Joe Haldeman - Future Weapons of War

“Fifteen hundred meters.”

I cleared my throat. “Really? That’s good, isn’t it?”

“A head shot at fifteen hundred meters—that got me wondering. Some soldiers have reported having a, shall we say, closer relationship with their SM-rifles than they originally expected.” He looked me directly in the eyes. “Have you had an experience of that sort?”

I heard Samantha’s voice in my head again . It’s okay. We can trust him.

“Well, honestly, sir, yes.”

He nodded, and I relaxed.

“Johnny, let me explain something about the SM-rifles. Although they are far better weapons than conventional rifles, we haven’t been handing them out to our soldiers simply because of the artificial intelligence. Haven’t you wondered why your rifle was specifically imprinted with your own personality engrams?”

“I really hadn’t given it much thought, sir,” I said. “I supposed it had to do with increasing our compatibility, making it easier for us to work together.”

The lieutenant laughed. “Most people would find it difficult if not impossible to work well with someone exactly like them.” He paused. “What I’m about to tell you is not exactly classified, but it’s also not for public consumption, if you know what I mean. I’m ordering you not to discuss it with anyone.”

“Yes, sir.”

The fact is that I couldn’t really understand much of what the lieutenant told me then, let alone discuss it with others. Apparently, Samantha and I were among the lucky few, whose identical memory engrams achieved what the lieutenant called “quantum resonance.” That allowed us to get into each other’s minds—a sort of telepathy. That word I could understand, but I was surprised to discover that it now existed for real.

Personally, I don’t think the lieutenant understood much of what he was telling me either. But I nodded politely and tried to look thoughtful.

“That means you can become one with your weapon, Johnny. The two of you together are much

more proficient than any other soldier with a conventional weapon.”

I nodded, but didn’t say anything, which the lieutenant seemed to interpret as modesty. “It’s something to be proud of, son. You’re special.”

“I—thank you, sir.”

“Which is why I called you in to see me. I think you can be more than the ordinary soldier.” He leaned forward. “We need volunteers for special training. People who are willing to work alone. People who can get a particular job done.” He paused. “You ever hear of Carlos Hathcock?”

“No, sir,” I replied, puzzled.

“Look him up in the camp database. He’s what I’d like you to become. Let me know your decision within twenty-four hours. Dismissed.”

I left the tent, and almost immediately Samantha said, “Forget the database. I know who Hathcock was.” And she told me all about him.

I whistled when she was done. “The lieutenant wants me to do that? I can’t.”

“Sure you can. Let’s volunteer for the training.”

“I don’t want to work alone.”

She laughed. “You won’t be alone,” she replied. “You’ll have me along.”

That’s how I became a sniper.

Becoming a sniper required more training. Despite Samantha’s assurances, it took a lot more than my just being able to aim my SM accurately. I had to learn about camouflage and concealment, so the enemy wouldn’t spot me when I was sent on missions. It took a lot of studying.

But I wasn’t alone. A handful of other soldiers and their SM-rifles had also been moved to sniper training, so we studied together. In a way, Samantha was wrong about it just being her and me.

But Samantha was right about one thing—our ability to shoot. Part of sniper training is learning how to shoot one’s rifle under various conditions. But with Samantha and me together, we aced all the preliminary tests, because we really could got into each others minds.

In fact, we did it so much better than any of the other soldier-rifle pairs that we were the first ones sent back to the front. We reported back to the lieutenant, who assigned us to a whole variety of interesting missions.

One time, we were working with my unit, but positioned far away, at a location perpendicular to their advance. Our job was to pick off the enemy soldiers at random, sowing confusion and fear while my unit engaged in a frontal assault. The tactic worked, and we took another hill.

Another time, we were sent on our own to one of the enemy’s cities. Our spy network had intercepted reports that one of the enemy’s generals was going to be doing an inspection of the city. We managed to keep ourselves hidden for two days until we got a clear shot, right into the general’s chest.

I was promoted to corporal and given a medal. I was pleased about that, but something nagged me in the back of my mind.

And I started having bad dreams. When I closed my eyes, I would see my targets explode in front of me. Sometimes I dreamt that I was my rifle. I felt the plasma flow through my body and then burst out at my targets, burning holes in their chests and heads. I woke up a few times in a cold sweat, unable to get back to sleep for an hour or two.

But our new role didn’t affect Samantha any. She seemed almost gleeful about our success. For her, killing became more than just a job. It became fun.

And that scared me to death.

So here’s how it all came to an end. Our last mission.

As always, my orders came from the lieutenant. He called us into his office as usual, but this time he had a much more sober look on his face.

“This is a different sort of mission, Johnny. A very sensitive one. We’ve located an enemy training facility for new soldiers. We want a sniper to go in there and pick off some of their new recruits, to strike fear into their hearts. Are you willing to do it?”

I remember feeling unsure, but Samantha’s voice in the back of my head told me to go ahead.

So I accepted.

The next day, we were dropped off a few kilometers away from the facility and we headed towards it. We never had to worry about getting lost, as Samantha always knew where she was going.

When we got close enough, I took a look at the building. It was a red brick converted school building, with an outside playground transformed into a shooting range. I found a good copse of trees in which to conceal ourselves, and we waited.

Finally, after about twenty minutes, the front door opened, and my jaw dropped.

Two enemy soldiers led out a parade of children, none of them older than ten years at the most.

They lined them up at the shooting range, gave them pistols, and began to instruct them on the use of their weapons.

I froze. I could feel myself sweating, and a lump formed in my throat.

Sam’s voice appeared in the back of my mind. Johnny, are you ready? Come on, aim me. We can take out at least five of the students before they’d get back into the building for safety.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. Sam, did you see the targets? I asked her.

Sure I did. They’re enemy soldiers-in-training, just like the lieutenant said.

They’re not soldiers-in-training! They’re kids. Children.

We knew the enemy was turning its young citizens to fight back. We just didn’t realize how young. But it doesn’t matter. They’re still the enemy.

I whispered aloud. “I can’t kill children.”

“Sure you can,” Sam replied in the same quiet tones.

“How can you say that?”

She sighed, something she hadn’t done in a while. Then she cursed at me. “Damn it, Johnny, they’ve already been indoctrinated to hate you. There’s not one of them that wouldn’t just as soon kill you as look at you, and you know it.”