Stephen Hunter - Dead Zero

“That was then. This is now. This town corrupts. The perks, the flattering press coverage, the access to and friendship with powerful people, the sexual opportunities, the glittery parties in mansions and condos overlooking the moonlit monuments: it’s sweet poison.”

“These two: no. That’s all I got to say.”

“So I have to take on trust what you take on trust.”

“Seems like it.”

“Okay, who plays me?”

“We’ll get a guy who has the same-”

“No, you won’t,” said Cruz. “That’s bullshit. These guys know me. They know how I move, what my body language is, what my size is. And this is for Whiskey Two-Two, so it’s still my job. I’ll go. If I get hit, well, it’s nothing that couldn’t have happened in the sandbox.”

“Cruz, be sure. Think it over. There’ll be a moment when Mick Bogier has you dead zero in his scope and his finger on the trigger and he’s taking up the slack. Maybe we get there in time, maybe we get there one second late. No body armor’s going to stop a.50.”

“Just get him. Then break him. Then get the guy who set this up. Then find out what it’s all about. That’s enough. If you give me that pledge, then I’ll go play the tethered goat.”

“You’d make your grandfather proud,” said Bob.

“My grandfather died in 1967. He was a Portuguese fisherman in Cape Cod, Massachusetts.”

“That was Solomon Nicola Cruz, the father of Lieutenant Commander Tomas F. Cruz, who raised you with his wife, Urlinda Marbella, at the Subic Bay Naval Station in the Philippines. Lieutenant Commander Cruz was by all accounts a fine man and you were so lucky to have him and your mother too. He wasn’t your real father and she wasn’t your real mother and you’re not half Filipino. They was stepparents. Your grandfather was a United States Marine who landed on five islands in the Pacific and was awarded the Medal of Honor on Iwo Jima. He was as brave and tough and good as they come and that’s the dead-zero truth. He had one son, who married a beautiful Vietnamese woman who was killed in the Tet invasion in 1968. She was a fine, fine woman. Her husband never knew she had you, because he was in Laos attached to SOG at the time. When he came back, she was gone. And so were you. I don’t know how you got to the Philippines. But sure as hell, and I see your grandfather’s look on your face all the time, you’re my son.”

GEORGETOWN

WASHINGTON, DC

1024 HOURS

THURSDAY

Here,” said Bogier.

“Here?” said Tony.

It wasn’t really an intersection. Basically, 37th bent to the right and became P, or, if you were facing in another direction, P bent to the left and became 37th.

“It has to be,” said Bogier.

“Mick, I see a hundred other places it could be.”

“Name them. Don’t point to them, but indicate them.”

“Any of those buildings on the campus,” he said.

They were standing at the end of the wall that blocked off the public front to Georgetown University along 37th Street, the wall itself too tall to see over. But they knew what was there: several acres of campus lawn latticed with walkways and interrupted by benches, much of it shaded by the giant umbrellas of hundred-year-old trees, the whole maybe 250 yards long. From where they were, they could see an L formation of august Gothic buildings snared in vine over old stone, dormer windows, archways, whatever signifiers one can imagine indicating the solemnity of higher education. These sealed the north and west perimeters of the lawn and all faced directly or at a slight angle to the entrance, at the lawn’s southern end, of Lauinger Library, itself an outlier in newfangled, cutting-edge, hip-to-the-max architecture that would be the site of Ibrahim Zarzi’s upcoming speech before the American Foreign Policy Association. There, before assorted invitees mostly from State and the Administration, and several dozen reporters, it had been widely reported that Zarzi would make his formal announcement that indeed, he was a candidate for the presidency of Afghanistan in the fall election a few weeks off.

“Those buildings will be closed down,” said Bogier. “No way he penetrates. The lawn will be closed down; no way he gets out onto it for a shot. And, you’re not considering his skill set. He doesn’t have to penetrate because, unlike you and me, he doesn’t need a stable rest, a pedestal or bipod, a Kestrel weather station, a range finder, a computer, any of that bullshit. He’s a super-offhand guy. He’ll shoot from there,” he said, nodding to indicate where his team boy should look.

Tony took the cue and saw the end of the wall where there was just a little space between it and a perpendicular wrought-iron fence complete with a line of black shafts and spearheads. Z realized that the sniper could wedge himself into that space and on the other side of the wall get a direct line of sight to the library entrance through which Zarzi, after the speech, would waltz in triumph, wave to his fans, pose for the cameras, and begin a walk to the limousine parked out on 37th. The range would be about 250 yards.

“Ray slides in there, out comes the rifle, poof goes the suppressor, and time in flight later, Zarzi, standing at the entrance, waving to reporters, supporters, and the world, has a crater for a face.”

“Maybe he’ll crash one of those houses on the left side of Thirty-seventh. Shoot from upstairs. Has a nice angle into the library entrance.”

“Secret Service has it covered. Guys have or will have knocked on all the doors, spoken to all the people, asked them to stay away from windows during and after the speech. There’ll be countersnipers on the roofs of the Georgetown buildings. Ray knows that and he knows his best bet is to kind of scuffle into the margins of the place, real late. Like I say, to just this spot.”

“You don’t think they’ll have cops out here too?”

“Yep. They’ll have P Street sealed off and Thirty-seventh as well. No car traffic. But it doesn’t matter. You know why? Because he’s already there.”

“Already there?”

“Maybe even now,” said Bogier. “That’s how bad he wants this shot. Look over the wall on P. See what’s behind it. Looks like some woods or forest, undeveloped, just waiting for Georgetown to build its new chem lab or something. He’ll hit it tonight, slide in there in ghillie, probably up close to the wall. Then he waits. He waits through tonight, he waits through tomorrow. He waits through rain, snow, sleet, earthquakes, animal bites, bouts of depression, winning the lottery, cats and dogs living together. Thirty-six hours without a move or a sound or a shit. That’s the zen of this bastard. They’ll close this place down tomorrow, but he’s already here. They’ll run dog teams, but he’s probably perfumed up with skunk piss, so the dogs’ll steer clear. No human eye will pick him out. Tomorrow night, game time, he comes out of his hole. His move to his shooting site is probably no more than fifty feet. He has to get over a wall, no biggie to an athlete like him. He may run into a cop but he’ll be on him and kung fu him down in two seconds, he’ll slide along into that gap between the fence and the wall, the Great Man comes out, the red dot comes up, and that’s the ball game. Ray doesn’t care about getting away. Getting away isn’t a part of the plan. And it doesn’t matter if I put a hollow point into his brain a second after or if he spends the rest of his life in federal prison or rides the needle. Sergeant Ray Cruz, USMC, did his job, and by his Semper Fi code, by all that bullshit that he believes separates him from us and makes us shit to his noble goodness, that’s what’s important. It’s moral vanity, his only flaw. He’s got a code; we don’t.”