Ken Goddard - Chimera

Silence.

“Gecko-Three to Gecko-Two, do you copy?” Gavin repeated after a moment, feeling a dull ache in his stomach.

Still nothing.

“Gecko-Three to — ” Gavin started to call again, and then remembered Wallis’ order.

Cursing, Gavin scrambled over to the platform-mounted sniper rifle. Working quickly, he disengaged the servo unit; set his right hand over the protruding metal stock of the rifle and his right eye up against the rubberized eyepiece of the night-scope; swung the cross-hairs slightly up and to the left; spotted a light-green-tunic-covered figure; instinctively pressed the manual-fire button to send a round streaking out into the darkness that missed high; started to steady the cross-hairs on the target… and then twisted away to the floor of the sniper post again when a second flurry of bullets — at least eight or nine this time — suddenly began whistling around his position.

One bullet punched a hole in the over-head tarp, and a second ripped through a sandbag above Gavin’s head, sending a stream of sand and snow pouring onto his head. The rest of the bullets streaked through the snow-filled air, disappearing into the darkness without seeming to impact anything close by.

“Bloody hell, Quince, what do I do now?” Gavin whispered, staring down at the apparently dead laptop.

As if in response, Gavin’s walkie-talkie suddenly squawked.

“Gecko-One to Gecko-Three, was that the chopper?”

Wallis.

Gavin raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth. “I think so.”

“Did you hear anything from Gecko-Two after the explosion?”

“Negative. Two tries, no response.”

“Stay focused, lad,” Wallis said calmly. “Have you still got the Gunny and the lass pinned down?”

“Negative,” Gavin said. “One of them started popping off rounds in my direction while the other one took off toward Cave-One again. The computer took a spill and won’t come back on, so I had to switch the one-oh-seven over to manual.”

“Probably the lass on the M14,” Wallis replied after a moment. “Don’t spend much time worrying about her; she’s too far out for anything but a lucky shot. Try to get the Gunny pinned down again. I need more time; up to my arse in this bloody snow. Gecko-One, out.”

Muttering to himself, Gavin unscrewed the cables from the M107’s digital night scope, unclamped and removed the rifle from the platform mount, settled it into one of the sandbags, brought the eyepiece of the scope up to his eye again, and began sweeping the area where he’d last seen the scrambling figure; trying to find open patches in the huge expanse of falling snow where he could actually see a rock or tree.

For three minutes… four… then five, Gavin continued to scan his target area with the patience of a man who had done this sort of thing many times before, and knew he had every advantage. It was only a matter of time.

A pale-green-tunic-covered figure suddenly flicked into view for a brief moment. Gavin fired instinctively; saw the impact point against a rock at the upper left portion of the scope’s field; realized he’d led his target a little too much; shifted his aim; started to squeeze on the trigger again; and then lunged backwards as a third barrage of bullets began hitting all around the sniper post.

Stunned by the suddenly-increased accuracy of the incoming bullets, Gavin shoved the heavy M107 rifle aside, grabbed the nearby M4 carbine, thumbed the selector switch to full auto, held it up over the sandbag barrier, and sent a stream of 5.56mm bullets flying out into the darkness.

Near the Sniper Post, Base Camp

It had been Achara’s intention to move in closer to the sniper post after each covering volley of shots — the rifle in one hand, the bow and quiver in the other, and the heavy vest dragging on her shoulders; taking advantage of the terrain and the falling snow to gain ten or fifteen yards and a new protective boulder with every advance.

It was a well-intended goal, but the process would have taken her a good half-hour before she got within effective range of the sniper post; the effort almost certainly exhausting her remaining strength long before she reached that point.

But she’d slipped on a rock after her second burst of shots, tumbling down a snow bank; and suddenly found herself sliding helplessly downhill — feet first and on her back — so fast that it was all she could do to keep the rifle, bow and quiver clutched to her chest as she dug her boot heels and shoulders back and forth into the snow, trying as best she could to steer herself away from the rapidly-appearing boulders and trees.

Thirty seconds later — although it seemed to her much longer than that — Achara found herself buried up to her chest in a deep snowdrift, and next to a large boulder; seemingly anchored in place by a mass of compressed ice and snow that had been forced in and under the vest by the long slide.

Pausing only a moment to catch her breath, she set the rifle, bow and quiver of arrows aside; unzipped the assault vest; worked herself first out of the vest and then the snow drift; got to her feet; peeked carefully around the boulder; and discovered, to her amazement, that she had slid to a spot less than a hundred yards away from — and to the left of — the sniper post.

Still breathing hard, but smiling to herself now, she carefully removed the partially-emptied magazine from the M14; fumbled for a fully-loaded one from the vest; discovered that all but two of her remaining magazines had been lost during her long slide; pulled both of them out of the still-secured pouches; discovered that one was jammed with snow and ice; and then shoved the one functional 20-round magazine into the weapon with what sounded to her like a terribly loud click.

She started forward again, and then hesitated, Setting the rifle aside, she reached for the bow; strung it; slid the bow and quiver over her shoulder; and then started to crawl on her left hand and knees toward the now-clearly-visible sniper post, with the heavy rifle clutched and dragging along in her right hand.

She had gone a good twenty yards, intent on flanking the sniper post from the left, when a ball of flame — immediately followed by a concussive explosion — erupted from the muzzle of the M107 rifle in Jack Gavin’s hands.

Realizing that he was almost certainly shooting at Bulatt, Achara scrambled to a nearby boulder, rose up one knee, brought the M14 up to her shoulder, and began firing at the distant sandbag-protected figure; the recoil from each shot slamming the rifle butt painfully into her already-bruised shoulder. As soon as the dark-green figure disappeared behind the sandbags, she rose to her feet and lunged though the almost-knee-deep snow; wincing, but not stopping, as Gavin sent a volley of 5.56mm bullets streaking up and out into the snow-filled sky.

Much closer now — perhaps fifty yards away — she saw Gavin come back up with the M4 carbine. But he was looking away from her, up the hill, in the direction where she’d begun her slide, so she continued to run… forty yards away now… thirty… her lungs starting to burn… twenty…

And then, when he must have seen something out of the corner of his eye and started to turn in her direction, she brought the rifle up to her shoulder and began firing as she continued to run forward; seeing the sandbags exploding around Gavin; seeing him spin away, disappearing again behind the barricade as the carbine flew out of his hand; and then seeing him come back up a second later with a pistol gripped in both hands.

They both fired at almost the same instant, the 7.62mm rifle bullet catching Gavin square in the center of his armored vest and flinging him backwards again at the moment he pulled the trigger of the pistol; causing the 9mm hollow-point bullet to rip a gouge across Achara’s cheek — instead of catching her center-of-face, where he’d aimed — and twisting her sideways as the M14’s bolt locked open on the now-empty magazine.