Stephen Leather - Hot Blood

The one-thousand metre line was optimistic, the Sniper knew. The Russians liked to claim that their snipers could hit a man with a Dragunov at a thousand metres, but the Sniper preferred never to work above five hundred. Six hundred on a windless day, perhaps.

He moved the sight slowly down the soldier’s body, and frowned as he reached the man’s feet. He wasn’t wearing army boots: he was wearing brown shoes with tassels. The Sniper had never seen a soldier in footwear like that. He raised the sight again and focused on the man’s face. It didn’t matter what sort of shoes he was wearing. All that mattered was that he was an American soldier and that he would soon be dead.

He forced himself to relax as he stared through the scope. The soldier was four hundred metres away. The wind was negligible and it would be an easy shot. But he had to wait until the helicopters had left.

Yokely watched the marines pile into the house. No shots had been fired for several seconds and from inside he heard shouts of ‘Clear!’ as they moved through the rooms.

‘I should be in there,’ said the Major.

‘It’s a military operation. We’d be in the way,’ said Yokely.

‘They were happy enough for Spider to go in,’ said O’Brien.

‘They needed the diversion,’ said Yokely. ‘Anyway, all’s well that ends well, yeah?’

‘You can say that when Spider and Geordie are out here in one piece,’ said O’Brien.

‘Speak of the devil,’ said Yokely. Two big marines led the pair out of the house. Yokely grinned. ‘They look fine.’

The Major and Yokely went towards them. One of the marines was a captain. ‘Everything okay in there?’ Yokely asked.

‘Four dead,’ said the captain. ‘No casualties on our side.’

‘Excellent,’ said Yokely. ‘Wafeeq?’

‘We’ve a medic working on him now.’ The captain gestured at Spider. ‘He shot him in the shoulder.’

‘He’s okay, though?’

‘His injury isn’t life-threatening,’ said the captain.

‘We’re fine, too. Thanks for asking,’ said Shepherd.

‘I can see that,’ said Yokely. He called up the lead Blackhawk helicopter on his transceiver. ‘Thanks, guys, we can take it from here,’ he said.

‘Roger that,’ said the pilot.

The two helicopters banked and flew south, turbines screaming.

‘Are you okay, Geordie?’ asked the Major.

‘I will be after one of Martin’s fry-ups and a couple of pints.’

Yokely clipped his transceiver on his belt and nodded at him. ‘This is Richard Yokely,’ said the Major. ‘He arranged the heavy artillery for us.’

‘Thanks, Richard,’ said Mitchell.

‘All part of the service,’ said Yokely, with a grin, and saluted Mitchell.

The Sniper frowned as he saw the soldier salute the man in the orange jumpsuit, then realised the significance of what he’d seen. The man in the orange jumpsuit must be an officer. The Iraqis in the house had been keeping a high-ranking officer hostage and the Americans had rescued him.

The Sniper slowly moved the rifle until the head of the man in the orange jumpsuit was in the centre of his sights. He took a breath, slowly let out half, then squeezed the trigger.

The bullet hit the man in the side of the head. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground.

‘ Allahu Akbar,’ whispered the Sniper. A perfect shot.

‘What the hell just happened?’ shouted Simon Nichols, sitting bolt upright. He stared at the real-time video view of the Baghdad city block. The man in the orange jumpsuit was sprawled on the ground. Richard Yokely had dropped into a crouch, scanning the buildings round him. ‘Did Richard just shoot the guy? Is that what happened?’

‘Get a grip,’ said Will Slater. ‘There’s a sniper. Phillip, can you slow it down?’

‘I can drop a few knots but we’re close to stall speed,’ said Howell.

Slater toyed with a joystick and the view on the screen swung to the left. He pulled it back so that he could see more of the city and narrowed his eyes as he stared at the screen. ‘Check the infrared, Simon,’ he said.

Nichols panned the sensor over the scene. He could just make out the figures in the street and hear the engines of the vehicles but the intense heat of the day made it hard to distinguish much.

‘Come on, you bastard,’ muttered Slater. ‘Where are you hiding?’

‘Got him,’ said Nichols. ‘West, about four hundred metres. Two figures on top of a building.’

‘A sniper and his spotter,’ said Slater. He moved the joystick to the left and increased the magnification, found the two figures and zoomed in. The men filled the screen. One was holding a rifle. ‘We have a target confirmed,’ he said.

‘Let’s do it,’ said Howell.

Slater hit the laser illuminator button that bathed the two figures with invisible light. ‘Target locked,’ he said.

‘Missile away,’ said Howell. He pressed the button that launched one of the Predator’s two Hellfire missiles. The Thiokol solid-propellant rocket motor kicked into life and the missile roared away. It had an effective range of almost eight thousand metres but the two men on the roof were much closer than that. Within seconds the five-foot-long missile had reached its maximum speed of Mach 1.3. The laser seeker in its nose locked on to the laser light illuminating the two men and the missile changed direction so that it was heading straight for them. Just behind the sensors and computer in the nose was the missile’s payload, an eight-kilogram charge capable of destroying a tank.

Shepherd knelt beside Mitchell, staring in horror at the wound in his friend’s skull. It was fatal, no doubt about it. Mitchell’s chest was still heaving and his legs were twitching but the movements were reflex. Mitchell was dead, but his body hadn’t realised it yet. The bullet had hit him in the right cheekbone and blown out a big chunk of his head. Clumps of bloody brain matter were smeared across the pavement and his left eye dangled from a blood-filled socket.

Shepherd groped for Mitchell’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m sorry, Geordie,’ he whispered. The hand trembled, then went still. The legs stopped twitching. The chest rose and fell for the last time. Blood continued to ooze from the head wound but no longer pulsed. The heart had stopped.

‘Spider, get to cover!’ shouted the Major. He and O’Brien were behind one of the Humvees, while Shortt and two American soldiers had rolled behind the Bradley.

Yokely had stood his ground. He was scanning the surrounding buildings.

‘Richard, get the hell down!’ shouted the Major.

‘Fuck him,’ said Yokely. ‘He doesn’t scare me. Can you see him, Spider?’

Shepherd kept hold of Mitchell’s lifeless hand. Snipers usually operated between two hundred and six hundred metres. Any closer and there was too big a chance of being spotted by the target; further, and the shot was too difficult. Mitchell had been standing with his back to the building when he’d been shot, so Shepherd concentrated on an arc away from Mitchell, his eyes darting from side to side. ‘Where the hell is he?’ he muttered.

‘Spider, get the hell over here!’ shouted the Major.

Shepherd made out a dark shape on the roof of a building. As he stared he caught a flash of light: the sun glinting off a scope. ‘I see him,’ he shouted, and pointed. Yokely squinted and raised his M16.

The Sniper’s finger tightened on the trigger. There was virtually no wind. He took a breath, let half out, then centred his sights on the face of the man kneeling next to the one he’d shot.

‘He sees us,’ said the Spotter.

The Sniper ignored him. The American soldiers had M16s and they were too far away to reach him. The turrets of the Bradleys were pointed in the wrong direction and the men operating the machine-guns on the roofs of the Humvees had ducked inside their vehicles. He had plenty of time to make the kill and escape. All the time in the world. He smiled and started to pull the trigger.