Стивен Хантер - Game of Snipers

“Reviewing stand?” said Neill. “Parade ground. The theater? A movie? I can’t—”

Then Mrs. McDowell said, “My father was one of those go-getters. Never still— anywhere, anytime, any way . Except one place in his life where his stillness used to drive people crazy. I know. I caddied for him. He was putting.”

1445

Allah, Thy servant beseeches Thee again. O Lord of all, it is in Your favor I commit myself and give myself, for life, for death, for fate, for destiny. I smite Thy enemies. I drive them to destruction. I ensure our triumph. I ensure Your mastery over all. I enable their submission and the power of Your will as it becomes not regional but global, as it destroys the Satan that is America, as it ruins this land of decadence and corruption and evil. I evoke in Your name all of those who have died to put me at this spot and make me Your instrument, and, consecrated in their blood, I perform my act. I am humble and contrite before You, knowing that now You shall reach down and infuse Your servant with power, serenity, vision, and brilliance.

It was almost time. He gently shoved the bolt forward, feeling it take one of the cartridges off the stack in the magazine, engaged it, and slid it gently, smoothly, forward into the chamber. He locked the bolt down and, with his finger, touched the safety switch on the right side of the receiver, checking that it was off.

1455

On one of the screens they could see the crowd gathering in New York, the dais beginning to fill. The other showed men in calm control in the Command Center downstairs, as they orchestrated the pieces for the checkmate that nobody watching now believed would never happen.

Nick was on the phone.

“Get me Secret Service, their Command Center. Yes, ASAP, this could be Code Red.”

He waited.

“Jackson, Command” came on the voice at the other end.

“Bill, Nick Memphis over at Hoover, I’m going to put you on speaker for my people, okay?”

“Yeah. But, Nick, shouldn’t you be engaged in the New York op? Aren’t you up there, and—”

“Long story. Politics.”

“In this town? What a surprise!”

“Something just come up. Assuming our bad guy is going to go today, I have to ask, do you have any protectees on a golf course?”

“On a golf course?”

“Yeah, I—”

“That’s mucho classified, bud.”

“Secure line, emergency procedure, maybe go to Code Red on this one. Come on, Bill, give it to me, this is real important.”

“I don’t know how you found out. Nobody’s supposed to know this shit.”

1458

He could see them now. Still too far out, but sharply outlined in the Schmidt & Bender, two figures, next to the golf cart. A good one hundred and fifty from the green. The tall one — too far to make out details, he was an amoeba to the eye, even blown up twenty-five times due to the genius of Germanic glass grinding — addressed the ball, concentrated, and rotated back smoothly to equipoise, paused a second, unleashed a swing.

Through the scope, Juba could not follow the ball, but he could tell from the instant dejection in the tall man’s posture that the shot had not gone well. But instead of relinquishing his club and jumping into the cart for taxi service onward, the man reached into his pocket, took out a second ball, and dropped it on the grass. The same ceremony of addressing, shifting, fidgeting, adjusting and counteradjusting, gathering, squeezing his concentration to an even higher degree, and the silver shaft flashed in the sun, and another slashing stroke was delivered.

This time, success, as the tall man pivoted in follow-through, turned back, putting hand to eyes to shield them from sun, following the ball as it went where it had been directed. He could not contain a bit of leap as the ball must have smacked on the green and rolled toward the hole. Elated, he accepted a handshake from his assistant and got into the cart, which now began its short journey to the green, some 1,847 yards from Juba.

1459

“Whenever he’s in town on a Thursday, he goes to a certain course and has a private round. It’s secure, because it’s on a military post closed to the public, and of course the MPs do a security sweep and close the place down for the afternoon. They close the whole post down, in fact. It’s just our guy and his caddy, for therapy, for escape, for fun. Every Thursday. He carries a bucket of balls, and he’ll hit—”

“Who?” yelled Nick.

“Renegade.”

It made sudden, savage sense. Renegade was beloved by millions, a beacon of racial pride, honor, and integrity, a hero to the left. Dump him with a .338 to the thoracic, and those millions would go insane with rage, especially as it came out the shooter was a white racist who’d just unleashed a ton of vile racist hate speak under his own name — Brian A. Waters — on the Darknet and had escaped, cleanly and mysteriously, as if abetted by some Deep State conspiracy. Would we ever come back from that one?

“Where?” said Nick.

“The golf course at Fort Lesley J. McNair in the southeast, off the Anacostia. About a mile from you.”

“Is there any spot on the course where he’s vulnerable—”

“The eighth green is at the edge of the river, nearly a mile wide at that point. Next to the National War College. I suppose if you knew he was there and you were on the other side of the river and had a high vantage point—”

“He’s there now?”

“He would be. Arrived at one. Usually on the course about three hours on a Thursday afternoon. He’d be just getting to the eighth green about now.”

“Call your detail and get him off the course, and I mean this fucking second.”

“No detail. No iPhone. That’s the point, he enjoys being cut off, so it’s just him and the golf ball. I can get the guys in the clubhouse out there, but I don’t know if they can make it in time.”

“Do it, do it, do it!” said Nick.

He looked up.

“They knew some Saudi billionaire had hired him for a speech. Big dollars. They knew that would keep him in town this day, and since it was Thursday, he’d go to the course. Later, they found out about Mogul’s reaction, and Juba saw how he could run that as cover story.”

“Mrs. McDowell’s helicopter on the roof,” said Swagger. “I need a rifle.”

1502

It turned out the ball hadn’t quite made it to the green. It landed a few feet short, fairway all the way, far from any sand, but a few feet shy of the manicured grass. Good chance to work on the short game.

Hmm … Long putt or short chip? Decisions, decisions.

Why not both?

Do it, thought Juba. The tiny figure stood exactly against the red dot at the center of the scope, the adjustments perfect, everything as it should be, as Allah had willed it.

But he wouldn’t be 1,847, not just yet.

He’d be at about 1,865, a few yards off the edge of the lush green circle that sported its silly little flag, which, incidentally, was limp, testifying to lack of wind.

Do it! he told himself again.

But the target was not at 1,847. Everything was set for 1,847. Another few seconds, a minute perhaps.

The golfer elected to go with a chip. The drill — address, adjust, square up, bear down — all over again. Then a short, clipped backswing — more chop than swing — and he uncoiled, very much under control.

Whatever happened, it was not good.

He laughed — the man was enjoying himself — and waited until his assistant brought another club and another ball.

He dropped the ball to earth.

Address, adjust, square up, bear down, head still and down. No backswing, just a kind of controlled shove, and this time the result was better.