Page 31 of Heston
A smart bullet was simply a miniaturized precision-guided munition fired from a precision-guided firearm. One was not viable without the other, meaning not just any rifle could fire smart bullets. The concept revolved around the three fiber-optic eyes distributed along the circumference of a smart bullet. A laser pointed at the intended victim painted that person as the bullet’s target. Once fired, that pre-painted laser designationactivated the bullet. As it traveled toward the victim, its laser ‘eyes’ allowed the bullet to adjust its trajectory as needed to hit the pre-painted target. In theory, the round could be fired well beyond the visual range of the sniper aiming the rifle. Also, in theory, each smart bullet contained a guidance system, powered by a miniature, lightweight, lithium battery.
The farthest distance recorded to date had been well over a mile. In that test performed at the McCormack Industries Lab, the target had been a mass of skin-toned gel molded into a human shape, obscured behind a brick wall, along with three other gel dummies that were not laser painted. The test was designed to prove that a smart bullet would, and could, turn a ninety-degree angle to hit the correct target in the precise, predesignated, laser-painted spot, that being a tiny freckle on the dummy’s left hand. Not on its finger or nose. But right in the middle of its palm.
According to McCormack Industry’s final report, the smart bullet had performed as expected, just as accurately as a shot taken at a much closer range. It hit the freckle, went clean through the dummy’s left hand. Instruments wired inside the gel recorded the precise moment of impact. Nothing mysterious about the science, just a matter of calculating elements any sniper worth his salt was familiar with: bullet weight measured in grains, velocity of bullet at point of impact, and bullet diameter. The biggest problem in developing any smart bullet for today’s military was the cost, the convoluted, biased-as-hell Congressional budget cycle, and politics. Jed was known the world over as the US soldier’s best friend, which, ironically, also made him the enemy of many politicians. Those people only cared about stuffing yearly appropriation bills with pork barrel initiatives to feed their states’ interests. Not national interests. Oftentimes, not even legal interests.
Initially, Heston had guesstimated the sniper’s location to be at the west side of the White River, on the north side of neighboring Goat Island Mountain, which sloped northeast from Emmons Glacier. That the shooter had hidden within all that lush Northwest greenery in a sturdy sniper hide, high in one of the majestic Douglas Firs that populated much of Mount Rainier’s elevations.
Made the most sense. Goat Island Mountain’s altitude of seven thousand plus feet overlooked the precise portion along the White River where Alex and Kelsey had been standing, by more than two thousand feet. If he’d been in any number of trees there with a reasonably decent scope, he would’ve had a clear shot. The distance less than a mile. An expert sniper could’ve easily tapped Kelsey without relying on a smart bullet.
But this guy wasn’t just an expert, and the bizarre hit he’d made supported Heston’s smart bullet theory. The sniper who’d hit Kelsey had made an impossible hit. He’d grazed her skull, not killed her. She’d be dead if he’d wanted her dead, but she wasn’t, which meant he hadn’t wanted to kill her. Which, if he hadn’t used a smart weapon system and there was no smart bullet to be found, put him in a very elite category of sniper. As in he’d be the only one in the category.
Which considerably narrowed down the suspects. One name jumped to the top of the list: Ryan Malloy. Former Irish Ranger, also formerly active duty in Afghanistan as part of the latest failed United Nation’s peacekeeping operation. The third son of the most infamous sniper of the IRA, also known as the Irish Provisional Republican Army: Jack Malloy. Jack had been instrumental in organizing Northern Ireland’s best sharpshooters into the infamous South Armagh Brigade. The South Armagh Brigade had mercilessly targeted British security forces from 1990 to 1997, as part of the conflict in Northern Ireland. The South Armagh Brigade’s weapon of choice? The .50BMG, the fifty-caliber Browning machine gun, caliber Barrett M82 long-range rifle.
Their motto:One shot, one kill.
Hmmm,Heston wondered. Alex had said Kelsey’d wanted to see the sunrise the last morning of their getaway. Exactly who had she shared that wish with? Who’d overheard? Better question, who’d been listening to her conversations and for how long? Situational awareness was hard to maintain within active-duty Army troops, among the most hardened tacticians. How much harder was it to control inside the homes of TEAM agents with kids?
Noiselessly, Heston pulled the sat phone out of his pocket, thumbed Mark’s number, and rested the phone between his shoulder and his ear.
“Houston,” Mark barked.
“Shit, what’s wrong?” Heston asked quietly. Mark was not given to outbursts. Alex, yes, Mark, never.
“The son of a bitchin’ Irishman just called. He wants a meeting. Tomorrow morning. Here! In Kelsey’s room! He even knew her room number. Alex went ballistic. He’s losing it, Heston.”Sounds like you are, too.“He’s spiraling out of control, and… Christ! I don’t know what more we can do to keep both of them safe.”
Man, that Irish asshat had a lot of nerve. “No worries.” Heston kept his voice low and even, his eyes trained overhead on the bottom boards of what had to be the assassin’s hide. “He won’t be breathing by then.”
“God, I hope you’re right. Please tell me you’re on his trail.”
“I am,” Heston breathed, “but be forewarned. I think we’re dealing with a damned precise sharpshooter who planned to nick Kelsey, not kill her. Who knew right where she and Alex were standing that morning. Who might also have someoneinside Stewart’s house gathering intel. Ever heard of Ryan Malloy?”
“You’re kidding. The Irish sharpshooter? You think he’s behind this?”
Heston appreciated the disbelief in Mark’s question. It was an unbelievable conclusion given the many awards Malloy had been given. But it sure felt spot-on. “Makes sense if he’s using a smart weapon system. I gotta go.”
A pursed whistle sounded softly in Heston’s ear. “Quite a theory. I’ll find out who else might’ve known Alex’s plans. Stay safe.”
Heston didn’t reply, just disconnected and put his phone away. Whoever was up top in that sniper hide had just kicked the toes of his black boots over the far edge of the platform facing away from London’s camper. This guy was lying on his belly, getting comfortable, positioning for another shot. Maybe a kill.
Like hell.
Asher, also crouched low, was looking at Heston.
Heston ducked low behind a stand of dripping wet hemlocks and glanced upward. It took a moment of concentrated listening, but between the drip, drip, drips from the saturated pine needles, came the quiet crackle of a plastic wrapper being crushed. Guess this guy felt confident enough to snack while he waited. Guess he also thought he was invincible, hiding in the trees.
The pines were outstandingly beautiful, verdant green and full, but they were as much a cover for a hunter stalking below as for the asshole stalking above. The problem with a hide built high in a tree-packed forest was the loss of intel from sights and noises below. Pines this dense made excellent soundproofing, leaving the only intel coming to the sniper from beside him or overhead.
Heston saw it then, a thin silver wire studded with tiny drips of moisture strung in a wide circle around the base of this tree. Ryan, if it truly was Ryan Malloy up there, thought a single trip wire would stop two former US Army Rangers?
Guess again, boyo.Heston nodded a go-ahead to Asher, who’d also spotted the wire. Took another step beneath the thick pine branches and—
London’s screams from her camper pierced the silence. “Hes, Hes!” And everything went to hell. Should he trust that she could handle herself? Even now? After that terrified scream? Hell, no.
Asher mouthed, ‘Go!’ and Heston went. Let Asher nab Malloy. Hell, let him carve the guy like a Thanksgiving turkey. Hes had a woman to save.
Chapter Fifteen
London let him in! She’d trusted him! Like a fool, she’d opened her door after checking the peephole. Imagine her surprise seeing Devon Bates standing there in his USFS uniform, staring up at her door like he didn’t know if she’d answer or not. She had hesitated. His being there at the same time Heston and Asher were out hunting the guy who’d shot Kelsey was an odd coincidence. But Devon had looked so sincere. Almost like the friendly guy he’d been before his promotion went to his head. Then he’d said he was proud of her for sticking to her guns and finding the Stewarts, that she should get a medal, at least a commendation for that.
