Jack Coughlin - Dead Shot

Albeit, the Army could not do its mission that way. It had to have men in the gun turrets when they went out because you could not sail blindly into dangerous territory. Then the soldiers eventually would have to dismount and go on foot patrol, out in harm’s way with a pucker factor of ten. Snipers cause problems even when they are not around.

In his office at the sprawling camp, Colonel Neil Withrow was in a tense and private meeting with his XO and his top intelligence officer. The blinds were twisted to let in light but keep out the heat, and an air conditioner churned hard to keep the air clean and the temperature in the eighties, which was twenty degrees or more lower than outside. The machine was overmatched.

A new map of Hargatt was spread on the colonel’s desk, and the intelligence officer, a major, used a big magnifying glass on a sliding mount to make the images jump out. “We’ve been looking for these places a long time, and finally it has all come together,” said the major.

Two square dwellings were colored in bright red, about a half mile apart on the scaled map. “Each one is a safe house where the new foreign fighters and al Qaeda types are gathered before being sent down into Baghdad. The fighters are usually the young suicide bomber fanatics. Al Qaeda sends in better-trained men to help coordinate and run the show down there.”

The XO, a lieutenant colonel, added, “Your sources say that both houses are full right now?”

“Sources, as in plural, and not just some joker off the street with a grudge against his neighbor and looking for a quick cash payout?” The colonel stared at the map, his mind running through the options.

“A good source that we have used before, and a separate backup. Both are locals.” The intel officer had vetted the information carefully before presenting it. The last thing he needed was some turncoat informant giving false information at this point. The backup source not only confirmed the information but added a sense of urgency. It was authentic, and the aerial recon photos showed men moving in and out of the houses.

“Colonel, we estimate maybe twenty-five fighters are in each house. They filter them out a few at a time as more come in. As we have suspected, Hargatt is a major stop on the insurgents’ underground railroad to get fresh fighters and arms into Baghdad.”

Withrow remained cautious. The Juba mission was still paramount, but this was a golden opportunity. His overall mission would continue long after the Juba situation was gone, and bringing down these two houses and bagging fifty bad guys would chop a major insurgent resupply line. Still, it might compromise the other thing.

“Okay.” He made a decision. “Now that we have the informants’ material, I want some American eyes on it for confirmation. Send two scout-sniper teams out to recon on both target buildings and report back.”

“Why not use those special ops types who are after Juba? They look pretty competent.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Juba. If he happens to be in one of those houses, then we take him, too. Task Force Trident doesn’t need to know everything we do.”

“Yes, sir.”

The colonel ordered, “Get your planners busy. The sniper teams go in as soon as it’s dark enough. They are not to engage, just scout out the houses and report back. If the targets are valid, then we roll out and hit both places at 0500.”

The XO was in total agreement. He, too, was tired of getting punched around without striking back. “What kind of force, sir?”

“A full package on each house. Abrams on the corners, Bradleys bring in the infantry, with Apache choppers overhead. Way up overhead, I want a couple of flyboys with smart bombs targeted to those places in case things go to shit.”

“What about the Tridents? We told Swanson they would be kept in the loop.”

“And they will. They will be notified if and when we are ready to roll. Right now, we are just trying to gather actionable intelligence on some insurgent strongholds. Get to it.”

HARGATT

An M40A1 rifle, the exquisite weapon of U.S. Marine snipers, lay on an unzipped gun bag on a table in the commander’s kitchen. Juba picked it up gently and made sure the safety on the right side of the receiver was fully to the rear before handling it further. Satisfied, he observed that a lightweight oil covered the surfaces instead of normal lubricating grease and breakfree, which tended to hold grit in desert climates. Then he disassembled it on a clean cloth.

He depressed the bolt stop in front of the trigger and pulled the bolt straight back to remove it and check the inner surfaces. Clean as a whistle.

“We took it from a Marine sniper who died in a roadside ambush, and we have not disturbed it,” said the commander. “A gift for you.”

At first glance, it seemed the weapon had been well cared for and protected. That meant it had been cleaned with a.30 cal bore brush from the receiver end, not the muzzle end. No pits in the muzzle or dents or bulges in the twenty-four-inch stainless steel barrel. The chamber, the entire bolt assembly, the receiver, the Winchester modified Model 70 floor plate, the sling swivels, the magazine follower, and the spring, trigger, and trigger guard had been tenderly handled with soft patches and brushes and cotton swabs. The springs were taut, the stock was free of cracks, the bottom of the barrel had been shoe-shined with a cloth, and the Pachmayr recoil pad was new. The bolt slid freely when he put it all back together. He put the safety off and pulled the trigger to check the hammer fall. No trigger creep.

It was almost as if a Marine armorer had handed him the 7.62 mm rifle. Fresh ammunition was plentiful, with each round to be loaded individually. The rifle could hold up to five bullets, but in action, the sniper would put one in the chamber, leave three in the magazine, and then, after three shots, stop and reload. Never let it run dry. A ten-power Unertyl scope crowned the package, and its lens was still pristine although it had been kept in the bag.

The weapon seemed to be asking to be set free of the confining gun case and allowed to kill. It had to have put five rounds within a three-inch shot group at a distance of three hundred yards just to get out of the armorer’s shed. Up to a thousand yards, the M40A1 was considered by many to be the best sniper rifle in the world, and this one was aching to do its job of killing people. Juba approved.

“Now I have a task for you and this beautiful new rifle,” said the commander. “We are finishing a massive trap for the Americans, two entire houses that are filled with explosives that will be triggered by remote control. Earlier, we led a couple of men whom we know to be informants for the Crusaders to believe that the houses are secret rest stops and rendezvous points for jihadist fighters headed toward Baghdad. Those dogs went running to their masters with the news.”

Juba looked puzzled. “You want me to kill a couple of informants? You can do that with your own men. I do not want to risk exposure for such minor targets.”

The commander chucked. “Oh, no. No, indeed, my friend. If the Americans operate with their usual thoroughness, they will want to confirm what was said on their own before committing to an attack. We have watched this before. Air reconnaissance will not work, so they most likely will send in scouts to validate the information. These men are invisible and move like ghosts.”

“Scout-sniper teams,” said Juba. “A spotter and a shooter working together, probably one team for each suspect house, probably tonight.”

“Yes. I want you to find them all. Kill them all. Use this weapon.” The commander put his hand on the M40A1 and gave it a friendly pat.