Short Story: Sniper

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A short story I wrote a while back.

Note: Contains strong language.

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For the next month, that valley was our home. We watched, we waited, we memorized. The small city below us, so far untouched- a surreal sight when measured against the grim reality of the situation. Five or six days into the mission, we'd settled for a relatively well concealed recession in the mountain-side; in shadow for most of the day, but still offering a clear view out across the rugged landscape all the way to the far side.

It was a gray afternoon; overcast from the smoke and ash carried on the wind from the bombing runs father north. We'd been watching the city for some time now, seeing little in the way of suspicious activity. Out of necessity and boredom, we'd kept tabs on the residents, mentally noting their general daily routines, from what we could see of them. Sometimes, it felt almost like you'd gotten to know them, even though they had no clue we were there, or that we even existed.

We'd been sent out here to try to sever a supply line. An armed caravan came through the area every couple of weeks on it's way to deliver new supplies to the front lines. That was what we were here for. We didn't know the exact route schedule due to the jamming frequencies over the area, so we had no choice but to go in and wait for it to show up.

This whole damn war shouldn't even have started. Ideology. f*****g ideology. I'm not gong to judge someone based on their religion or ideology, but if you think either one gives you the right to go and invade other countries without warning or start up a genocide campaign, there's something seriously wrong there. That's why we're out here to begin with. Get this whole giant international mess stopped, or at least under control, as soon as possible- as something of a third party, working with partial immunity.

We're a third party, but we're still connected to the military. We're funded by them, and subject to the same training and rules, but technically we don't exist. We're more or less mercenaries, to put it bluntly- 'private security', I guess is the more politically correct term for it. Not that anyone gives a s**t, as long as we do our job.

We're given the best equipment the military has to offer, given the warning, 'don't shoot anything we don't authorize' and then turned loose on whatever they have for us. We're far from being cowboys, though. None of us have delusions about that. It's not a game for us- never has been, never will; it's a job. To quote something I read once: 'There is no glory in the work we do now. We are soldiers; nothing more.'

Matt nudged me, “See that? One o'clock; far end of the valley.”

I trained my scope over to where my spotter was talking about. Sure enough- there it was, the caravan, coming down from the pass. I watched.

“Looks like five trucks, two APCs, a couple dozen personnel, and- oh shit- armor?”

I saw what he pointed out- a tank. Glanced at the the a-mat rifle next to me. Probably not going to cut it.

All we could do was watch as the procession wound its way down out of the mountains and ever closer to the small city below. Anything we tried would be pointless and just give us away to any sniper and mortar crew they might happen to have among them. Nope, we were just stuck here, watching the target, the men still less than a quarter of the size of toy soldiers, like the ones I used to play with as a kid, at that distance.

It took them almost the rest of the evening to make it to the city. From up high, the distance was deceptively small. In reality, down on the ground, it was a long way. Only reason we spotted them at all was because of the ridiculous magnification the scope and binoculars provided us

We watched.

We waited.

We watched some more.

Finally, activity on the main road through town caught our attention again. They were finally rolling in, or at least rolling through. I picked up the scope again, watching through the very last of the twilight as they came to a stop in the middle of the street. I switched over to thermal, everything glowing in dead shades of gray, from the almost pitch black ground to the bright white humans, according to the amount of radiation they gave off.

One of the men in the lead vehicle got out, as did one in the truck behind him. The two could be seen in the glow of the headlights; met and exchanged words and gestures for a few seconds, presumably instructions of some sort. Little did they know they had an audience, other than the civvies at their windows and a few men who could see them from the trucks.

Too bad for them.

Not that I was going to take a shot at them. Not even to scare them. A code of silence overlaid the entire objective. We weren't to make a move unless there was a sure chance we'd actually complete the assignment. And that certainly wasn't going to happen right now.

The first man got back into the truck while the other went to the other three vehicles behind his, relaying whatever the captain had told him. Back gates were opened and boots touched pavement as troops piled out, guns drawn, but not at the ready. A hand signal from the captain again, and they were off, going door to door, for some reason I couldn't think of right off the top of my head.

A pair of soldiers knocked on a front door. Seconds later, they disappeared inside, probably not one hundred percent welcome or invited. I still couldn't place who's building that was.

That was when all hell broke loose down there.

Two flashes from inside the building, though a window. Carried on the wind, the sound of two matching gunshots.

And not from the soldiers that had entered.

My best guess was that someone, presumably the owner, had gone to get a gun after they came in. Returning, less than pleased with the intrusion, opened fire on the uninvited guests. Who was dead was anyone's guess at that second. I was betting on maybe one soldier and almost for sure the shooter.

Bad move- on everone's part.

Almost instantly, three more men came running to investigate the shots.

My vision was glued to the scope, watching through windows to try to see what was going on inside. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

“Ah, s**t.” I muttered, waiting for something I could see.

I ran through a mental list of the inhabitants I'd cataloged over the time we'd spent up here. There was the shop owner on the main street, that one guy with that damn old and ugly blue sedan, a bunch of others I knew on sight but couldn't quite think of.

Less than a minute after the shots, Matt nudged me again, “Movement, ten o'clock. First building on the left.”

“Yeah, I see it.”

One man was standing at the window looking out with wary suspicion. I couldn't see the two others. What were they still doing in there?

Then I saw the other two.

I watched through the scope and window as they dragged her over to the bed, holding her down.

Oh f**k.

“Are you seeing this s**t?” Matt asked.

“Oh, I'm seeing it alright.” I muttered. Started adjusting settings on my rifle.

“What are you doing? You're not serious, are you?”

“What do you think?”

“That's over a seventeen hundred meter shot through a half meter window!”

“Yeah,” I told him determinedly, “I know.”

Catching on to what I was about to do, he warned, “Even if you hit him, you still have to worry about her!”

“I know.” I repeated.

He started reading me off the calibrations for the shot. Elevation, distance, bullet drop, projectile speed, ambient temperature.

Took aim. Exhaled. Waited for a chance between heartbeats.

Not on my watch, Motherf***er.

Fired.

Less than two seconds later, Matt confirmed the hit- head shot; no apparent collateral damage.

That was the only shot I fired that night.

Good job. You have to proofread it a little though.