Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

“You want to test me, then OK, but test me with something worthwhile. I could do this five-hundred-meter crap all day long and never miss. You understand that, Gunny? Never. Same thing at a thousand. I can shoot the lights out with pistols, rifles, shotguns, it doesn’t matter. I’ve been able to do it since I was a kid, and I love to shoot. Won my first turkey shoot while I was still in pigtails. Somehow, I was born with this peculiar skill in my genes, and the Coast Guard, bless ’em, taught me the technical side. I understand that you needed to see my capabilities because our lives might someday depend on my being able to take a shot, and now you have. I promise you that if I must, I will, and I won’t miss. Are you satisfied now, or do you want to see me pop an ace of clubs, or maybe you flip a quarter into the air?”

Kyle looked hard at her. The new sun was heating the area enough that she had removed the watch cap and shaken out her hair. Her bright blue eyes were large and questioning. She looked like a schoolgirl and shot like an assassin, and the way she had stood up to him and the general was proof that she had no fear. He nodded his head. “I’ve seen enough. Put the weapon back in its case, Ledford, while I police up the brass. We’re done here, so let’s go get some breakfast. We need to talk.”

They drove away, leaving the shredded target hanging there, smiling to greet the Marines who next used the range. The distant helicopter circled in the morning sky.

THE INTERNATIONAL HOUSE OF Pancakes was seven miles away, a boxy building with a blue roof, and a cluster of vehicles in the crushed-rock parking area. A sign on the door read OPEN, and they went inside. A booth was available by a window overlooking the parking lot, and they slid into it, facing each other. The menu was as thick as a book and as confusing as a nuclear launch code, with every possible combination of pancakes and eggs and potatoes. Three small bottles of syrup stood beside the fake sugar packets, and the laminate tabletop was still damp from being wiped down after the previous customers.

Swanson and Ledford were the only military uniforms in the place, but a large man with a bristly high-and-tight haircut was gobbling eggs and waffles at a single table, his back to the room, reading a morning newspaper. He had not looked up. Ledford ordered eggs over easy and sausage, with blueberry pancakes. Kyle blanched at the amount of fat implied in that order and went instead for his usual fruit and cereal. Mugs of coffee soon appeared. Kyle adjusted his jacket and slid his M-1911 .45 caliber Colt pistol free, putting it beside his leg.

“You made me start rethinking things, out there on the line, Ledford,” he said. “I know what you mean about being able to shoot and not knowing why you’re so good at it. I barely got through high school in South Boston because I was no good at math and science courses. Never had fired a gun in my life. Then in the Marines, when they issued me a rifle and took me out to the range, they discovered that I was a better than average shot. All those hillbillies who grew up hunting couldn’t touch me. In the classroom, all of the equations and formulas and explanations and tables suddenly made sense. I didn’t question why; I just ran with it. Sound familiar?”

Beth Ledford looked at him steadily, and a tentative, relaxing smile came to her. “At first, I thought I was weird; a little girl who liked guns instead of Barbie dolls. People would come out to the farm just to watch me plink targets. Then a local TV show did a bit about me, and the news media tried to make me a celebrity. Mom and Dad, thankfully, stopped all that in its tracks when they saw what was happening. No more exhibitions, no special appearances, and plain ol’ Beth Ledford who stayed in school, ran track, and was afraid of the popular cheerleaders. My gun work was kept strictly private. Dad worked with me, and eventually hired a coach to see if I was material for the Olympics or a military shooting team. I kept improving, but then Dad died and I lost interest in the fancy stuff. Had no desire to go to college, so I joined the Coast Guard.”

“Why not the Army or the Marines?”

“Coast Guard was the only available path for a woman to become a sniper. You guys run a closed shop. I am dying to find out how Colonel Summers did it.”

“You ever have that strange moment, when you’re shooting, that you actually can see the bullet?”

“Uh-huh. I can watch the disturbed air behind it.”

“What about your brother, the doctor?” Kyle saw a gray pickup track pull into the lot, and a medium-sized man in blue coveralls got out and made his way inside. Dark hair, dark complexion, physically fit. Swanson adjusted his pistol beneath the table as the new customer was taken to a booth.

“Joey was a genius. He always wanted to be a doctor. When we were kids and I’d get a cold, he would write me a prescription for two aspirin from the medicine cabinet. Before we knew it he had a first-class medical education. He told me that he went on the humanitarian missions to balance the guilt he felt for being so blessed. His real love was research.” She leaned toward him. “I think he was going to do great things… What’s happening, Gunny?”

The big man who had been sitting alone was on his feet, and Kyle slid out of the booth, the big Colt against his leg. They arrived at the new customer’s table at the same time, and Chief Master Sergeant O. O. Dawkins jammed in beside the surprised stranger while Kyle eased into position across the table, letting the man get a glimpse of the weapon before it disappeared.

“What the fuck?” the man stammered.

“Keep both hands on the table,” Double-Oh ordered. “Try to pull that gun in your overalls and I will break your arm.”

“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded.

Kyle tapped the pistol against the bottom of the table. “I’ll ask the questions this morning. We’re a detail assigned to protect Petty Officer Ledford over there. You and your people are following her. Why?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said, settling in and growing calm.

“Look, buddy, your surveillance has been busted for two days now. I saw your helicopter this morning; now you show up. You have a partner outside who is probably listening to this conversation, so invite him in. I’m putting my weapon away now.” Swanson stuck the pistol back under his windbreaker. Within two minutes, another man appeared at the door and ambled over. Jeans, boots, stained blue sweatshirt, and graying hair. He looked at Ledford, then dropped into the booth beside Swanson.

“My name is Fred Watson, and that’s Hector Holmes.” Watson flipped open a leather folder with a gold badge and a laminated identification card and put it on the table. “Counterterrorism Division of the Diplomatic Security Service, State Department. And you are?”

“Samuel L. Jackson and Brad Pitt. Task Force Trident. Pentagon.” Double-Oh produced some identification.

Kyle said to the man across from him, “Holmes and Watson. Not very original.”

“Better than movie stars.” Watson flashed a crooked grin. “I don’t make these things up. I just carry the plastic.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling. Well, here’s what is going on, Special Agent Watson. Petty Officer Ledford is currently on extended temporary duty with Task Force Trident, we’re not going to let her go, and we’re not going to let anything happen to her.”

“It’s a terrorism thing with us,” said Watson. “Nothing was going to happen to her.”

Dawkins replied, “Your appearance here just underlines what we already know: that the State Department is somehow involved in those medical team murders in Pakistan.”