Lauren felt that the huge base was coiled and tense with an alertness that seemed to her to be beyond the normal military sense of security. Off to her left, an F-15 Strike Eagle roared into the violet sky on tails of blue-white fire, with ribbons of white mist streaming back from the wings that fought for lift in the thin air. It was slung heavy with bombs. This was Afghanistan, not Arkansas, and war was just over the horizon.
Her SUV turned a corner away from a neat street of tentlike buildings and pulled to a halt at a square fortified position from which a helmeted soldier behind a.50 caliber machine gun kept watch as another guard, in a full armored vest and camo battle gear, came forward. The driver rolled down his window, and the guard peered inside. “Identification, please,” he said.
The escort officer had collected the military ID cards for himself, the driver, and the man in the dark suit. Lauren handed over the leather wallet containing her CIA creds. The soldier checked them, let his eyes linger for a moment on her face, then returned her badge and the IDs. “Welcome to Bagram, Ms. Carson. They’re expecting you inside,” he said, then to the driver, “Neil, park over there behind the Hummer.”
Lauren put on her game face. “No need for anyone to get out,” she told the driver and the escort officer. “I can open a door by myself.” The mystery man in the dark suit would stay in the vehicle and be driven to another safe building to complete the deception. He actually was the second member of the Citation’s flight crew and just wanted to dump the monkey suit and get a shower, some chow, and some sleep before having to fly again.
KYLE SWANSON HAD DRIVEN faster than the SUV, and he and Jim Hall were already standing with coffee mugs in hand and talking when Lauren Carson came through the door. Swanson was seldom surprised by anything, but the moment that his blue-gray eyes met her blues was like the flash of a camera, a frozen moment of unexpected emotion. He sucked in every detail, from her stylish shoes to the small silver necklace and lack of makeup. She doesn’t need makeup, he thought. If I was God, I wouldn’t change a thing. Lauren hesitated for only a fraction of a second, caught off balance by her own feelings. Although there was only one other person in the room, it was as if a large crowd had parted to open a path between them, and they both instantly knew in that first glance that their lives were going to be different.
“Kyle, meet Lauren Carson, who runs me and my entire shop like we were a bunch of slaves pulling oars. Lauren, this is Kyle Swanson, the guy I’ve told you so much about.” Jim Hall could almost see the electricity buzzing between these two. It’s only been three seconds and they already should go get a motel room.
“Good morning, Ms. Carson. Welcome to Afghanistan.” Kyle took a step forward and reached out his hand, and she took it in her own. Her skin was soft, but her grip was firm.
Ordinarily, Lauren could just turn on her blazing Miss Arkansas smile and dazzle a new man with her beauty. This time, she had to fight to keep from blushing. His strength was understated, but obviously he could have broken her hand with anything more than a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Gunny Swanson. I look forward to working with you.” There was a slight southern accent. She intentionally broke the moment and went to the big coffee urn on a table and filled a mug. Black, no sugar. Now what? She looked over at Jim, who seemed to be enjoying their discomfort as the initial sizzle came under control.
They all sat down, and Kyle was glad that there was an entire table between himself and this new girl. Woman. Damn, fool, think of something to say.
“Well, I finally win,” said Jim Hall, breaking the ice for them. “I never lose. Sometimes it just takes longer.”
“Win what?” Lauren asked, blowing on the scalding coffee. The pout of her lips was totally sensual to Swanson.
“Yeah,” he echoed dumbly. “Win what?”
“Fifteen years ago, mate. Rocket Mountain, when we tried to recruit you.”
Lauren reacted with mock surprise and touched her heart with her hand. She turned to face Kyle, and he saw the first glimmer of a smile. “You mean my legendary boss Jim Hall failed an assignment? Amazing. Tell me. Tell me, so I can spread some gossip back at the shop.”
“I didn’t fail anything. I never lose. You know that.”
“Tell me the story and let me be the judge.”
Kyle shook his head. He remembered the incident well.
10
BRIDGEPORT, CALIFORNIA
ROCKET MOUNTAIN, A BIG bump of dirt in the Sierra Nevadas, was part of the Mountain Warfare Training Center outside of Bridgeport, California, and a place with little supervision. Corporal Kyle Swanson had driven up with a dozen other Marines as part of a sniper package to practice high-angle shooting, above-to-below, and cross-compartment shooting from one ridgeline to another. No supervision meant that the rules were loose, and it was more fun to shoot hand grenades than proper targets. About twice a week, that kind of goofing off would start a fire among the fake buildings, and everybody would yell and run down to throw water and dirt on the flames to stop the whole place from burning up. Then the mud fights would start. Things were usually pretty loose up on Rocket Mountain.
Master Sergeant Jim Hall was pulling instructor duty for the course that week because the regular staff guy was on leave. Hall and Swanson had been friends for a long time, and Kyle had gone through Scout Sniper School with Hall riding him like a balky horse, pushing to make him better than everyone else. They had gone nose-to-nose a couple of times, because neither one would back down. That only made them better friends.
Hall was forty-two years old at the time, and Kyle Swanson represented to him the continuation of a tradition, a worthy successor. The boy was an incredible sharpshooter who did everything asked of him on a range and in the classroom and in the field, but also was bright enough to think beyond the moment, with an uncanny sixth sense that could turn a disadvantage into a win. Hall would reluctantly admit, but only to himself, that the young Marine was a prodigy with a sniper rifle.
One Wednesday afternoon, everybody shaped up, cleaned their weapons, policed the area, and dumped trash into the pair of big Dumpsters that squatted beside a storage shed. A truck was grinding up the hill trailing a plume of dust, a visit by the colonel and his sergeant major, coming to check on the training and show the men that the battalion brass cared about them. In the back of the truck were sealed containers of hot chow, straight from the base mess hall, a choice of chop suey or meat loaf and lots of things like broccoli and potatoes, along with cookies and brownies. The colonel knew his men had been roughing it, sleeping outside, choking down MREs for three meals a day, and drinking gallons of water, so the fresh food would be a nice reward.
They set it up on picnic tables and had a good-natured lunch. Then the colonel and the sergeant major watched the snipers blow off a bunch of rounds at steel plates, wrecked cars, and the weather-worn plywood buildings. Finally, the visitors got back into their truck and made the long drive back to the base.
The snipers washed up, changed into civvies, and also drove down the hill. Bridgeport was only twenty minutes away, and every fast-food restaurant had a franchise there, so the Marines seldom ate their MREs. That evening, most of them went to McDonald’s, but Hall pulled Swanson away and took him to a quiet Mexican place identified by a neat sign as Alphonso’s Restaurant. Most of the customers were seated outside, drinking cold beer on the open patio beneath a sprinkling of little white lights. Kyle liked the fact that many of them were Hispanic, always a signal that a Mexican restaurant served authentic food. Hall went inside. Kyle followed.