Jack Coughlin - Dead Shot

“First, let us show the Swanson Marine that what he did will not be tolerated.” The commander smiled. “Go and communicate with him.”

COB SPEICHER

Kyle Swanson was in a bunk, fast asleep after the night’s work. The rest of the Trident strike team was doing the same thing, while beyond their separate building, U.S. Army troops were going about their daily routines.

An armored patrol rumbled out through the front gate of the combat base, large warfighting machines clanking in the lead and helicopters zipping ahead to look for threats along the wide road. A short time later, several smaller patrols went out, spreading to different directions and different roads. Iraqi civilians were also on the move, wary when approaching American roadblocks. Unemployed young men and kids congregated on some corners in the towns as American troops moved through on foot. Shops were open. Business as usual.

Swanson snored peacefully. He had made his move, and now, while sleeping without dreams, he was still at work, a sniper lying in wait for his target. Army psychological operations teams were in high gear all around Tikrit, handing out paper flyers with Juba’s photograph and broadcasting over the radio and loudspeakers mounted on vehicles, promising a five-million-dollar reward to whoever turned him in.

Kyle had nothing to kill but time. It was Juba’s move.

HARGATT

The insurgent commander and Juba stood on the flat roof of the tallest building in town while guards listened for marauding American helicopters that might see them. The advantage of height increased the distance they could see, and they had a good view of the spot where a road crested a small ridge and then came down into a little valley and a bridge under which a canal flowed to the Tigris.

“The Americans always vary their routes of approach, but there are only so many routes they can take. Repetition is inevitable.” The commander pointed toward the ridgeline. “Before they approach our area, they usually stop at the top of that high ground, as you see, and take time to study what is going on before moving forward.”

Through his binoculars, Juba studied the site. A pair of gigantic M1A2 Abrams tanks were on each side of the road, with their 120 mm cannons and array of machine guns having total command of the area. Other armored vehicles, both tracked and wheeled, rolled arrogantly down the main road, occasionally stopping to let a patrol dismount.

The commander had it all figured out. “See? When they stop, you can shoot them.”

“All right,” said Juba, shifting his binoculars around the zone. “See that farmhouse about halfway down the slope? I want your people to clear it out tonight so I can use it tomorrow morning.”

“Of course,” said the commander. “We all look forward to seeing a display of your skill against the Crusaders.”

Juba gave a slight bow of appreciation but said nothing as they went back downstairs and into another building for some lunch. If he took a shot from that farmhouse, those big Abrams would be on him in a heartbeat with a hurricane of plunging fire, then the Humvees, armored personnel carriers, and troops would run over him, unless they decided to let an Apache helicopter gunship take care of the job. He had no intention of telling anyone, including the commander, where he would set up. Not with that five-million-dollar reward on his head.

During the afternoon, he borrowed a car and went out alone. As the commander said, there were only so many roads that the Americans could take into the area. Out of the bleak terrain and houses, an opportunity rose like a mirage at a little crossroads, and Juba stopped the vehicle beneath a few tall palm trees, got out, and walked around. His eyes studied the isolated area and the single Iraqi government traffic policeman on duty. The deep ruts made by the passing of numerous tracked vehicles spiderwebbed the crossing. The Americans came this way often.

Then he restarted the car and drove some more to find the second site he wanted. This was payback for Swanson’s daring raid, and the method in which the challenge would be answered had to be special. The scorecard would be kept in human lives not their own.

Back at the safe house before nightfall, he studied a map, ate only a bite of food, and went shopping for the few supplies he needed for the coming hours. He retired to his room about eight o’clock and spent a long time cleaning the weapon he had chosen from the insurgents’ stockpile, a beautiful HS.50 Steyr Mannlicher long-range, single-shot, bolt-action, precision-fire sniper rifle that could punch right through the body armor worn by the Americans.

A few hours after midnight, he left the house. He had a small backpack that contained some rations and his compact computer.

COB SPREICHER

“He’s out there tonight. I can feel it,” Kyle Swanson told Sybelle Summers as they sat atop a sandbagged bunker and watched a pair of bright flares drift down on small parachutes to the west. A moment later came the chatter of an automatic weapon and the loud booms of a big gun. “He will hit back soon.”

“I don’t know, Kyle. Task Force Hammer has things pretty well buttoned up. Patrols were rolling in and out of the gate all day, and the surrounding bases report nothing unusual.”

Swanson pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, rocking back and forth, feeling the muscles stretch. “Would all that stop you, if you were him?”

She picked at a rip in one of the bags, and the sand beneath was hard. Been there a long time. “No. Just slow down and take my time. Pick my spot.”

“Umm. That’s what he’s doing, too.”

A shadow appeared beside them and Travis Hughes flopped down. “Hey.”

“Hey,” said Sybelle.

“Let me pick your brains here,” said Swanson. “Juba is pissed off and wants to get even, right? But what is going to be his target, and can we stop him?”

“Hell, Shake, we can’t stop the bastard until we know where he is. As for the target, my bet would be that he is going to want to match your number of kills, if not surpass it.” Hughes spit over the side of the bunker.

“Classless jarhead,” said Sybelle, disgusted. “Travis is right. He’s going to want a nice body count, so he will be looking for somewhere that American troops are bunched together.”

Travis laughed quietly. “Hell, maybe he’s going to come in here. Lots of people gathered at the Subway. They’re even giving Latin dance lessons over at the Morale Building. Hell of a war.”

“No. He might be able to get inside the wire, but it’s too dangerous. The man is not stupid.”

Darren Rawls crawled up and joined them. “Just visited a friend for a couple of beers,” he reported. “Man, the buzz is all about what you did last night. That is interesting, because nobody on our team would say anything, which means informants are spreading the word about the badass snipers in town.”

“We wanted the word to spread,” Sybelle commented. “Part of the game. What we don’t want is for the whole of Task Force Hammer to go charging out, trying to track Juba down, because he will take off and we will have to find him all over again.”

“They won’t,” said Kyle. “Remember, Sybelle, that you and I specifically let Colonel Withrow know during our introductory briefing that Juba and the poison gas formula was our assignment.”

“So where the hell is he, Shake?” Hughes asked.

Kyle laid back on the bunker and stared up at the stars. “I don’t know. He’s out there somewhere. I can feel it.”

HARGATT

Juba had no way to really know if an American patrol would come through that crossroads seven hundred yards away from his hide today, but all those track trails and torn berms and crushed vegetation indicated that it was frequently used. Just like animals create paths through a thick jungle by padding along the same route, the steel animals of the American tanks and other vehicles were following a familiar pattern, apparently thinking the lone Iraqi cop directing traffic there was adequate security. After all, it was just a way station; the fighting forces were just passing through.