The Last Roman p-1

by Edward Crichton

  As we sat there, smiling at one another, hand in hand, Santino emerged from the barracks. He grabbed a cup of coffee and came to sit at our table.

  “So?” He pondered, as he glanced at our clasped hands. “You two married yet?”

  Just as he was about to take a seat next to me, I responded by kicking his chair out from beneath him. He fell hard on his ass with a loud thump and he glared up at me, rubbing his rear.

  I crammed an overloaded spoonful of fruit loops into my mouth, and looked down at him. “Nope.”

  ***

  Helena and I were lounging on our stomachs, lying very close, drenched in sweat, contemplating our next move. It was an hour after our reconciliation, and we had decided to take our relationship to the next level.

  The obvious thing to do was to get out the rifles and hit the range.

  Helena lay to my left, rifle at the ready, while I held a pair of high powered binoculars to my eyes, acting as her spotter. I was situated just behind her, with the left side of my body resting up against her right leg. Our close proximity allowed for the perspectives seen through our individual scopes to sync up as precisely as possible. I rested my binoculars on my gear bag to stabilize my view, while her rifle’s bipod kept her aim steady.

  “Windage… six clicks left,” I told her.

  We were shooting at extreme ranges, so Helena had traded in her standard rifle for a German version of the Barrett M107 Special Application Scoped Rifle, the G82. The weapon was a beast, sometimes referred to as an anti-material weapon, a name that carried serious weight behind it. The “Light Fifty” fired a. 50 caliber round, the newest versions of which allowed the Barrett to shoot them farther than ever before. Its unique design reduced the recoil of such a powerful weapon to a manageable level, and I was about to find out if my female friend could handle it.

  Our target was approximately two miles down range, basically the furthest distance a modern sniper could target. I had no idea how the Vatican had dug out so much territory to create the range, but the compass on my watch indicated we were facing northeast. Ancient Rome hadn’t extended that far in that direction, so I assumed the range was simply carved out of dirt. The flight time of a bullet at this range was so long the shooter could basically recite the alphabet before the round hit its target.

  To make the simulation even more difficult, the base’s ventilation system was set to imitate various weather patterns and wind speeds. I had no idea what the system was set at, relying on calculations I performed in my head based solely on small plants fluttering in the distance. To further enhance the simulation, we pumped up the heat on our end of the room to mimic the harsh environments of the Middle Eastern region we would most likely be operating in.

  It was currently hotter than Hell where we lay, and I wondered if Santino had messed with the temperature control just to screw with us.

  These variables were of utmost importance to a sniper. Even something as minute as a slight shift in air moisture could affect a bullet’s trajectory. Snipers have to take every detail into account and excessive care went into preparing for each pull of the trigger. These days, technology calculated most of these variables for us, but any sniper worth his weight in salt did it himself first.

  Helena adjusted her scope appropriately while sweat beaded its way down her brow, relying on her spotter, me, to relay the relevant information needed to make the perfect shot.

  Peering through my binoculars, I tapped a button on the bottom of the optical device and the range finder function displayed itself in the upper right hand corner of the view. With the Earth’s natural curve and gravity’s pull on the bullet, elevation adjustments were needed to ensure the most accurate shot. Years ago, spotters would have to determine ranges with the naked eye, but technology now calculated the distance for us. However, every sniper was still trained to gauge ranges with their eyes only as technology can’t always be relied on.

  I predicted the range was just shy of two miles.

  “Range… 1.89 miles. Elevation, seven clicks.”

  Making matters worse, Helena was performing what was known as a cold bore shot, meaning it was her first shot, in a cold barrel, with no set up shots to help guide her true shot. Firing from a cold barrel not only affected the trajectory of a fired round, but was also a psychological hurdle to overcome. This was the hardest shot for a sniper to make and consisted of the exact same shot used in the assassination missions snipers were used for. Not that I’d ever “assassinated” anyone before. At least that’s what the CIA kept telling me.

  The rest of the team had assembled in the cafeteria, paying close attention to the meticulous effort of the sniper pair, binoculars at the ready. Just another distraction to deal with.

  Snipers were the masters of self. Stamina. Endurance. Patience. Precision. These were the tools of a sniper. Tools we knew better than anyone else. Snipers took great pride in simply being better than you. It was a job most could never dream of doing. It separated the men from the rest of the mitochondrial ectoplasm. It made us lords of the hunt. We were expected to stalk, locate, and wait out a target for days and days before taking a cold bore shot in one hundred degree weather during a hurricane while you sat at home watching Animal Planet. It may very well be the toughest job in the world and it makes us immensely proud that you wouldn’t make it five minutes in our world.

  While we didn’t need to seek out and wait for the best shot on our current target, it still took us around twenty minutes to prepare for the shot. Another few minutes and four impatient operators later, we were ready to take the shot.

  “Target established, fire for effect. Fire. Fire. Fire.”

  My affirmation that our checklist was complete, Helena had the go ahead to shoot. I heard her take three slow and deep breaths, holding it on the third. A half second later, she squeezed the trigger, handling the weapon masterfully. I had wondered if the recoil of the shot would be too much for the thin woman to handle, but it seemed as though she possessed a hidden strength few could pull off.

  It took a while for the projectile to reach its mark, which it did successfully in an explosion of watermelon. Our audience cheered, thankful their sniper was more than fully competent. I even saw Bordeaux wipe a hand across his forehead in mock relief, before he turned back to the others as their conversations resumed.

  I was impressed as well.

  I’d taken that shot many times as a SEAL, but even for the best snipers, it was never guaranteed one hundred percent of the time.

  I rolled off Helena’s leg onto my back, stretching as many muscles as I could. Doing so relieved the stresses accumulated while lying completely immobile since we got on the mat.

  “A fine shot, Lieutenant, you definitely deserve to be here.”

  “Thanks. To be honest, I haven’t made very many cold bore shots with the fifty, but every successful one I perform makes me feel that much better.”

  She shifted onto her left side, to take the strain off of her right shoulder, which the rifle had rested against for the past hour. She used her left hand to kneed some feeling back into her shoulder. “And I have to admit, having you spot for me was refreshing.” She paused. “It also calmed my nerves. Doing it in a controlled environment is one thing, but in the field is totally different. If I have trouble here, what’s to say things won’t be worse when it matters?”

  I rubbed my eyes before I turned to look at her, for once not finding anger and annoyance there. Why was she doubting herself? She may the least experienced operators here, but her mere presence automatically made her one of the best.

  “Helena, you’re a fine sniper. You just proved that. Trust me, you can handle anything out there. And don’t worry. I’ll be by your side every single time.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Jacob. I’m not used to having someone to rely on, and frankly, it’s a bit overwhelming. It’s almost like being in a…”

  I frowned. I knew where she was going with that thought as she trailed off. It’s exactly li
ke being in a relationship or a family. Most sniper pairs were men, and therefore, brothers. Trust had to pass equally and unequivocally between them, because each relied on the other for everything. A business company may do team building exercises where individuals fall backwards off a ladder in the blind hopes of being caught by their peers. They did this to build trust and cooperation to create a more efficient work environment. The equivalent exercise for a sniper pair was to perform such an exercise while blindfolded in a monsoon, during an artillery barrage, with a nuke going off in the background and zombies closing in on all sides. You think Joe Blow from human resources is going to stick around and catch you during that?

  It wasn’t likely.

  Helena and I needed to trust each other. She needed to be my brother. My sister. I had to know she wasn’t going to buck under pressure and run away when I needed her support, and I couldn’t have her lying to me. I couldn’t trust her if she did. Santino had said she’d just ended a relationship so serious she threatened to kill the next guy who pissed her off, yet here she was talking like she doesn’t even know what the word relationship even means.

  “Helena, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  She hesitated, but nodded. “We need to be honest with each other, of course.”

  My thoughts exactly. “Your experience not having a spotter is understandable, but the way you speak of not having someone to rely on, well, sniper pairs utilizes the same kind of trust as relationships do. You should know that. Yet, you say you’ve never had anyone to rely on almost like you’ve never had anyone at all, but that’s not the story I got from the guys…”

  I let my last statement trail off, hoping the point would sink in before things got more awkward than they already were. Her silence only confirmed my suspicions that the story I got from Santino wasn’t the whole one. I decided to go easy on her.

  “Look. I’ll understand if you don’t tell me what’s going on now. We have time to get to know each other more before…”

  She rolled onto her back and took a deep breath. “No, you’re right. You’ve obviously heard the story from one of the other guys about why I reacted to your arrival, but what I told them wasn’t completely true. I was betrothed, yes, but it wasn’t out of love. It was an arranged marriage agreed upon before I was born forced upon me by my father, as my fiance’s father did upon him.”

  As far as I was concerned, arranged marriages were all but extinct, but I did know in some societies they were still common. I had no idea the Germans practiced it, but in the high class society I assumed Helena was from, it was probably more prevalent than most thought.

  She took another deep breath before continuing.

  “He was a nice,” she continued, a small smile tugging at her lips before it just as quickly vanished, “and as children we were rather close, but there was never anything between us deeper than friendship. I was trapped by an agreement, and Papa watched me like a hawk. We tried being intimate with each other but it didn’t work. It just didn’t feel right. It felt forced and unnatural. It’s why I eventually joined the military. I thought that I could just run away from my problems without ever having to face them.”

  She paused, but I didn’t interrupt.

  “He was killed in a car accident not too long ago. He was drinking, and wasn’t paying attention, and ran off the Autobahn colliding with a tree. He and his passenger were killed instantly.” She sniffled, before her voice rose angrily. “He was with another woman! A prostitute. Meanwhile, there I was, a perfect little angel, while he was off doing whatever the fuck he wanted while no one said a thing about it!”

  I noticed her eyes were moistening with tears of sadness and rage. I could feel the anger in her voice.

  “If you two were so distant, why are you so sad and angry, and why did you tell the guys that story about being cheated on, and nothing more?”

  She stayed silent awhile as she pondered her answer, and I thought she was about to clam up completely. I suddenly felt like an ass pressuring her to tell me something that I guess wasn’t exactly relevant to our professional relationship. It was something we would need to talk about sooner or later, but I shouldn’t have pushed her. Even so, I put a hand on her shoulder reassuringly.

  “Helena, you can trust me.”

  “God damn it, Hunter, I’ve known you all of an hour and it’s scary I’m telling you anything. Trust me. I’m not used to that.”

  I looked at her with a neutral expression. I didn’t want to offer her a reason to give up more than she was ready for, but I didn’t want her to stop either.

  She took another breath and continued, releasing years of pent up frustration. “He didn’t deserve to die, and we were still, if anything, friends. He may have been cheating on our relationship, but there wasn’t much of one anyway. I told the guys the story about being cheating on because I wanted to fit in. Everybody has a story like that, except me, and what were the chances that the next guy who walked in would look even remotely like him and immediately do something to make me feel like I did with him?”

  “Pretty good I guess.”

  “Yeah, pretty good.”

  “I am sorry for that.”

  She sighed. “It’s okay.”

  “So, do I really remind you that much of him?”

  She looked away before answering. “Yes and no. I was so focused on shooting that when I saw you, I didn’t even think. I just saw a tall man, and I immediately thought of him. I thought of what he represented. A lie. A life of loneliness and years of anger, frustration and pain. He represented the life I had but didn’t want. One I shouldn’t have had. A life wasted. It’s all I could think about while we were in the armory and your asinine comment did not help.”

  I felt a small smile tug at my lips. “Sorry.”

  “I said it was okay. I’m free now, but I suppose I still need some time to put my life in order. I guess I should be thankful that I actually like the military.”

  I nodded in agreement and waited for her to make eye contact again. “You know I’m not him, right? You don’t have to be reminded of him when you see me anymore.”

  “I know,” she said slowly. “Thank you.”

  I gave her a reassuring smile. “No problem. Besides, I’m sure I’m way better…”

  I was cut off as a shadow loomed over us. Together, we looked up to see Santino standing there. He hesitated before saying anything, probably deciding whether or not to tell a joke or not, remembering the last time he tried to say something funny. Deciding on tact over humor, he held out his hands to help us off the ground. Each of us gripping a hand, he hauled us to our feet.

  “Briefing,” was all he needed to say.

  ***

  The team assembled in the small briefing room for the second time since our inception. This time, Helena and I were the first to arrive and took the same seats we originally occupied. McDougal noticed our newfound friendship and looked back down at his notes. I saw him barely shake his head, obviously relieved that the kids were able to settle down and play nice. It wasn’t long before the rest of the team filed into the room and took their seats. Once everyone was comfortable, McDougal started his presentation.

  “I know we haven’t had much time together, none really, but you’re all highly trained operatives, elite, familiar to confusing situations, and it’s time to get to work. American intelligence has information confirming a direct threat against the Pope. Some kind of biological concoction cooked up and readied for use.”

  He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing.

  “This is the kind of threat we were designed to handle, mates. Most of our allies’ Special Forces are otherwise engaged in other theaters of this war, and we are being called on to take action. The first Praetorian team is already in the field, so our deployment time has been advanced. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  “Righto. Our target is a small fishing town near the Mediterranean coast in Syria. Population is arou
nd two thousand indigenous residents known to have harbor terrorist cells. Intel has informed us of a cave just outside of town where satellite imagery has shown mass transit and large amounts of cargo transported in and out. We suspect these cargo containers are what we’re looking for.”

  He turned on a projector and called up some photos of the town, the cave, the cargo containers, and a bearded man, wearing aviator sunglasses and a long, leather trench coat.

  “A joint CIA and SIS task force has been searching for known terrorist, Mushin Abdullah, for years but has been unsuccessful. He’s a bioengineer whose resume spans back to the eighties and his work with the Russians, and we know he was the man who created the weapon used against Israel and the Vatican.”

  Bordeaux fidgeted next to me in reaction to McDougal’s words, but he didn’t say anything.

  I wonder what that was about.

  “An analysis of the bodies found at both sites produced a list of necessary compounds he needs to make more of the agent. Intelligence compiled the list and cross referenced it with shipping manifests scattered throughout the Middle East. The man is not an idiot. His list went through a number of intermediaries, with numerous phony IDs and falsified bank accounts. What got him was a slip up in logistics, resulting in most of his purchases ending up at the same place at the same time. We can probably thank some low level enforcer for that mistake. Either way, we have an opportunity to take out the one man capable of making this rubbish, as well as one of the primary coordinators behind both attacks.”

  McDougal paused, looking at each of us in turn, letting the impact of his words sink in. Satisfied he had our attention, he continued.

  “Everything he needs has collected in those containers. We know they will be imported from a dockyard on the Mediterranean, and moved by vehicle to the cave. Our assumption is that he’s hiding out there. Our plan is to sneak into a few of these containers and infiltrate the facility right under his nose.”

  He clicked a stylus, connected to the computer, and the multitude of images shifted to satellite imagery of the port and immediate area.