Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

MOONLIGHT CHECKERED THE RESTLESS sea with rolling shadows as passing waves rose and fell, and the big vessel slid through the water. Beth Ledford was at the bow, staring out at the blackness, and the cold spray that flew up every time the bow cracked open another wave made her shiver, and she eventually decided to find a more sheltered spot. She walked down the starboard side, got out of the buffeting wind, and found some deck chairs that were lashed to the bulkhead. She unfolded one and moved it close enough to the railing that she could put up her feet. No stars out tonight. Her whole world seemed black and bleak, and her future even worse.

Kyle Swanson had watched from the deck above. He had awakened an hour ago, tangled in his sheets after another taunting dream visit from the Boatman, his own personal inner fiend, but things had been squared away between them. The Boatman did not have a lot to say that night and laughingly paddled off in his rickety boat to cross the final abyss with another load of Kyle-killed souls. Swanson was once again told to go back to work. That was their deal: Kyle kept the supply coming, and the skeletal Boatman hauled away the corpses, along with Kyle’s shame and the guilt.

He put on a gray sweatshirt and black sweatpants and went outside, barefoot on the damp deck, blending into the evening mist and standing invisible in the cool air in the shadow of an overhang. The action was done, the extraction was done, the debrief was done, and even the inevitable reckoning with the Boatman was done. He felt good. So why was his spider sense tingling, as if something had lightly touched his protective web? He stretched and scanned a three-sixty, checking off everything as normal, and then saw Beth, alone in a deck chair, in the dark.

No one knew any better than he what Beth was going through. He went down to the armory, checked out a large gun case of polished aluminum, and returned to the deck softly, barely stirring the air.

Swanson was good at waiting. He stood about ten feet behind her, balanced with the slight roll of the yacht, looking out at whatever she was seeing in the blank space beyond the stern. Then he spoke. “Beth, the common wisdom is, give these things time and you’ll get over it. I call bullshit on that, because it’s advice that is usually given by people who have no idea what it’s like. Truth is, you’re not going to get over it. The best you can do is to learn to accept it.”

She didn’t turn around. “How long have you been there?”

“A while. Just finished adjusting my own attitude. You ain’t the only one who killed people back there.”

That made her turn and look over her shoulder. “I can’t believe that it bothers you.”

“I’m a professional, and I still have to process it. Otherwise, it stacks up to be so much baggage that it can crush you.” He moved forward, put the gun case down, and leaned against the rail to face her. “Tell you a secret. My nickname in the Corps is ‘Shaky’ because someone—General Middleton, actually—one day found me shaking after a firefight. I never lived that down. The older jarheads still call me Shake. I hate it.”

Beth chuckled. “Hard to believe, Kyle. Can I call you Shaky?”

“No.” Swanson took a moment to make sure they were alone. “Don’t look at the lives you took as being innocent victims. Every one of them would have killed you first if they had the chance. We had to stay focused and committed to our mission, and they were in the way. Bad juju for them. There is always going to be another mission, and another one after that.”

“But—”

“No. Listen to me first. I’m playing schoolteacher right now, giving you all of the information you need to process where you are. I was very reluctant to take you along on the mission, because another professional scout-sniper would have been a more experienced and reliable partner. You won me over, probably saved my life. I had a long talk with Sybelle Summers before we left Kandahar to come out here, and she agreed to recommend you for a Silver Star. Problem is that you can never talk about it because this was a secret mission.”

“Kyle, I don’t deserve that decoration. You did most of the work.”

“Oh, I’ll probably get another medal to throw in my footlocker, but it’s unimportant. Let me finish. We are offering you an opportunity to earn your way into Task Force Trident. Only two other candidates, both men, are in the pipeline at present because we’re so selective, and there is no favoritism. You would be officially slide off of the Coast Guard books to become a special liaison within the Pentagon, and your records all go into General Middleton’s private safe. We operate at the pleasure of the president and answer to no one else. As for rank, that disappears, too; you will be whatever you need to be, a Navy commander or an Army sergeant or a civilian, like a retail clerk, depending on the mission.

“It will take approximately two years to finish the training, and you can be tapped for missions throughout that time. You will attend a wide spread of schools, many of them not on the books. The teaching ratio is usually one-on-one. Among other things, you would shoot at the Ghost House with Seal Team Six, learn IEDs from demolition experts, study forensics with the FBI, and learn to fly a helo. All kinds of other stuff, because the training never stops. Your expense account will be virtually unlimited, and the pay will be substantial, out of a black budget.”

“And in return?”

“Outwardly, you will look and act the same, but inside, it will be the end of cute and demure Beth Ledford, the ever-popular Little Sure Shot. Personal relationships will be hard, if not impossible. Without putting too fine a point on it, you will be a highly skilled killer who will do whatever is necessary, including sacrificing your own life, to protect your country.”

“Be like you?”

“God, let’s hope not. This is not a decision for you to make immediately. We want you to take some time off. When we finish in Washington, you go home and kick back for a while and think it through. Long as it takes.”

He shoved off from the rail and went to the gun case, which lay flat and gleaming. “Come here,” he said, and Beth followed him over. “You’re a farm type, so what’s the best thing to do when you fall off a horse?”

“Get right back on?”

“Exactly. Conquer your own fear, and also let the sumbitch horse know who’s boss. That’s where you are now, Beth. You need to shoot again, just to let your body and your brain know that you can and will pull the trigger.” He unfastened the snaps and lifted the lid. A lone rifle with a big scope lay in a nest of foam. “Behold.”

“Good God, Kyle. It’s beautiful.”

“It’s the Excalibur 3GX—third generation, experimental. We’ve been working on it for more than a year, and I’m taking this one back to 29 Palms for field tests. Pick it up.”

She did, and the weight felt good. She pointed it out to sea and peered through the scope, which came alive with color and numbers and surprising clarity from its enhanced abilities. “Can I fire it?”

“That’s why it’s here.” He opened a box of bullets that rested in one corner of the case. “Here’s the biggest part of the experiment. What do you estimate would be the range for this weapon?”

She guessed: .50 caliber, all the bells and whistles. “Up to sixteen hundred meters, a mile?”

Swanson laughed. She was talking about their skilled craft again, and already the worries about the death she had wrought were fading. “Nope. More than two miles, plus, with accuracy.”

Beth looked up at him. “You’re kidding. That’s impossible.”

He handed her one of the long bullets. “Here’s the secret. Instead of the normal round, this weapon fires a rocket-assisted projectile, a miniature artillery shell. Titanium tip for individuals, depleted uranium for vehicles.”