Andrew Peterson - First to Kill

After making sure the ridgeline was clear, they began scanning for a shooting position that would give them a clear view of the compound below. Although he was more than capable of hitting targets at longer distances, he didn’t want to be any farther than 600 yards. Six hundred yards was a good distance because the bullet arrived before the report of the rifle. From their current location, they needed to advance another 700 yards closer. Using field glasses, they took a few minutes to study the layout of the compound. Just as the aerial photos had shown, Freedom’s Echo was situated in a grass valley interspersed with mature pines. Twenty or so small cabins surrounded a larger central lodge along with several other metal outbuildings, presumably used for storage. The cabins were constructed in the classic log-cabin style with steep metal roofs. Several camouflage-painted pickups were parked next to the largest outbuilding.

Harv secured their field glasses into his pack before they started down.

Nathan kept his head up, always scanning the area. Wind, about ten miles an hour from the west. Temperature, about 60 degrees. Humidity was low, probably 20 to 30 thirty percent. The scent of pines hung in the air and triggered a memory of his early camping experiences. He issued warble-type whistle. Harv stopped and faced him. Nathan pointed to a small outcropping of rocks flanked by mature pines several hundred yards closer to the compound. Harv nodded his understanding. The approach to that location was going to be a little risky. The trees were sparse near the rock outcropping so they’d be out in the open for the traverse. They’d crawl the last fifteen yards on their bellies, camouflaged by their ghillie suits. Anyone looking in their direction wouldn’t see a human outline and by crawling slowly, an observer wouldn’t see any discernable movement, and movement is what usually caught the eye.

The valley below sloped gently to the west where the forest was much thicker. Most of the pine trees surrounding the compound had been cleared, creating a fire break nearly 200 feet wide, but more importantly, it forced any approach to be out in the open. Nathan gestured for his field glasses and Harv pulled them from his pack. He scanned the compound again. All quiet. No movement at all. He handed them back to Harv.

“What do you think?” Nathan asked. “Those rock spires over there.”

“Low crawl.”

They freed their ghillie suits, put them on, and dropped to their bellies. With Nathan in the lead, they started their crawl across the sandy surface covered with pine-straw fallout. The 30-degree slope made the trek awkward. To keep from rolling down the hillside, they had to align their bodies at 45 degrees to their actual path. Crawling on your belly over sloped terrain wasn’t easy, even at a snail’s pace, but the damp earth made it tolerable. Nathan hated being out in the open, even for brief periods. If an enemy sniper spotted them, they’d be dead. It took five minutes to crawl the fifty-foot distance. One foot every six seconds. They made it to the outcropping without incident. So far, so good. It turned out to be an ideal shooting position. Shaped like a European cathedral, two large spires of granite each reaching twenty feet over their heads were leaning slightly to the east. The larger of the two gave them shade from the sun and put them securely in depth of shadow. Between the spires was a flat area of sandy soil that offered a full view of the compound below and the dirt road leading into it. Staying below the compound’s line of sight, they quickly unpacked their gear.

Harv handed Nathan a stripper clip containing five rounds of.308 NATO ammunition. Harv had used a black felt marker on the stripper clips, inside and out, to prevent an untimely glint of sunlight. Each hand-loaded round produced a muzzle velocity of 2,350 feet per second. Nathan preferred a lighter than normal load. Bullet time to the target at 600 yards was just under a second. He removed the bullets from the stripper clip, drove them individually into the rifle, and closed the bolt.

He handed the empty clip back to Harv.

“Time,” Nathan asked.

“Eleven minutes.”

A gust of wind dropped a few pine needles past their position from right to left.

Harv spoke without being prompted. “Maybe ten miles an hour. Four clicks right.”

He made the adjustment to the external windage knob on his Nikon scope, while Harv set up his 10-to-50 spotter scope. Once in final position, they would be lying side by side with three feet of separation between them. He shouldered his weapon and began a slow visual sweep of the compound below through the rifle’s optic. “We’ll call the main building zero and vector from there.”

“Copy.”

“Elevation?” Nathan asked.

“Nine clicks.”

“Copy, nine clicks to zero. Plus three to the far side of the compound, minus two to the near side. Concur?” Nathan asked.

“Concur.”

Because his rifle was currently zeroed for a 300-yard shot, he knew an elevation adjustment for a 600-yard shot was twelve additional clicks, but since they were shooting downhill, a negative adjustment of three clicks was needed.

“Here we go,” Nathan said. Moving in classic leapfrog progression from tree to tree, six men in woodland SWAT gear were approaching the compound from the south, their movements crisp and rehearsed. “Six o’clock low,” he whispered.

Harv adjusted his scope. “Got them. I count six, with two more in flanking positions. I’ve got eight more moving in from the west.”

Nathan tracked the second team. Six agents were advancing with two more flanking for support. Both teams were advancing at right angles, staying out of each other’s line of fire. Tactically sound. As the two teams approached the compound, he admired their precision and stealth. Moving through the sunlight filtering through the trees, not a glint of reflection bounced off anything they wore. Their helmets were matte green and even their boots had a dull finish. These guys were damned good.

“Something’s wrong,” Nathan whispered.

“Talk to me.”

“It’s too quiet down there. We haven’t seen a damned thing. Nothing. No movement at all.”

“Okay. ”

“Start searching the trees. I’ll take the west end.”

Harv adjusted his scope and began a slow pivot around the east end of the compound. Halfway through his sweep he stopped. “Shit.”

“What’ve you got.”

“Spotter’s nest at one-five-zero east, elevation, three-zero feet.”

Nathan swung his rifle 150 yards east of the center of the compound and began looking in the trees thirty feet high. He saw it instantly. A sentry posted in a tree platform, the type deer hunters used. He was speaking into a radio and looking through a pair of field glasses in the direction of the advancing FBI SWAT team to the south. “They’ve been made.”

Harv stayed in his eyepiece and cranked the scope to maximum zoom. “Nate, he just put the radio down. He’s got something else. He’s pulling an antenna on a remote.”

Nathan swung his rifle back to the south and began sweeping the ground out in front of the SWAT teams. Through an opening in the trees, he saw a mound of pine needles at the base of a large sugar pine. The pile of needles was on the side of the tree facing away from the compound. Nathan searched for other piles. There. Two more piles, also facing away from the compound.

“Son of a bitch. I think they’ve got IEDs or M-eighteens on the perimeter. Those piles of pine straw.”

“Claymores,” Harv whispered.

“They’re walking into a shredder.”

“How close are they?” Harv asked.

“Thirty yards.”

“Shit, they’re in range. We have to warn them. Put one in the dirt out in front of the lead man. Elevation minus two. Clear to shoot.”