark blue trousers and a light blue shirt with rank epaulets on his shoulders. He was squaring away a blue beret on his head. A final check of the range card, eye back to the scope, a squeeze of the trigger, and the explosion of the shot filled the small room as the big gun kicked back against his shoulder.
Without waiting to see the fate of the policeman, Juba worked the bolt smoothly to rack in a second round and shifted his aim to the U.S. Army officer. He was wearing a vest, but that would not matter, and Juba brought the scope to center mass and fired. Two targets down.
The third round was fed into the chamber, and he looked for one more victim. The bodyguard with the sunglasses? The young sentry in the guard post? One of the Americans rushing out of the building with their weapons ready, searching for the sniper? He paused a few seconds to let the scene develop, like the image on a photograph in a darkroom. One American was pulling the fallen officer back inside, his weapon dangling uselessly as he hauled with a hand on each of the man’s wrists. A medic? Juba shot him in the heart.
This time, he left the rifle in the room as he walked away. The military and the police would be looking for anyone carrying anything suspicious, and Juba had access to other rifles to use in the future. He disappeared into the crowd that was running away, scurrying for their homes.
28
COB SPEICHER
THE ARMY SOLDIERS WERE starting to mutter beneath their breaths in the chow lines and in the barracks, feeling that they were losing control of the area. It was no longer a secret that the dangerous terrorist and sniper Juba, once an evil legend down in Baghdad, was out there roaming their turf with a big motherfucking rifle. The fact that everyone now knew his name and background did not detract from the reputation but made it even more ominous. The guy was no rag- head shooter popping off rounds from a rooftop but a former master sniper and color sergeant in the British Royal Marines, one of
Albeit, the Army could not do its mission that way. It had to have men in the gun turrets when they went out because you could not sail blindly into dangerous territory. Then the soldiers eventually would have to dismount and go on foot patrol, out in harm’s way with a pucker factor of ten. Snipers cause problems even when they are not around.
In his office at the sprawling camp, Colonel Neil Withrow was in a tense and private meeting with his XO and his top intelligence officer. The blinds were twisted to let in light but keep out the heat, and an air conditioner churned hard to keep the air clean and the temperature in the eighties, which was twenty degrees or more lower than outside. The machine was overmatched.
A new map of Hargatt was spread on the colonel’s desk, and the intelligence officer, a major, used a big magnifying glass on a sliding mount to make the images jump out. “We’ve been looking for these places a long time, and finally it has all come together,” said the major.
Two square dwellings were colored in bright red, about a half mile apart on the scaled map. “Each one is a safe house where the new foreign fighters and al Qaeda types are gathered before being sent down into Baghdad. The fighters are usually the young suicide bomber fanatics. Al Qaeda sends in better-trained men to help coordinate and run the show down there.”
The XO, a lieutenant colonel, added, “Your sources say that both houses are full right now?”
“Sources, as in plural, and not just some joker off the street with a grudge against his neighbor and looking for a quick cash payout?” The colonel stared at the map, his mind running through the options.
“A good source that we have used before, and a separate backup. Both are locals.” The intel officer had vetted the information carefully before presenting it. The last thing he needed was some turncoat informant giving false information at this point. The backup source not only confirmed the information but added a sense of urgency. It was authentic, and the aerial recon photos showed men moving in and out of the houses.
“Colonel, we estimate maybe twenty-five fighters are in each house. They filter them out a few at a time as more come in. As we have suspected, Hargatt is a major stop on the insurgents’ underground railroad to get fresh fighters and arms into Baghdad.”
Withrow remained cautious. The Juba mission was still paramount, but this was a golden opportunity. His overall mission would continue long after the Juba situation was gone, and bringing down these two houses and bagging fifty bad guys would chop a major insurgent resupply line. Still, it might compromise the other thing.
“Okay.” He made a decision. “Now that we have the informants’ material, I want some American eyes on it for confirmation. Send two scout-sniper teams out to recon on both target buildings and report back.”
“Why not use those special ops types who are after Juba? They look pretty competent.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with Juba. If he happens to be in one of those houses, then we take him, too. Task Force Trident doesn’t need to know everything we do.”
“Yes, sir.”
The colonel ordered, “Get your planners busy. The sniper teams go in as soon as it’s dark enough. They are not to engage, just scout out the houses and report back. If the targets are valid, then we roll out and hit both places at 0500.”
The XO was in total agreement. He, too, was tired of getting punched around without striking back. “What kind of force, sir?”
“A full package on each house. Abrams on the corners, Bradleys bring in the infantry, with Apache choppers overhead. Way up overhead, I want a couple of flyboys with smart bombs targeted to those places in case things go to shit.”
“What about the Tridents? We told Swanson they would be kept in the loop.”
“And they will. They will be notified if and when we are ready to roll. Right now, we are just trying to gather actionable intelligence on some insurgent strongholds. Get to it.”
HARGATT
An M40A1 rifle, the exquisite weapon of U.S. Marine snipers, lay on an unzipped gun bag on a table in the commander’s kitchen. Juba picked it up gently and made sure the safety on the right side of the receiver was fully to the rear before handling it further. Satisfied, he observed that a lightweight oil covered the surfaces instead of normal lubricating grease and breakfree, which tended to hold grit in desert climates. Then he disassembled it on a clean cloth.
He depressed the bolt stop in front of the trigger and pulled the bolt straight back to remove it and check the inner surfaces. Clean as a whistle.
