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Sergeant First Class Kyle Monroe was doing the one thing everyone in the U.S. Army had to do: paperwork. Napoleon had said that an army moved on its stomach, but the twenty-first–century U.S. Army moved on piles ofpaper and computer files, liberally lubricated with red tape.
Kyle was an instructor at the U.S. Army Sniper School. At the moment, no class was in session. That didn't stop the paperwork. Nothing stopped the paperwork. It was an enemy more pervasive, insidious, and overwhelming than the Nazis, the Communists, Muslim terrorists, and the IRS combined.At least, that was Kyle's opinion.
His phone rang, and he was glad for the distraction. "U.S. Army Sniper School, Sergeant First Class Monroe, this is not a secure line, how may I help you, sir or ma'am?" The official phrase rolled off his tongue without conscious thought. Because to think about a line that long just to say hello was ridiculous.
"Sergeant Monroe, I'm wondering if we might discuss another assignment?" said the gravelly, powerful voice at the other end. Kyle recognized it at once. General Robash.
"I suppose we might, sir," he said, stalling for a moment to think. The last "assignment" had been a temporary one, a month of sheer hell inthe highlands of Pakistan. The end result, however, had been a dead al Qaeda leader, a Bronze Star with Combat V, a Purple Heart, and a sharp reduction in terrorist activity in Europe.
And, Kyle recalled, a very pretty young local woman who'd hired on as their translator, gruesomely killed by a burst of machine-gun fire. That, added to the death of his spotter in Bosnia before that, was a heavy burden on his soul.
The general interrupted his musing with, "Good, let me give you the basics. We can talk more if you say yes."
"Go ahead, sir," he prompted.
"Romania. We've got someone staging through there with explosives for Europe, and it's causing sheer hell for the NATO forces in Yugoslavia, er, Bosnia-Herzegovina, or Macedonia ... all over that Government of the MonthClub, whatever the hell they're calling it now." Robash was joking slightly, Kyle could tell from his tone. The general was very familiar with thatarea and its geography and politics. He had a Ph.D. in international relations, after all.
"What's the game plan, sir?" he asked.
"Similar to last time. You and Wade" -- that would be Staff Sergeant Wade Curtis, his spotter for the last mission -- "with whatever gear youdeem necessary. We'll insert you quietly, the CIA will furnish you with intel as to these assholes' whereabouts, and you eliminate the problem with a well-placed bullet or two. Or fifty. Whatever it takes, as long as civilian casualties are minimized."
Kyle thought for a moment. Romania was far better than the wastelands of the Afghan/Pakistan border, he thought. Europe had plenty of water, food he would be partially familiar with, phones, and -- language trouble aside -- the alphabets would have to be easier to work withthan translating Pashto.
Still ... "I'd like to consider it, sir. Can I let you know tomorrow?"
"Sure. I'll have an outline emailed to you. Will be coming through secure in about thirty minutes."
"Yes, sir. I'll be back with you ASAP."
"Rangers Lead the Way, Kyle." It was a friendly greeting and farewell from one Ranger to another.
"Roger that, sir," he said, and hung up.
Kyle finished his day's paperwork and drove home automatically. He didn't even notice the trip until he found himself opening his apartmentdoor. Another assignment performing as what amounted to a role as an assassin. He had no moral qualms about shooting terrorists, but he didn't want to encourage the idea that he was a hired gun. Hollywood glamour aside, there were too many agencies with too many agendas forthat to be a safe job. Sooner or later the odds would catch up with him.
He unlaced his boots and grabbed a Sprite from the fridge without taking off his shirt. At one time he'd been a light drinker. Then he'd lost his spotter and become a heavy drinker. Then he'd been a very light drinker after returning from Pakistan. Gradually, he'd stopped altogether.Heavy drinking made him morose and depressed, light drinking didn't do much of anything. There was no point in wasting money forthe flavor of cheap beer, and expensive beer was not something he'd ever learned to appreciate. So he stuck to soft drinks.
He sprawled back in his recliner. It and a good used loveseat that didn't match were the only casual furniture in the room. He had a small desk and computer against the wall, with an office chair. If he ever invited more thanthree people over, he'd need to get some cheap plastic seats.
The TV was in front of him, but he left it off. Right now he needed to think, and TV and thinking didn't go together.
He stared at a place on the wall above it. On a cherrywood rack he'd built in the post hobby shop hung a World War I British Lee-Enfield rifle ...
Targets of Opportunity. Copyright © by Michael Williamson. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from Targets of Opportunity by Michael Z. Williamson
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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