Robin Cook - Vector

“Several times,” Tim said.

“Did you see any action?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tim said. “The enemy was very cooperative.” He laughed. “It was like a turkey shoot.”

“Where did you see them?”

Tim pointed. “Coming along that gully that looks like a notch on the horizon.”

Curt strained his eyes in the darkness. He needed a bit of imagination to believe he was looking at a ravine end on. There was no way he could see anyone approaching until they were practically on top of them. Curt wondered what it would be like if a group of men did suddenly spill out of the darkness. By reflex, his hand dropped down to his holstered Glock automatic. He unsnapped the cover. He didn’t want to be fumbling with it if a need for the gun arose.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Tim said. “Let me show you something.”

Tim unzipped his canvas gun bag that he’d put on the ground next to him and pulled out a weapon. Even in the darkness Curt could tell it was one of Tim’s that he’d never seen.

“This here’s my favorite,” Tim said proudly. “I don’t take it out except for real ops, like tonight.”

He extended the weapon toward Curt. Curt took it and held it up close to his face. He recognized it immediately although he’d never held one. It was a Marine-modified Remington .308 sniper rifle.

“Where the hell did you get this?” Curt asked with awe.

“You can buy pretty much whatever you want from the survivalist mags like Mercenary . All you have to do is look in the ads in the back.”

“But this is Marine issue,” Curt said. “How could someone get one in the first place?”

“How should I know?” Tim said. “I suppose someone probably stole it at some point or maybe somebody traded it for something else. You’ll learn that there’s a lot of bartering going on in the military.”

“They modify these things at Quantico,” Curt said. He ran his hand affectionately along the stock.

“Yeah, I know,” Tim said. “It’s got a floating barrel and fiberglass bedding. And the trigger pull has been adjusted to one pound.”

“God, it’s fantastic,” Curt said. He could only dream of owning one. He’d come to love guns of any sort but especially high-tech ones.

“The best thing is the scope,” Tim said. “Notice its size. It’s a night-vision scope. Give it a try.”

Curt lovingly lifted the weapon to his shoulder and sighted through the telescopic sight. The black night was miraculously transformed into a hazy green transparency. Even at a distance of several hundred yards Curt could make out details of the arid environment.

All of a sudden Curt’s eyes caught movement and he turned the rifle slightly to his left. In the center of his field of vision were two men picking their way through the darkness, heading toward Curt on the diagonal.

“Holy crap!” Curt exclaimed. “I got two wetbacks in my sights. I can’t believe it.”

“No shit!” Tim said excitedly. “Don’t take your eyes off them. You might not be able to find them again. Tell me: what are they wearing? They’re not uniforms, are they?”

“Hell, no!” Curt said. “Looks like plaid shirts, jeans, cowboy hats, and they’re carrying what look like old vinyl suitcases.”

“Congratulations, soldier!” Tim said. “You got yourself a couple of turkeys. Pull off at least two rounds quick-like to make sure you get both. Of course if you can line them up maybe you can get away with one shot.” Tim giggled.

“You want me to shoot them?” Curt asked nervously. He’d purposefully avoided thinking about this moment, especially since he was aware the men in his sights presented no immediate danger to himself. It wasn’t like a battle situation where he was confident he’d react by reflex. This was more like bushwhacking two unarmed people he didn’t even know. Curt could sense he was trembling since his field of vision had begun to jump around.

“No, I want you to walk out there and have an argument with them,” Tim said sarcastically. “Of course I want you to shoot them. Hell, it’s your right. You’re the one who spotted them.”

Curt felt perspiration appear on his forehead. He swallowed. An anxiety of indecision spread through him. He’d never done anything like this before.

“Come on, man,” Tim said. “Don’t let me or your country down.”

Curt had no intention of letting Tim down. The past month or so had been the first time in his life that he was a member of a tight-knit assemblage whose ideology he truly believed. He’d found a home emotionally and intellectually, and he knew he owed it all to Tim. Taking in a breath and holding it, Curt squeezed the trigger.

The rifle recoiled but not enough for Curt to lose sight of his targets. The lead man went down like he’d been tripped. He didn’t spin around or stagger as Curt had seen in the movies when people were shot. One minute the man was walking, the next he was gone. The second man had stopped, frozen in his tracks as the sound of the rifle echoed around the dark, harsh landscape.

Curt felt an orgasmic rush of adrenaline and a tremendous sense of power. Without another thought, he drew a bead on the second man and smoothly pulled the trigger. The gun again jumped and the second man disappeared. Curt lowered the rifle. For a brief moment there was a refreshing smell of cordite in the air before the breeze dispersed it.

“Well?” Tim asked expectantly.

“Both are down,” Curt said.

“Fantastic!” Tim said. He gave Curt a pat on the shoulder before reaching for the radio. He told the other teams that he and Curt were going out to dispose of a couple of targets. He told them not to fire on anything until they heard from him again.

“I don’t want those crazy guys shooting at us,” Tim said. He took the sniper rifle away from Curt, who gave it up without comment. Tim then got out a folding shovel and pick. “Come on,” he said to Curt. “But keep your Glock handy in case you just winged the bastards. We might have to give them a ‘coop de grass’ or whatever the saying is.”

Curt stumbled after Tim without saying a word. After the initial euphoria, he was flooded by self-doubt. Now that he’d actually shot someone, he didn’t know how to deal with the idea that he might have killed another human being. The mental fog created by the many beers he’d consumed didn’t help. The fact that Tim was acting as if he’d merely swatted two pesky flies didn’t help, either.

“Come on, soldier!” Tim called over his shoulder when he became aware Curt was lagging behind. Tim had gone ahead with the flashlight, moving over rocky terrain in a slow jog.

Curt pushed himself forward and squared his shoulders. He was embarrassed that Tim might suspect his “candy ass” state of mind.

It took them almost half an hour to find the Mexicans since they had to crisscross the general area a number of times. As Tim’s flashlight beam played over their bodies, he whistled in admiration. “I’m impressed,” he said. “You drilled both of them through the head.”

Curt looked down at the corpses. He’d never seen a dead person before outside of a funeral home. Both bodies had small entrance holes on their foreheads but were missing large chunks of scalp in the back. The ground in the area was sprinkled with bits and pieces of brain. The man in the front still had his hand wrapped around the handle of his suitcase.

“Oh my God!” Curt murmured.

Tim’s head snapped up and he glared at his recruit. “What’s the matter?” he demanded.

“What did I do?”

“You killed a couple of wetback illegal aliens,” Tim snapped. “You did your country a favor.”

“Jesus,” Curt mumbled as he shook his head. The Mexicans’ eyes were still open, and they were staring at him. Curt swayed a little on rubbery legs.