Stephen Hunter - Soft target

He pulled out his SureFire, put a bright beam on it, and decided that what he saw revealed under the harshness of the illumination was a subtly different coloration in the stucco, the concrete, the whatever it was that comprised the window well. Next he took out the wicked long Spyderco he carried clipped into his thigh cargo pocket, flicked it open to reveal a blade bad enough for killing, for getting deep into blood-bearing organs if the need arose. The need was not present now, but the sharpness of point and blade certainly looked promising, and he set at the patch of whatever it was and began to chip and dig away. The surface yielded swiftly, and McElroy realized that this zone here must have been somehow damaged, water damage maybe, a broken pipe or something, maybe a lightning strike, but anyway the mall’s engineering staff had done a quick repair, not with hard-set concrete or whatever but with putty, and had then painted over it. A cheap repair, cost-saving-the recession, remember.

That’s what he wanted. Just what the doctor ordered, he thought, and began to dig aggressively, soon revealing the heavy metal of the window frame itself. Couldn’t get through that with a knife blade, of course, but beneath it, more of the soft stuff, and he was so heated with energy over the enormity of his discovery, he worked with renewed dedication, feeling himself a Superman. The sniper god had answered his prayer.

He lost track of time, but it seemed to be only seconds. In that period he scooped out an actual channel through the material, being sure as he dug to draw the stuff toward him so that debris didn’t fall upon the crowd and the gunmen five stories below. But it was gloppy, somehow, and the moisture provided an adhesive factor; the knife scraped off not particles of dust but gobbets of mucus, clay, something unpleasant.

It wasn’t much, but he had opened an oblong gap alongside a section of the steel frame of the sky light. He peered through it, and no glass obstructed his view. He fished out his binocs and saw what he could see, now jacked up by an optical factor of ten.

He had an angle onto a few feet of major corridor leading to the balcony overlooking the amusement park, about two hundred feet away at roughly 135 degrees. Not a lot of range, not a lot of elevation or windage, but he had the view into one of the corridors-Colorado, it had to be, based on his familiarity with the place-with nothing but air between him and his theoretical target. Could he get a shot? That was the first issue, and it had to be solved before What would the target be? even came up.

He picked the rifle up, eased the suppressor through the hole he’d opened, found a shooting position, his spotweld, and went to the scope and saw… nothing.

Goddamn.

There was clearance for the muzzle, but the scope was mounted higher than the muzzle by about an inch and it looked squarely into the metal frame.

He began to grind downward, trying to torque the suppressor deeper into the putty to lower the muzzle another inch or so, which would afford him the vantage of the Leupold tactical 10? he carried.

Nah. Couldn’t get enough leverage. He withdrew the rifle, went back to the knife. He hoped he didn’t have to cut any throats or cut open any tin cans, because he was blunting the crap out of the murderous sharpness of the blade, but he could afford a new knife.

Ugh. He ground, he scraped, he rubbed, he spit, he thought about pissing, anything to wear down the resistance of what opposed him, for it seemed he was beyond putty now and fighting the higher tensile strength of something hardened. It seemed to take hours, he felt the sweat running down his sides, he felt the ache in his wrists and fingers from the steady pressure he was applying to the structure through the medium of the blade.

He sat back at last, and it seemed he’d opened a loophole in the building material under the frame of the window. Would it be enough? Was he done?

He reacquired the rifle, repeated the shouldering and inserting process, tried to gauge how far he’d come, how far he’d have to go, and finally peeked through the scope and saw lightness, blur, whatever, realized he was focused at two hundred yards and this was much shorter, just seventy-five, and his finger flew to the focus knob, and he found himself staring with surprise into the face of a terrorist edging down the corridor. He looked up, through the window, and confirmed. It was a man, stealing his way toward the balcony, and that was an AK in his grip, his head was blanketed in an Arabic tribal scarf, and a boom microphone came around to cover his lips from earphones inside the headgear.

McElroy went back to scope and saw the face quadrisected by the four pie slices of scope upon which the reticle was centered. He had the kill shot with his suppressor. He had to get the okay to shoot.

Amazingly, the guy looked not Arabic at all but sort of Chinese or something.

It was Webley again, Kemp’s second in command, and this time he’d come up almost secretly to Kemp. He spoke in a whisper.

“One of our guys on the roof has managed to bore through a soft spot under the frame of the window. He has a target.”

“Tango?” asked Kemp.

“Affirmative. Dead center, moving down the hallway. One guy, isolated, AK-74, don’t know what he’s doing up there. My shooter is suppressed, he’s on him now, can take him down quietly, the others won’t know.”

“Interesting,” said Kemp.

“Will, we have to take this guy.”

“We ought to clear it with Obobo.”

“He’ll say no. I guarantee you, you know it, I know it. He’s risk-averse, force-averse, kill-averse. I don’t know what he’s doing in this line of work.”

“Jake, keep it down. You don’t know who’s listening.”

“Will, let us take this guy. It’s one less to deal with. Obobo doesn’t need to know. It’s our sniper, our operation, we have to take this chance.”

Everything in Kemp warned him to say no, which is why he himself was surprised when he said, “Green-light him. Drop the fucker hard.”

“Sniper Five, cleared to engage,” McElroy heard.

“Roger wilco,” said McElroy, trying to fight the spasm of elation that it had finally come, the clearance to make the kill, the order he’d been waiting for his whole life. He almost pulled hard at that second but…

Some sniper wisdom from somewhere halted him, maybe the sniper god reaching down to calm him. He’d been in position too long, his body discipline was breaking down, the whole goddamn thing was pretty shaky because he wasn’t set up on something to take the weight, the rifle wasn’t on its bipod, he didn’t have a bag or a tight left arm under the buttstock to eat up the tremble. This was all fucked up and nobody in sniper school had ever said a thing about an improvised position like this.

He stood half hunching, all weight centered on the small of his back, which was beginning to object. His legs were slightly spread but he couldn’t lock his knees and instead had to keep them precisely folded to stay on target. He supported the rifle entirely on the strength of his arms, which deadened his trigger finger and sent telegrams of pain to wrists and gripping hands. The yips had begun to build, little random tremors that could come from nowhere and blow the shot he’d made ten thousand times. He stepped back, eased the rifle down, took a deep breath of cool air, felt it soothe his lungs and his dried throat, felt the oxygen send a squirt of strength to his much-troubled and overworked limbs, and he willed himself back together again.

He went into his hunch, drawing the rifle up, knowing that he wouldn’t want to spend too much time on target but break the trigger at the first sight picture. He torqued his elbows inward even as his trigger finger snapped the safety forward, making him hot, good to go, ready to rock. He found the spotweld, watched the sight picture clarify, noted that his guy had moved just a bit and was possibly a foot closer to his objective-which had to be the balcony overlooking the hostages-and felt a little oddness.