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Back Game of Snipers Save as PDF
Chapters (74)
  1. Cover
  2. TITLES BY STEPHEN HUNTER
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. PART 1
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. PART 2
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. PART 3
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. PART 4
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. PART 5
  70. 61
  71. 62
  72. Acknowledgments
  73. About the Author
  74. What’s next onyour reading list?

“How do they get Juba to shoot in the right spot?” asked the annoying Neill.

“They’re arrayed, under camouflage, around the podium. They look sort of like a ball with spikes sticking out of it. The hardware isn’t gigantic or obtrusive, and it flashes the data back to the receiving station, in the Incident Command van.”

“So they’re going to get Juba to shoot over the microphones, then track him and blow him up?” asked Neill. “Bye-bye, Queens.”

“No. They get the read back to origin, and instead of sending 105s after him, they send assets that were put in place the night before—that is, NY SWAT teams airborne in choppers. They feel they can get them on-site inside a minute or two from various hidden locales, rappel the boys onto the rooftop while squad cars beeline in from just outside the zone, and, in that way, take him alive.”

“Meanwhile,” asked Swagger, “is Mogul dead?”

“No. The heavyset blond guy isn’t Mogul. He’s career Secret Service, in a blond wig, said to bear a pretty good resemblance to the real thing. Under his blue suit, white shirt, red tie below his zipper, and Elvis rug, he’s packed in enough Level IV Kevlar to stop a truck, no problem with a bullet that’s traveled eighteen hundred yards and whose velocity is way down, under a thousand pounds, like a handgun. From a hundred yards out, he’ll convince—let alone a mile out. First shot, he goes down, behind the armored podium. He’s risking a headshot, but that’s the name of the game. He’s a stud.”

“I’ll say,” said Swagger. “I wouldn’t do that job for all the money in the world. Or all the glory.”

“Anyhow, maybe Juba goes down hard, and it’s just a kill and a great success. But, Jesus, if they get him alive, what a bonanza. A live terrorist with a long and interesting past tasked with and almost succeeding at taking down Mogul. Everybody looks great, the Bureau looks fabulous, our real enemy, the CIA, looks pitiful, Mogul gets to strut and brag and do photo ops with the head of NYPD SWAT and the blond guy in Kevlar. Meanwhile, the interrogation and trial go on all through election season.”

“Too many moving parts,” said Swagger. “Wrong goal. Goal should be to stop him—first, last, and only. ‘Capture’ is overambitious bullshit. If you don’t fixate on ‘stop,’ it can go south hard and fast.”

“Our masters have spoken,” said Nick. “It will be as it will be.”

PART 5

61

Thursday the eighth, 0800