me, so I can spread some gossip back at the shop.”
“I didn’t fail anything. I never lose. You know that.”
“Tell me the story and let me be the judge.”
Kyle shook his head. He remembered the incident well.
10
BRIDGEPORT, CALIFORNIA
ROCKET MOUNTAIN, A BIG bump of dirt in the Sierra Nevadas, was part of the Mountain Warfare Training Center outside of Bridgeport, California, and a place with little supervision. Corporal Kyle Swanson had driven up with a dozen other Marines as part of a sniper package to practice high-angle shooting, above-to-below, and cross-compartment shooting from one ridgeline to another. No supervision meant that the rules were loose, and it was more fun to shoot hand grenades than proper targets. About twice a week, that kind of goofing off would start a fire among the fake buildings, and everybody would yell and run down to throw water and dirt on the flames to stop the whole place from burning up. Then the mud fights would start. Things were usually pretty loose up on Rocket Mountain.
Master Sergeant Jim Hall was pulling instructor duty for the course that week because the regular staff guy was on leave. Hall and Swanson had been friends for a long time, and Kyle had gone through Scout Sniper School with Hall riding him like a balky horse, pushing to make him better than everyone else. They had gone nose-to-nose a couple of times, because neither one would back down. That only made them better friends.
Hall was forty-two years old at the time, and Kyle Swanson represented to him the continuation of a tradition, a worthy successor. The boy was an incredible sharpshooter who did everything asked of him on a range and in the classroom and in the field, but also was bright enough to think beyond the moment, with an uncanny sixth sense that could turn a disadvantage into a win. Hall would reluctantly admit, but only to himself, that the young Marine was a prodigy with a sniper rifle.
One Wednesday afternoon, everybody shaped up, cleaned their weapons, policed the area, and dumped trash into the pair of big Dumpsters that squatted beside a storage shed. A truck was grinding up the hill trailing a plume of dust, a visit by the colonel and his sergeant major, coming to check on the training and show the men that the battalion brass cared about them. In the back of the truck were sealed containers of hot chow, straight from the base mess hall, a choice of chop suey or meat loaf and lots of things like broccoli and potatoes, along with cookies and brownies. The colonel knew his men had been roughing it, sleeping outside, choking down MREs for three meals a day, and drinking gallons of water, so the fresh food would be a nice reward.
They set it up on picnic tables and had a good-natured lunch. Then the colonel and the sergeant major watched the snipers blow off a bunch of rounds at steel plates, wrecked cars, and the weather-worn plywood buildings. Finally, the visitors got back into their truck and made the long drive back to the base.
The snipers washed up, changed into civvies, and also drove down the hill. Bridgeport was only twenty minutes away, and every fast-food restaurant had a franchise there, so the Marines seldom ate their MREs. That evening, most of them went to McDonald’s, but Hall pulled Swanson away and took him to a quiet Mexican place identified by a neat sign as Alphonso’s Restaurant. Most of the customers were seated outside, drinking cold beer on the open patio beneath a sprinkling of little white lights. Kyle liked the fact that many of them were Hispanic, always a signal that a Mexican restaurant served authentic food. Hall went inside. Kyle followed.
A row of high-backed booths lined the far wall, each with long, cushioned seats that were separated by a plastic-topped table. Windows at each booth faced the parking lot, but at the last one, a customer had adjusted the blinds so no one could see in. Overhead lights in the middle of the room did little to brighten that corner. Hall slid into the booth, motioning Kyle to follow.
“This is Morgan,” said Hall. The man was slender, with thick dark hair that did not show a sign of gray. No emotion showed in the dark brown eyes as he slowly dipped a fried chip into a cup of red sauce and put it into his mouth and chewed. A dark linen blazer covered a pearl gray golf shirt that had a little sheep figure sewn in gold on the left chest: Brooks Brothers.
No one said anything until the waitress came over, already with three cold Coronas on her tray. She was a beautiful young Hispanic woman, no more than twenty years old, with challenging eyes and a catlike walk, dressed in a denim miniskirt and a loose white blouse worn off her right shoulder. The name Mary was imprinted in black on a white plastic name tag.
“Ah, Maria, we meet again. You are
“You always say that,” she said, serving the chilled bottles. “All talk, no action. I think you have a wife and many children somewhere and just like to flirt.”
“No. You’re the only girl for me in the whole world.” Hall laughed. Mary laughed. “Someday we will run off to Las Vegas and get married.”
“I have a boyfriend,” she said.
“But do you have a telephone number?”
“I will tell your wife if you are unfaithful.” She giggled, flipped a hand at him, and walked away.
Kyle sipped his beer. “I didn’t know we were joining your friend.”
“Business,” replied Hall, who instantly turned serious. He took a deep swallow and put his elbows on the table.
“What kind of business are you in, Mr. Morgan?” Kyle asked.
“Just call me Morgan, Corporal Swanson. No mister.” The voice was smooth and as easy as the cold cerveza. His posture was a little odd. “What kind of business do you think I’m in?”
Hall stifled a small laugh. Drank his beer.
Swanson took a chip, dipped it, and ate for a moment, studying the man. Then he said, “You don’t have the skin color to be from around here, so you don’t get much exposure to the sun. No intentional identifying marks, but that scar by your ear shows maybe you once got your scalp peeled back by a bullet or some shrapnel. You carry yourself well, with confidence, so you’re probably ex-military, since Jim Hall would not be doing business with someone who wasn’t at least a veteran. Your jacket is cut a little full at the left arm, so you have a weapon in a shoulder holster. Something small, but with stopping power. Then there is your choice of this place, the last booth with your back against the wall and the shade drawn. Up there over the window where the blinking sign is advertising Budweiser, you might as well have one pointing directly at you and saying CIA.”
“Maybe I’m just on a fishing trip over at the Virginia Lakes.” The man’s eyes remained steady.
“Your kind buys fish. You don’t catch them. No calluses or blisters on your fingers from a running nylon line. The cowboy boots give you a little more height, but they are clean, and your jeans are pressed. Desk man.”
Jim Hall finished his beer and held up the empty and waved it at Mary, signaling for another round. “Told you this kid was good.”
“I’m a headhunter, Corporal Swanson, a talent scout. Master Sergeant Hall suggested that I come take a look at you, so I went through your records. You are now twenty-one years old with three good years in the Corps, and fast-tracked for sergeant. We wonder if you might be interested in a new career, a better one.”
Kyle turned to look at Hall, who shrugged. His bright blue eyes showed he was amused. “Everybody’s gotta work somewhere, Kyle. Might as well do some good for your country while you’re at it.”
“Wait a minute, Jim. Are you saying you’re with them?”
“Have been for a while, buddy. The Corps gives me legitimate cover. I really am a master sergeant, but I do other things, too.”
“Jim is a very talented man. He thinks that you are,” Morgan said.
An uncomfortable silence settled on them as the waitress brought another round. There was another brief round of flirting between Mary and Jim Hall, and she asked if they were ready to order. “Not yet, honey. Give us a few more minutes,” he said. Mary slid him a folded matchbook, red and yellow with the restaurant’s logo imprinted on it. He flipped it open, laughed softly, and showed it to the other two men. Mary had written her telephone number on the inside.
