Open Season by Cameron Curtis (early reader books TXT) 📗

going to do at two miles. Walk the shots right into the mark.”

“This isn’t quite that bad,” Takigawa says, “but dude, it’s an ugly shot.”

When I’ve climbed forty feet, I edge sideways.

There, I see the trees hanging over space. The soil is loose, the trees could go at any time. The trees above look sturdier, their root systems intact. Crab-like, I make my way higher and to the right.

Fifty-five feet above the trail, the going is easier. The red soil is firm under my feet. There are spaces between the trees that give me a view of the opposite mountainside.

I shrug off my field jacket. Roll it into a ball and go prone. I open the rifle’s bipod, stuff the rolled-up jacket under the toe of the rifle’s stock. I aim the laser rangefinder and take a reading off a large boulder on the opposite slope. The atmospheric conditions are good, the fog has burned off. The stone is reflective, there’s nothing to impede the beam.

One thousand and sixty-five yards.

Back at base, I had zeroed my rifle for four hundred yards, calculated the appropriate holdovers for different ranges. Calculated the temperature and barometric pressure adjustments at eight thousand and fifteen thousand feet. Interpolated values for intermediate altitudes.

Long-range shooters consider those variables. The ammunition and breech temperature. The Coriolis effect. It sounds cool to speak about the spin of the earth affecting your firing solution. In fact, all those factors can be accounted for in a straightforward manner. In the field, the number one reason shooters miss—is wind.

The wind is the question. It’s the most difficult variable to evaluate when calculating a firing solution. It changes speed and direction randomly. It can behave differently at different distances between the shooter and the target. Of all the variables that affect a shot, the wind is the least subject to mathematical assessment. Instrumentation can help, but the most vital asset is the shooter’s experience in judging the shot.

The mirage in my scope ripples from the bottom of the scope to the top. The wind is moving either toward me, or away. In this case, shooting across a valley, it could mean the wind is swelling from the base of the valley and rising toward me. It could add lift to the bullet.

This makes things easier, but not much. It means I don’t have to adjust for windage, but I will have to adjust my holdover. And there is no way to know by how much. Not until I take the first shot.

This is why a semi-automatic sniper rifle is nice to have.

I flick the safety off.

“Ready,” I say.

“I’m going all the way across, dude. Only doing this once.”

Takigawa steps onto the bare slope like a tightrope walker. Rifle slung across his chest, left hand extended for support. He takes three quick steps. I force myself not to watch him. Both eyes open, I stare through the scope at 3.6x, intent on detecting a muzzle flash.

There. A flash. Takigawa is still moving. I twist the magnification to 10x.

When AK47 rounds go by, they snap.

A Dragunov round going by sounds like the crack of a bullwhip. A noise that says, I’m here to fuck you up.

Sweating, I search for the shooter. Will he displace? He’s cocky. Another flash, and a spatter of rock behind Takigawa. Another whiplash. The Delta skips his way across the open space.

Crazy bastard’s dancing on the slope.

The barrel of a Dragunov draws my eye. I follow it to the face of a Taliban marksman. I let my breath out, squeeze the trigger.

Crack.

I’d give a year’s pay for a spotter. Strain to see my bullet trace—the vapor trail the round leaves in the frigid air. The semiautomatic M110 might moderate the recoil enough to make it possible. There—arcing high. A foot above my target’s head, the splash of earth on the slope.

Miss.

The shooter heard my shot. He has no idea how close I came, but he’s looking through his scope at me. There’s another flash from the Dragunov. I hear the sniper’s round drill a pine tree behind me—the whack of an axe.

Wind’s rising from the valley floor in a straight line relative to my position. I adjust my holdover, fire a second time.

The shooter has his right eye to the Dragunov’s scope, my bullet drills his left. His head jerks and blood sprays the foliage behind him. Another Hajji steps into view, reaches for the rifle. I fire a third time. The heavy caliber round hits him in the left side, under his arm. Blows out his heart and lungs. The second man crumples on top of the first.

Takigawa is across. Koenig crosses after him.

I sweep Parkat with my scope. Nothing. Two men down, the others determined not to present targets. I fold the bipod, shrug on my field jacket, and sling the rifle. Half jump, half slide down the mountainside. A torrent of loose shale and pebbles precedes me. I run into Lopez.

“All clear?” Lopez is tending Grissom. “I can cross with the colonel.”

“Got their first string,” I say. “Go for it. Hang onto each other.”

Lopez and Grissom set off across no-man’s land.

Trainor hands me my plate carrier.

“You’d better get across,” I tell her.

Without a word, the girl follows Lopez. I watch her stop half-way and stare at Hubble’s motionless form.

“Don’t fucking stop,” I yell. “Keep going.”

As if to reinforce my irritation, a bullet smacks the rock wall two feet from Trainor.

I fasten my plate carrier and shoulder my ruck.

“Go ahead,” Ballard says. “Looks like you got their best shooter.”

“They sling enough lead, they’re bound to hit something.”

I turn and cross the gap.

12

Rear Guard

Kagur-Ghar

Tuesday, 1300

Relieved, we gather on the other side of the landslide.

“Let’s go,” Koenig says. “Trainor, stay with Breed. Grissom with Lopez. Otherwise, increase dispersion to twenty yards. Takigawa on point. I’ll take slack.”

I turn to Grissom. “How are you, Colonel?”

Grissom is exhausted, his eyes unfocused. “I’m fine. Let’s keep moving.”

Lopez’s stare says it all. I might have to carry the colonel on my