by Clay Martin
Goodbyes said, Chief had done all he could do. He slipped into his car, quickly shutting the door to keep the dome light off. Careful not to touch the brakes the whole way down the hill, he drove into the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mike could tell from the lack of reaction that his enemies were on the ropes. The complete absence of return fire wasn’t newly gained discipline or tactical skill, it was defeat. The battle had just started to get fun, and already their will was collapsing beneath the weight of surgically applied attrition. It was pathetic. The Arabs, backwards though they may be, had lasted for years under the constant attack of both commandos and an unchecked Air Force. A subject of frequent discussion amongst his peers, Mike often wondered if he would have the balls to fight on against a Spectre gunship he had no chance of shooting down. Or what it would be like if his enemy could drop bombs from the sky, in the same hole if needed, with no concern of retaliation. Put mildly, we would have to fight bullet proof space monsters that could beam into our living rooms at will to face a comparable technology gap. This bunch of pussies was folding like a cheap suitcase over a couple of hard hours. What these men really needed was sleep, a few hours of safety, and a strong leader to guide them. Mike was going to make damn sure they got none of those.
Extremely confident that pursuit was absolutely out of the question, Mike spent some time learning his surroundings. Moving to a nearby peak cost some energy and time, but it afforded him an understanding of the terrain he never would have gotten otherwise. Time spent in reconnaissance is rarely wasted. He found a shallow lake that could serve as a resting place for his rifle. Too impersonal for now. He hated to submerge his beloved Sako for what might be days on end, but he couldn’t risk it being found. Rust is slow to set in, but the glass concerned him. A scope with moisture inside is useless. He had purchased the toughest glass on the planet, a Night Force ATACR 7-35, routinely used in the military to two fathoms deep. It should be fine, but it was a risk. And it felt somehow wrong to intentionally cram his best tool beneath the water, water being the enemy of steel. He had felt the same way the first time he learned to cache a zodiac beneath the ocean, engine and all. It worked, but it took some getting use to. In regular units, it would be your ass if any of your equipment ended up on the ocean floor. Here, it was mandatory to pass training. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about tidal shift making his rifle harder to retrieve this time.
Mike was so happy having boots and warm clothes, he felt like the king of the world. It was the same way in training. Come back from some ten day patrol, socks constantly wet, minimal food, covered in chiggers and ant bites, with an E&E exercise at the end for good measure. Exhausted to the last drop. Just a warm shower without a ruck on your back feels like Heaven after that. And a cold beer tastes good enough to bring tears to your eyes.
Happy with his newfound knowledge, and comfortable he wasn’t running blind anymore, Mike returned to a vantage point outside the camp he had recently left in desolation. Not the same spot he had taken his shot from, on the off chance they found it. Extremely unlikely, they would have to first be out, and then have crossed his trail. Or gotten unfathomably lucky. Still, habits die hard, and he wouldn’t go to the same spot twice in a situation like this. No longer needing to shoot, he deliberately stayed further into the safety of the trees. The smallest branch can deflect a bullet, but not a concern with observation. The technique was called burning through vegetation. With bino’s or a scope, vegetation very close to you meant almost nothing. The power of the glass would see right past it. But looking in, you were near impossible to detect. Mike was very glad for his Ziess pocket binoculars, secured to his war belt. Small enough to fit in one hand, extremely light, and only 8 power. But they were well built, and punched far above their weight.
The bearded man was off by himself, looking for all the world like he was suffering from shell shock. “Wow, that was fast” Mike thought, “ Weak sister indeed.” The rest of the tribesmen were huddled together, with the tracker seeming to take the lead. He was a wiry looking man, all forearms and shoulders, longer hair that the rest pulled into a greasy ponytail. Some kind of neck tattoo on the right side, file that for later. The best way to end a rally was a decapitation strike. Mike chuckled at his own joke, thinking of the one they called Robbie.
As the sun was starting to set, the County Sheriff’s car appeared again. This was intriguing. Mike still hadn’t worked out exactly how to solve that problem. Citizens disappear all the time, but elected officials tend to be missed. And other law enforcement tends to take it very personally when you kill one of theirs, no matter the reason. It was going to take some thought. A Sheriff with a hole in his head was a good way to find yourself pursued to the ends of the earth. And making an entire car disappear was a trick in itself.
Mike was losing the light, and even his binoculars couldn’t help him anymore. He had to get closer, without exposing himself to a potential compromise from headlights. All it would take is one idiot flipping a switch at the wrong time, and this could go pear shaped. And no telling if the Sheriff might try and just extract everyone crammed in his car. Mike couldn’t let that happen. He was days away by foot from safety, and they might have a plan put together to blame this all on him by then. Sometimes you are left with only bad options. Hell or high water, these boys weren’t leaving this mountain in anything but a body bag. A pistol wasn’t his optimal choice to enforce that, but in the dark it beat a scoped rifle anyway. Before he left, he pulled his pistol and ensured it was loaded, and the tritium sights were glowing. Be a fine time to realize he didn’t have a front sight post. Not like it would have fallen off in the last six hours, but pre combat checks were part how you stayed alive.
In order to cover his approach from potential headlights, and cut off escape if absolutely necessary, Mike circled toward the parking area. The mostly useless trucks further provided a screen to his approach from the woods. Coming from the rear of them, he angled toward the end furthest from the Sheriffs car. He aimed to finish twenty meters to the right of the furthest truck, perpendicular to the functioning Crown Vic. He would stay low in the grass, banking that no one would see him at the far edge of the periphery if the lights did come on. He would have preferred the left side or rear, but they offered potential dangers. If the Sheriff left alone, or with a few others, that would mean he was coming back. Better to let them go, deal with the ones he had here, and then clean up when they returned. Mike wasn’t ready for the party to be over, but if he had to end it tonight, much better to do so against split forces. They only had to get lucky once, and working on smaller groups upped his chances tremendously. If the Crown Vic did leave, it had equal odds of reversing or turning left in a wide circle to find the road out. Just his luck to spend all day avoiding bullets, and get run over by a damn car. Best not to chance that. Right in the middle of the 4x4 graveyard would get him close enough to listen, and reduce his chances of being run over to zero. But you never knew when some unfortunate dumbass was going to remember a stashed pint of whiskey from his back seat, or need his teddy bear to go to sleep. Discovered laying under an F-250 would make fighting his way out complicated to say the least. So he settled for the grass, good enough concealment, no cover, and a fifty-yard shot if things went loud. Risky, but the best he could do under the circumstances.
Mike was losing his capacity for tactical outrage slowly, but he couldn’t believe his eyes. Not long after he settled into his firing position, a fire roared to life not thirty feet from the charred remains of the tents. Mike absolutely could not believe it. He had guessed that possibly the Sheriff character would have more sense than the others, but he had guessed wrong. Mostly he had moved closer, so that when they tried to move under the cover of darkness, he could easily follow. Only a complete fucking idiot would stay put in the one spot he absolutely knew where to find them. And a fire? Really? Was it fear of the dark, a habitual need for the comfort it provided, or the primal saf
ety of the circle of embers? Fire light might have kept wolves and saber tooth tigers at bay, but it had been a bad idea against men since at least the Civil War. You wouldn’t see that bullshit at Passchendaele or anywhere on the Eastern Front, you could bet on that. Animals might be afraid of fire, but ghosts certainly weren’t. And Mike was as ghost as they come.
Still, the rising fire had one negative effect. Mike was pinned in his hiding spot, the circle of light just on the edge of overtaking him. He was comforted by the fact his pistol was in his hand, no need for unnecessary movement to secure it. He was confident the grass would keep him hidden, but it never hurt to be extra cautious.
Mike settled in for a long wait, there was no telling how long this might take. Fortunately long waits were part of the DNA of snipers. Sometimes, you might wait three days for something that never happened. Long, lonely hours on the glass, waiting on your subject to appear. Cat naps of rest while you rotated duties with your spotter. The thousand jolts of adrenaline when something might happen, but then didn’t. The satisfaction was only heightened the longer you waited, for that one beautiful moment of payoff. That made it all worth the chase.
The crackling of the fire and the distance made the conversation unintelligible. The Sheriff seemed to be giving the troops a pep talk, Queen and Country, or whatever passed for that with these psychos. At least with Al Qaeda and the Jayesh Al Mahdi, Mike could understand the seventy-two virgins bit. His version would have replaced those with the dirtiest girls around, but the motivation was at least conceivable. The weird, cousin fucking, cannibal hillbillies around the fire? Mike was actually kind of glad he was missing the hooah speech. It might give him bad dreams later.
To kill the time, he considered his options. The leader was a good choice for who died next, but the tracker was an obvious problem too. Earlier today he had won the contest, walking him right into a trap of Mike’s choosing. You don’t win against a skilled tracker forever, no matter how good you are. They might get lucky and see through his next one, or they might manage to move so fast after him they caught him off guard. He also had no idea how well anyone else could fill that role. For all he knew, everyone out there had an equal skill set. Unlikely, but possible. Either one was a good option, but he might have to settle for a target of opportunity. You play the hand you are dealt.
The Sheriff stood. It was time to find out how the chips fell. In thirty seconds, it could be time for a hellacious firefight, time to slink off into the woods, or time to endure the gaze of high beam halogens. Cutting off his peripheral vision, Mike closed his left eye. He would hate to be using it for a pitch-dark fight alone, but he had to preserve some night vision. His hands started sweating as pre-combat chemicals flooded his system. Even after a lifetime of experience, you have to lock side effects down. He forced his breathing to stay regular, and reminded himself of the possible scenarios. He didn’t want to jump the gun needlessly. If shooting became necessary, the Sheriff was going first. He was the freshest of the pack, and not a far stretch to assume the most experienced in a gunfight. Besides, the car keys were in his pocket, and no one was leaving without those.
The Sheriff paused at his car door, looking into the night. Mike swore he made eye contact, and felt the second wave of fight drugs come on board. His right hand tightened ever so slightly on the grip of his pistol. A huge part of staying alive in bad places is knowing when to start shooting, and when not to. The second you know you are compromised, the only sane response is to lash out as violently as possible, as quickly as possible. Letting someone else start the fight is a good way to end up dead. He held the Sheriffs eyes, hoping not to see recognition. “Don’t do it fucker, don’t do it” Mike willed him. Look away, you see nothing. The Sheriff’s left hand was fingering his flashlight, right still on the door handle. If the flashlight came up, a 10mm was headed that way before it switched on. The Sheriff turned his head slightly left, and then right. Whether he knew it or not, that would help. Human night vision was better at angles, due to the placement of rods rather than cones. All part of the fun biology of not getting eaten thousands of years ago. Mike lay stone-like, mentally projecting himself as part of the grass.
The moment broke. The Sheriff opened his car door at a shallow angle, dove inside, and shut it again. He fiddled with a switch, followed by the ignition, and drove off slowly in a wide circle, no lights. Mike noted that he was at least thinking, between what was undoubtedly an auto switch for headlights and decisive lack of brake lights. He also wondered what could possibly be dragging the leader away again so quickly. He hadn’t taken either of the new bodies, a development without an answer. Mike could see no tactical advantage either way. He let out a sigh of relief, and returned to focus on the remaining opposition. The Sheriff leaving was a big question mark, but it did sort out his target deck by default. Take what you are given, the rest will fall in place.
For hours, Mike watched with fascination as the men around the fire acted like they were on a camp out. Like the danger had passed. Canned soup was heated and eaten, the smells stretching far into the night, even over the fire smoke. At one point, a pair did bumble around in one of the trucks, returning to the group with a flashlight. It was nowhere near Mike, and hence no danger, but they had no way of knowing that. Incredible. The fire burned lower, reducing the depth of light, but would still be visible for miles. Up here, in the starry vast wilderness, a match was detectable to the human eye for two miles. Around midnight, sleeping bags were laid out haphazardly, with a single sentry pacing the opposite side of the fire.
At least he was walking, that should prevent him from falling asleep. “ See, they can learn!” Mike smiled to himself. But another serious tactical blunder was taking shape. The sentry had put the fire between those in his charge and himself, effectively making him blind on that side. Most probably remembered habit from the years living with the lodge in place. A tired brain associates things that once existed with standing barriers. Mike had seen that first hand with the advent of the wall charge. A wall charge was useful for blasting assault sized holes in the compounds favored by the Iraqi’s and Afghani’s. Many times, if you sparked one off in the dark, the return fire would concentrate on the unoccupied gate anyway. Force of habit, it was the only entry point the occupants remembered. Not all, but often. Nothing like killing some dirt worshipper pouring AK fire the wrong direction, back turned to a newly established threat. The sentry was creating another problem by constantly walking about. His angle was better to see an approaching threat, but his own steps created noise. Subtle, but a rhythm you could follow. Human beings are creatures of habit, and repetitive cycles take root quickly. Ten steps stop, look around, ten steps back, stop, look around. A dark plan unfolded in Mikes mind. He wasn’t the most creative man alive at most things, but killing was his canvas. “You boys like fire do you? Keeps you safe from the monsters? Special treat, coming right up.”
Mike quietly reholstered his pistol, holding down the retention in the Safariland ALS device, releasing the button slowly when the sentry was farthest away from him. He needed both hands for this. Ideally, he would have waited until the witching hour of 3-4 a.m. More time for a sentry to get sloppy, miss a change over, sit down and go to sleep. As it was, he had no idea when the shift change would be. Timing it for a few cycles also put him closer to sun up, and potentially closer to the Sheriff returning. Besides, he didn’t want his friends getting any rest. They had awakened a walking nightmare. They bought the ticket, that meant the whole ride. The tracker had taken a spot right on the edge of the glow. Matching pace with the sentry, Mike crawled forward. Left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg, pause, left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg pause. He was a few movements short of the sentry cycle by design, giving himself time to rest, avoiding the breathing of heavy exertion that could give him away. A few feet from the trackers bag, Mike stopped and reached into his jackets chest pocket. No soldier in his right mind ever slept inside a sleeping bag. The zipp
ering of cocoons had dumbfounded him earlier. Sealed up tight, there was no way you could react to danger in time. It might as well be a body bag if Apaches were afoot. A soldier might drape one over him, or wrap up in one unzipped if it was dangerously cold, but never closed up tight. Mike looked at the head to be sure he was still on target. Fogging breath escaped a stubble-covered mouth, head turning from the fires heat. A neck tattoo showed like a beacon. Mike pulled the yellow bottle of lighter fluid from his pocket, and opened the cap. Originally Mike had taken it as a survival item, in case he ended up walking out of here and met another storm. Bow drills and flints worked great on TV, but they sucked in real life. They would work, but it required a lot of prep and effort. Zippo fluid was the great emergency option, known as “white man’s fire starter” in his youth. His present opportunity was too good to pass up though. He was confident the memory of what was about to happen would keep him warm enough if he had to hoof it.
Synthetic sleeping bags are better than goose down when wet, and tend to be cheaper to boot. But they have a very real downside in combat. His people had learned quickly that nylon is a bad idea around hot explosions. A pile of horrific burns from melting jackets and gear prompted the arrival of new, fire retardant clothing. It was expensive, but the burn ward at Walter Reed wasn’t exactly cheap. Those materials were a long way off from becoming standardized in civilian camping equipment.
Mike held still a few moments, to ensure that the new smell of naphtha didn’t wake anyone or draw attention. It was an unmistakable odor, and he was counting on the fragrance of smoke to cover it. Starting at the bottom of the trackers bag, Mike carefully dribbled a trail up a little above the zipper. This would hopefully melt the opening together, preventing any escape. He stopped well before the shoulders, daring not go further. Not everyone will wake up to a foul stench, but some will. The nose is a powerful weapon in the arsenal, if often under-utilized. Besides, trapping him in the bag without killing him quickly would provide a much better object lesson, upping the horror, and hopefully helping to cover his escape. Next, he traced large loops over the width of the bag, just shy of saturation. The foot of the bag being thickest, he soaked a trail down to the ground, tracing it back towards his face. To ensure his fuse was continuous, egress was going to be difficult. He had half the bottle left, and he hoped it was enough to get him to cover. Planting his right thumb on the ground, and feeling the oily texture of the fluid, he wormed his legs backward. Then his left hand drew a line of lighter fluid back to just under his nose. Right thumb retracted and planted again. Pushing off his left hand, he inched his legs back again. Progress was slow, but necessary. He was only going to get one shot at this.