Stephen Hunter - Dead Zero

He waited, knowing he was about to send his voice into outer space, where it would bounce off various metal orbs full of circuits and chips and nanotechnologies, until it finally beamed down to a cell phone somewhere in America (he didn’t know where) and a man humorously calling himself “MacGyver” would answer. The best thing was: the call was completely private.

“You’re early,” MacGyver said.

“We’re close. The issue is: should we press on in the dark and overtake or try and get around him and set up an ambush on the other side? I need to know his position and if he’s still moving.”

“Which option do you prefer?”

“I don’t like night action. Too much can go wrong. I’d prefer to set up and whack him tomorrow as he comes into town.”

“Excellent. Of course you’re wrong, so do exactly the opposite.”

“Mr. Mac-”

“He’s gone to earth for the night. I saw him on the big screen just a few minutes ago. I can give you his exact coordinates, to the meter. I can get you close enough to smell the goats. You’ll find him conked out. Get up close, shoot him about a thousand times, and get the hadjis to get you out of there. That’s what you’re being paid way too much for.”

Mick got out his pen and notebook and wrote down the exact mathematics of the sniper’s location.

“Bogier, get this done. Are you hearing me?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mick, hating the asshole, and then he closed down the transmit.

“Okay,” he said, and drew his two white teamboys close to map it out, figure an approach, and plan the kill.

ZABUL PROVINCE

SOUTHEASTERN AFGHANISTAN

0315 HOURS

At the base of the hill, the guys shed everything, stripping down, hadjis too, to pants and shirts. Even if it dropped to the thirties and froze them solid, Mick didn’t want the heavy caftans or the schemeggahs slopping this way and that, roughing up the dust, scraping rocks, catching on thorns or sprigs. The guys could shiver; he just didn’t want them to make noise.

The map was only so helpful. It identified the major landforms, even to the degree of suggesting approaches, but not the boulders and rock faces that gave those approaches practical meaning. Far better was his own recon through the AN/PV5-7 night vision goggles. As he took each man around to his starting point, he let them on the night vision set to get a good look-see of what lay before, how the rocks fell, how the arroyos trended, where the small trees for leverage were. He reminded them of the rules: no one was to rise above waist level until 0430; if they saw anybody walking upright, blast him. It would have to be the marine, awake, continuing his journey. Other rules: Do not fire at gun flashes, as the odds decreed you would be shooting your own teammate. And watch for goats. The guy wasn’t dumb; he’d tether goats to himself, and run the risk of goat piss against the fragile restiveness of the beasts, who’d bleat and whimper at the approach of a predator. So you didn’t startle a goat. If you moved low, quiet and easy, the goats would not be a problem. Afterward, they could butcher an animal and have a nice breakfast.

Since Mick, with the night vision, was almost certain to be the one to reach the hilltop first and would have the good vision to make the shot, he would signal them with a cowboy yeehaw when he’d scored. If for any reason that hadn’t happened by 0500, then 0500 became go time. They were to continue to the top, slide in on the sleeping marine, and let him have it. There wasn’t much else to say. It was pretty simple: infiltrate and execute. What could possibly go wrong?

Then he left each guy and slipped back as noiselessly as possible to his own starting point.

He checked his watch. It was now 0330 and the 0430 deadline was predicated on the assumption the distance was about 200 meters; it should take each man about an hour to edge, inch by silent inch, to the summit.

Mick began his crawl. He’d left the Barrett behind as there was no point in dragging it along; it was no close-quarters weapon. He had a Beretta 92 with a wicked Gemtech suppressor sticking from its snout like a can of frozen orange juice. At close range, it would finish up this asshole and get them the hell out of town in time for martini hour at the Kabul Hilton. He slithered, pulling his way along, enjoying the chilled air and the freedom from the ache of the big Barrett he’d been toting for three or four days. This was the cool part, the part he always loved, the special part of special ops work: the silent stalk. He enjoyed his own war craft, his ability to undulate silently, to ignore on will alone all the prods and pricks and pokes of the rough ground and thorny vegetation he crawled over. He moved more quickly than the others because through the night vision goggles, he could see what rocks lay ahead, where the breaks were, where the smaller brush collected, and so his progress was more assured.

He made it to the crest in less than half an hour. He found a larger rock and eased around it, hearing at the same time the gentle moaning of a goat or two. In the green world of the goggles the goats glowed incandescently, about 30 yards ahead. Three or four seemed tethered to what had to be the sniper, some kind of less-glowing form concealed in robes on the ground, heaving in and out with movement as the lungs took in air and then spent it, once in a while kicking.

Shoot him, Mick thought.

But it was a long shot for a pistol, particularly one wearing a suppressor that might change the point of impact off the sights, which were hard to see even in the ambient light’s amplification. He had him. Wait it out. Be disciplined, wait it out, when 0500 gets here, we’ll all hit him at once and pump his ass on the ground.

Mick sat back and waited, selecting memories to keep him toasty through the long hour. Hmm, the two Japanese girls in Tokyo that night? Or that CBS correspondent in Baghdad, the Brit? Man, she was hot and she’d done half the guys in Delta. Or what about the black gal in Dar es Salaam. Boy, that was a night, even if he’d caught a dose. Or…

In this fashion, he passed the time quickly, pausing now and then for a recon through the night vision to make sure the guy was still there, snoozing fitfully on the ground amid his screen of goats. Their bleats and baas came softly through the night but the goats were so intent on keeping warm that no man-scent alarmed them. They drifted and moseyed around the sleeping form and meanwhile Mick explored the brothel of his memory for suitable pornographic energy to keep himself distracted from the slow slippage of time on his Suunto or the numb chill spreading through his lower extremities. He timed it perfectly, jigging to release at roughly 0450, giving himself plenty of time to clean off and settle in.

A last check of the pistol. Shell in chamber, yes, hammer down, yes, safety off, yes, magazine seated, yes, suppressor can cranked tight against the threading, yes. He rose to knees, then to haunches, the gun in one hand, steadying himself on the rock with the other and enough of a sleeve hike to show the face of the watch as the Suunto digits dissolved steadily toward 0500 until they yielded that number exactly.

He took a breath, raised himself full, shouted, “ Go !” in his loudest sergeant’s voice, acquired the pistol in his support hand, and began moving ahead, examining the world through his goggles. He watched as incandescent goats fled at his approach, except for those tethered to the sleeper, and they bucked and busted against the ropes that secured them, sensing death on the come. The animals began a chorus of anguish, their voices involuntarily rising in pitch and urgency as those who could flee fled and those who couldn’t tried to, desperately.