shots.”
Swanson thought about that. Once again, Hall was correct and was moving the mission along exactly the way Swanson himself probably would have laid it out. He had not been in on this planning, however. On a usual mission, he would have been the man in charge-the cool and confident special operator who could count split seconds in his head and stay a minute ahead of reality, dealing with any crisis with a cold and unflappable demeanor because he knew everything about the mission, and what was going on around him at all times. He had surrendered that. Swanson could hardly remember a time when his world had not been framed in a sniper scope, and Jim Hall was his mentor, almost a brother, one of the few men on whom Kyle could depend either in a bar fight or on the battlefield. Sometimes, you just had to let go.
“Everything sounds good. Let’s get some dinner, then come back and check those positions after dark. If everything is still cool, we can move in with our gear.”
The two snipers turned and walked back toward the hotel. “What about afterward?”
“The egress plan is pretty sweet. Selim will have a vehicle standing by for each of us, with a driver and a cop in each one to get us through any blockades or protest groups that may be in the streets. Yours will have a blue pennant on the front fender, and mine will have a gold one. We drive straight out to a C-130 cargo bird that is kindly being provided through the courtesy of the Pakistani air force. The plane will be warmed up and ready to go.” Hall snapped his fingers and grinned. “Shoot and scoot, pal. Bad guys dead and we’re back at Bagram in time for a late dinner.”
“If your Taliban buddy comes through, which is a pretty big
“Oh, be quiet. You’re boring me. It will work,” said Jim Hall. “Trust me.”
That was the issue that was chewing at Swanson, and it continued to gnaw on him after night fell, like a dog with a bone. After dinner, he collected the dark blue North Face backpack and a black airline suitcase from the hotel luggage room, popped out the wheels and pulled up the handle, and trundled lazily over to the apartment building. A doorman in a plain brown uniform greeted him, having been alerted that he would be a guest for a single night in the apartment of an Australian couple, Mr. and Mrs. Derek Williams, who were on vacation. Mr. Williams had made the arrangements by telephone earlier in the day.
Kyle unlocked the door and turned on the lights room by room as he walked through the spacious apartment to be sure that he was alone. In the kitchen, he laid the suitcase on a polished round kitchen table made of maple and opened it. Inside the padded compartments was a disassembled Accuracy International AW covert sniper rifle, complete with a folding stock, a flash suppressor, a bipod, a pair of ten-shot magazines, and a box of twenty rounds of 7.62 ? 51 mm cartridges. He loaded the magazines, put the weapon together, and spent time cleaning it, still mulling the questions that would have no final answers until tomorrow. As Jim Hall had said, he was in for the full ride.
He emptied the contents of his backpack on the table and got ready to take a shower, then lights out. Beside his toothbrush was his satellite phone, a secure link back to the Special Ops headquarters at Bagram. He made a call and identified himself by code, then asked to be connected to the Task Force Trident hut and soon heard the twangy voice of Staff Sergeant Travis Stone.
“Hey, boss,” Stone said.
“Is Rawls there with you?” Swanson asked.
“Yeah. You want him?”
“No. You can pass the word. This is a quick job. I need both of you on it ASAP.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Guarding an embassy,” Swanson said and then laid out what he wanted them to do.
17
ISLAMABAD
WEDNESDAY, 1000 HOURS
MASTER SERGEANT MALCOLM K. Turnbridge looked like a Marine. The dress blue trousers had a red stripe down each leg, and the starched khaki shirt held sharp creases, several rows of ribbons, and six stripes on each sleeve. The tie was perfectly knotted, and his shined shoes gleamed in the fluorescent lighting, as did the polished black bill of his white cover, which lay on a nearby file cabinet in his office. The overall effect reflected the old Corps recruiting pitch of wanting a few good men: The two jokers standing before him were not them.
“Staff Sergeants Rawls and Stone reporting, Master Sergeant,” said the tall African American, who had the build of a basketball player and wore a faded red Texas Tech T-shirt. “I’m Rawls,” he said. The smaller guy looked like a rat with a flare of long red hair. “I’m Stone,” he said. His T-shirt was black with pink lettering that read I AM VICTORIA’S SECRET. They both wore old blue jeans and tired sneakers.
“Welcome aboard, boys,” said Turnbridge, taking the oversized manila folders from them. “Botha you will get your hairs cut immediately and be totally squared away before setting foot in the public areas of my embassy. That clear? Lookin’ like that, how are you even in the Marines, much less staff sergeants?”
Rawls gave a big smile. “Sorry about the sloppy look, Master Sergeant. We just received the orders last night over at Bagram, and they put us on the first plane to Islamabad this morning.”
Stone also grinned. “Six weeks temporary embassy security with you guys instead of sweating in Afghanistan? Real chow instead of MREs? Clean sheets? American women to look at? Sweet!”
Turnbridge grunted with approval and immediately cut the boys some slack. He once had been an infantry sergeant himself before being ordered into what was then called the Marine Security Guard Battalion, and he showed all of the correct badges and ribbons to prove it. “Awright. I didn’t ask for help, but things are getting kind of tense around here, and I don’t mind plussing up with a couple of experienced men. Have a seat and let’s see what we got here.” He thumbed open the flaps and pulled out the paperwork.
The orders were computer printouts and were routine and straightforward, with all of the appropriate squares filled in, and signed by the colonel who headed the Marine Corps Embassy Security Group based back in Quantico, Virginia. The colonel oversaw the postings of Marine guards at U.S. embassies around the globe. Master Sergeant Turnbridge, in charge of the Islamabad detachment, went through the papers fast and found no irregularities. “Okay. I’ll take you over to the Marine House and introduce you. You’ll like the duty here because the embassy civilians treat us like pets. The other guys will probably make you newbies do the grocery run downtown today as part of the usual initiation.” He put the orders in a desk drawer and reached for his cover.
“Not quite yet, Master Sergeant Turnbridge,” said Rawls. “We have some other hand-carried orders as well.”
Turnbridge, halfway out of his chair, paused at Rawls’s comment and plopped back down. “I knew this was too good to be true.”
Looking serious, Rawls held out a sealed white envelope. There was no smile on the little guy’s face anymore, either. The envelope was marked TOP SECRET. EYES ONLY. DETACHMENT COMMANDER. ISLAMABAD. Turnbridge ripped it open along one edge and unfolded a single sheet of paper.
The new men were to be accepted as part of the Marine detachment but were not under the control of the master sergeant, and no questions were to be asked. He was to provide all requested support, including arms. It was signed by the president of the United States.
Turnbridge folded the letter and returned it. “I’m not comfortable with this, Staff Sergeant Rawls,” he said. “I believe it may put my men and the embassy at risk. This is a sensitive post. Also, since we are talking of orders from outside normal channels, I have to point out that I work for the ambassador here.”
Travis Stone interrupted. “And the ambassador works for the State Department, and the secretary of state works for the president. So here we are.”
“In other words, I just shut up and do what I’m told, huh?” The man’s face reddened as embarrassment and anger crept into his tightly controlled demeanor.
