Anne Fox - Camp Chaos

This book is dedicated to the memory of Special Agent Paul Andrew LeVeille, 1959-1999, friend and fellow pilot, whose name appears on the FBI’s Wall of Honor, having served our country with the utmost of fidelity, bravery, and integrity. Gone west, but not forgotten. Rest in peace, Paul.

“That’s her, right there,” whispered Spud. “Watch.”

Kat Hanko’s small frame could be seen in Turtle’s binoculars, stretched out on the ground, peering through a scope mounted on a Savage 112. One thousand and twenty-five meters away on a steep hillside was a steel target, ten feet wide by six feet high, in the shape of a white buffalo. Mirage seemed to make the target dance and ripple in the New Mexico summer heat as she peered through the scope. Satisfied with the picture in her sights, she gently squeezed the sensitive trigger while her brain whispered, ‘ Send it.’ The shot rang out, followed by the sound of the round sizzling through the air and then the clang! of the bullet striking its mark. “Easy,” she mumbled.

She smoothly extracted the spent case from the chamber, dropping it into a place in the box to her side, and removing another live cartridge from the box, gently chambered a new round. Peering once again through the scope, again her little voice said, ‘Send it.’ The shot rang out, and moments later the target rang its answer. “Too easy,” she mumbled.

Once again working the bolt of the rifle, she extracted the spent case and chambered another round. Wiggling her hips back into shooting position, she once again took aim and fired. Once again, she heard the answering sound of the 300-grain bullet hitting its mark. “Two damned easy,” she muttered.

“That thing’s six by ten feet and over 1100 yards away,” Spud whispered. “And she just hit the fucker three times in a row.”

Kat sprang up onto her feet. “Duck,” Spud whispered. Hunkered down in the grass behind a clump of saplings, they watched as Kat picked up the rifle and took it over to her black SUV. Sliding the drawer open on the bed-mounted gun case, she extracted a lightly-oiled lint-free cloth and wrapped the rifle in it before putting it back in its place in the case. Sliding the case shut and locking it, she picked up a backpack and slung it onto her back, then shut the rear door of the SUV and locked it as well before turning back toward the firing line.

She felt the prickle on her neck. Ok, where the fuck are you? she thought. She turned and looked toward the clump of trees where Spud and Turtle still concealed themselves.

“Shit,” Turtle whispered. “She’s gotta have spidie sense.”

You wanna watch, I’ll give you a good show , she thought, and turned back toward the firing line. But I’m sick of you fuckers tailing me all the time. Time to take a walk.

“What’s she doing?” Spud whispered after Turtle had caught her in his binoculars.

“Looks like she’s going forward of the firing line,” Turtle replied. “She’s walking downrange. Got something on her back.”

He continued to watch as she walked down the range, past the line where steel chicken silhouettes were hung, past where pigs were hung, past where turkeys were hung, and beyond the last line of metallic silhouette targets where rams were hung.

“Getting hard to keep track of her,” Turtle said aloud, knowing that at her current distance from them there would be no way she could hear him. “She’s walking up through the woods.”

He continued to watch, periodically picking her out as she proceeded up the hill, until she emerged in the opening where the white buffalo was placed. Then she turned to the right and walked to the edge of the clearing. Slipping the backpack off her shoulders, she took something from it and set it up on the ground, propping it up with rocks and occasionally checking to see how securely it was placed. Turtle strained to see what it was. “Fuck!” he exclaimed. “She’s got an Ivan up there, and it’s camo painted .”

She grabbed the empty backpack and bounded back down the hill, emerging over the earthen berm at the line of ram targets. Striding back up the silhouette range, she returned to her SUV and retrieved the Savage and her ammunition. Going back to the firing line and lying prone, she peered through the scope, muttering, “Where are you hiding?” Her eyes searched for the slight inconsistency that would tell her she’d found her disguised, human-shaped target. “Ah, there you are, you little terrorist you,” she said to herself. Settling in, she carefully chambered a round, took a deep, deliberate breath, and let the air ooze from her lungs until she felt completely relaxed. ‘Send it,’ her little voice beckoned, and she gently squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, the bullet seared the air, and a few seconds later she was rewarded with a muted clang! She looked over her rifle at the hillside, smiled, and said, “So much for you.”

“Holy shit, that was one helluva shot,” Turtle breathed. “I can’t even see the fucking Ivan anymore!” Just as he finished his remark, they heard another shot and a few seconds later another muted clang!

“Now you see why we need her?” Spud asked. “She’s down there picking off a target the size of a human being’s torso set over 1100 yards away. And trust me, I’ve watched her enough to know that she can stay down there and do that all day. It may have been bad for us that Falcon had to retire, but she’s better than he ever was.”

Kat twisted her body and, remaining prone, looked in their direction again. As Turtle quickly lowered the binoculars and hunkered back down in the grass, she caught the glint of light reflecting from the binoculars’ lenses. Hope you’re watching , she thought, raising her middle finger into the air. Then she settled back into firing position, put the prickle on the back of her neck aside, slid the spent case out of the rifle’s chamber, and chambered another round.

“Dearly beloved, we all know why we’re gathered here today,” quipped Voice. “With Falcon no longer among us but instead enjoying the good life of a new identity and a place of his choosing, we are now a man down.” He produced a stack of personnel folders. “Here for your dining pleasure, are our finalists for his replacement.” He passed the files around the table, one to each man on the team.

“I’ll go ahead with mine,” he continued. “Our first candidate is Konisky, Robert. Twenty-five years of age. Currently United States Army, Special Forces. Likes jumping out of airplanes from high altitudes. Good with knives. Survival expert. Trained as a medic, earned the Expert Field Medical badge. And proceeding around the table, who’ve you got, Cloud?”

Cloud opened his folder. “Pinneo, Patrick Paul. PPP. We pick him, we’re going to have to call him ‘Cubed.’ Twenty-three years of age. Currently United States Navy. SEAL. Good with knives. Did a fair bit of orienteering in JROTC while in high school. Obviously doesn’t mind getting his head under water. Flies copters.”

“Guess I’m next,” said Turtle. “Hanko, Katheryn. Twenty-nine years of age. Currently Special Agent, FBI, Albuquerque field office. Graduated fifth in her academy class. Black belt in aikido. Some flight training, no pilot’s license. Spends her spare time up in Raton hitting small objects from big distances. Consistently. Spud?”