We Won't Go Quietly_A Family's Struggle to Survive in a World Devolved_Book Three of the What's Left of My World Series

by C. A. Rudolph

  Sanchez grinned. “That’s my drag bag. I keep my babies in there.”

  “Well, which baby are we shooting today?” Lauren asked. She repeated the words back to herself silently, realizing their impropriety while her companion from the Corps chuckled.

  “Well, how about we start with an M40A6 chambered in 7.62 NATO?”

  “I don’t even know what that is, but the way you said it leads me to believe it isn’t ordinary.” Lauren paused to fiddle appealingly with her hair. “Is it a sniper rifle?”

  “It’s a precision bolt gun.”

  “Okay. How far can the precision bolt gun shoot?”

  “That all depends on the shooter,” Sanchez said, blowing smoke through his teeth. “Typical range…is around eight hundred to a thousand yards, give or take.”

  She nodded. “How far can you shoot it?”

  “You sure do have a lot of questions.”

  Lauren used a finger to lay her hair over her ear. “It’s my dad’s fault. He always told me never to be afraid to ask questions.”

  “Oohrah. He’s correct. You shouldn’t be afraid to do anything, though. Life’s too short.”

  “Are you going to answer my question?”

  “Reeelax, niñita. I was getting ready to. There’s a story behind it.”

  “Um, no soy una niñita.”

  Sanchez pointed a finger, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Soy impresionado! No sabia que hablabas español!”

  “I only speak a little,” said Lauren. “But I understand a lot more.”

  “Fair enough. And I apologize. I was just being casual—I didn’t know you’d be offended at being called—”

  “A little girl?” Lauren interrupted. “I’m not offended. I’m just not particularly fond of it.”

  “Roger that. I will refrain from uttering the words again in your presence, mi reina.”

  Lauren turned to see Sanchez’s smiling face, soon returning the gesture. “Now that, I can handle.”

  “Qué chula. Eres una jovencita hermosa—if only I was about ten years younger,” Sanchez said with kind eyes, slowing his walking pace to a stop. He pulled the rifle scabbard from his shoulders, placed it gently on the ground, unzipped it and glanced downrange, gesturing his forehead toward a barely visible target in the distance. He took a final drag from his cigarette, flicking it away. “Just so you know, I don’t usually talk about this stuff, but something tells me it might do you some good.”

  Sanchez removed his cover as the sun reflected off the Eagle, Globe and Anchor pinned to it, using his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow. “During my second OEF deployment, our battalion was stationed in Afghanistan, and my sniper platoon got assigned a gig outside Musah Quelah. It was a shithole—chock full of Taliban and Al-Qaeda haji tangos, and other key personnel, some of which we got tasked to wipe out. My spotter and I graduated PIG school together—that stands for Professionally Instructed Gunmen, if you’re wondering. We learned the ropes together; he had my six and I had his. We were tight—real tight. In the Corps, a sniper doesn’t work alone—it’s comprised of a two-man team. Spotter and shooter.”

  Sanchez pulled out the M40 rifle, placed it on a rug he had unrolled on the ground, and began meticulously wiping the weapon with a cleaning cloth. “By the way, I apologize for my language, chica. The quick-and-dirty answer to your question wouldn’t tell you the whole story.” He cycled the weapon’s action like clockwork without consideration, as if he had performed the movement a million times before. “I’m a detail-oriented person. I think it’s important to know particulars.”

  “You can stop apologizing,” said Lauren. “I can read between the lines—and I like stories. Please continue.”

  “Okay,” Sanchez replied. “So, this guy—my spotter and me—”

  “Wait. You said you two were close…”

  Sanchez stared at her, nodded, and held up a tight fist. “Hermanos.”

  “Okay. So, are you not saying his name because you can’t or because you won’t?”

  The Marine’s face contorted. He nodded slightly and turned away, placing his focus back on the weapon. “I haven’t uttered that name since the day he died.”

  “Oh God…I’m sorry, Sanchez.”

  “There’s no need to be sorry, chica. You didn’t know—there’s no way you could have. Losing him was like getting cut in half. Every shooter has a special relationship with his spotter, but the one he and I had was deeper than that—I was closer to him than anyone. He was blood to me. Before deployment, we were leathernecks—fellow Marines. Brothers. But during, he became my second set of senses—my eyes and my ears. He was my heartbeat. My soul. And I never went anywhere without him—even to the head to take a piss. We were a team.”

  “So you were more than just brothers,” Lauren added.

  “Way more than just brothers,” Sanchez said, and then paused. “Our platoon was ordered into FFPs along a hilltop not far from town. The distance to target from those hills was damn near a mile, so we had to ruck in with a Barrett and ammo—which weighed a ton, even without the three days of supplies we were hoofing. The hike was a bitch, but we eventually found a decent hide; then we unpacked and set up shop. After getting cleared hot, we ended up being the first team to get a confirmed kill that day. We got a few more before we lost daylight, and when it got dark enough, we made the switch to thermal.” He paused. “While I was changing scopes, I saw a flash from way down the mountain below us, and I knew right away what it was, because it could only be one thing. Incoming fire. An enemy sniper had us zeroed.”

  Lauren moved closer to get a better look at the rifle and studied Sanchez’s blanketed expression. “Light travels faster than sound.”

  Sanchez looked to her attentively and nodded. “Yes, it does. It’s a lot faster than sound—about a million times faster.” He paused. “I was prone…I couldn’t move out of the way fast enough even if I wanted to. My spotter was on his knees and could’ve easily dove for cover if he saw the shot—which I know he did. I remember looking up at him for a split second—thinking, this is it—one of us is going to die today. It would’ve been me. It should’ve been me.”

  He paused, lighting a cigarette. “Drill instructors in boot camp told us there’s a bullet out there with everyone’s name on it—one round destined to end the life of every person, and until that round is fired, the person for which the round is intended is invincible.” He paused. “That damn tonto draped himself over the Barrett in front of me and took the hit. The shell slipped through his rattle and lodged in his sternum. I was speechless—very angry, very sad, and strangely, thankful at the same time.” Sanchez paused to wipe his nose, smiling slightly. “He took the bullet with my name on it for me. The stupid son of a bitch saved my life.”

  Lauren took a seat on the grass as Sanchez hoisted the M40, checked the chamber once again, and handed it off to her.

  “So, getting to your question. My first thought was to dry my tears, move the body, and find the pendejo and send him screaming straight to hell. But he already had us zeroed, and that meant he was waiting for a follow-up shot. He’d kill anything I put in his field of view. So I backed away and went for my rifle, which looked a lot like the one you’re holding now. I took a few minutes to gather myself and find a spot—I even had to use his body for cover. It took me a while to remember where I saw the flash, but I found it. I guesstimated range, wind speed, and elevation, and took the shot by feel.”

  “So you got him?” asked Lauren. “You killed the sniper who shot your friend?”

  “Forehead kill shot. Splattered his brains all over his spotter. My follow-up shot pegged his spotter in the face. Both kills were later confirmed at eleven hundred eighty-eight yards. I finished my tour with eighty-five confirmed kills, most of which were distanced.”

  “That’s impressive,” said Lauren, taking a moment to contemplate. “You got skills, Sanchez, I can see why you’re here. But I am sorry about your friend.”

  “Me too, chi
ca. Me too. There will never be another like him. And I’m here for the same reasons you are.”

  Lauren gave Sanchez a quizzical look. “Same reasons? But you’re a soldier.”

  Sanchez smiled and pretended to punch her in the arm. “Don’t let this go to your head, but I’ve heard you aren’t exactly a slouch in that department.”

  “Interesting,” Lauren said, a curious expression befalling her. “What else have you heard?”

  Sanchez laughed. “Hey, now—I’m no pushover, chica. If the goal is extracting information from me, you’re going to have to twist my arm a little.”

  Sanchez gave Lauren a cursory yet thorough lesson on the inner and outer workings of the M40A6, as well as the Leupold MK6 scope fastened to it. “So you think you’re ready to tame this beast?”

  Lauren tilted her head to the side, pursing her lips. “Sure. But don’t you want to show me exactly how to shoot it?”

  The Marine shook his head. “No. I’ll watch what you do and offer my critiques after. Have you shot a rifle before?”

  “Yes. I’ve never shot one quite like this, but I think I can figure it out.”

  Sanchez handed Lauren the weapon, along with a magazine of ball ammunition. He lifted a rangefinding monocular to his eye, pointing it downrange.

  Lauren unfolded the rifle’s bipod and set it down on the ground under her mentor’s watchful eye. She then moved into a prone position and placed her shoulder near the buttstock, reaching forward to snap the magazine into place.

  “That’s good,” commended Sanchez. “Normally, you’d bring the rifle to your shoulder, not your shoulder to the rifle. But if she’s already in a good spot, it’s a good call not to move her. Whatever keeps her happy. Also, never forget…you must see your target, but your target must not see you.”

  Lauren put her eye to the scope and reached forward with her right hand to work the bolt and place a round into the chamber.

  “Is the safety off?”

  Lauren pulled away from the optic to begin her search.

  “I’m just kidding. There’s no safety on that rifle,” Sanchez jeered. “I removed it when I built it. There was a recall on them, and I didn’t feel like sending it in and taking the chance of never seeing it again.”

  “Good story,” Lauren said, smirking. She returned to her shooting position and lined the scope’s reticle up with the target.

  “Lo siento mucho. I’ll be serious now. Is the shooter ready?”

  Lauren exhaled and settled in. “Yes. I mean affirmative.”

  “Good. Next time, though, you’re going to just tell me without me asking. There’s a dialogue between spotter and shooter and lots of ways to go about it. Marine Corps scout snipers keep it simple, effective and efficient, and use the same dialogue every single time. But for this exercise, we are going to go with simple, so just follow my lead.”

  “Okay.”

  “After you tell me you’re ready, it’s game time. Either shooter or spotter can call a target warning. Whoever calls it does so by saying the word target. If the spotter identifies, the shooter awaits the target location. This can get rather complicated, so I’ll go easy on you for your first time.”

  Lauren huffed. “Thanks, Sanchez. Just let me know when I can shoot, please.”

  “We’ll get to it. This stuff is important, so pay attention. You’ll need it if you ever end up in a two-person shooting scenario like this one. Lack of proper communication causes a lot of missed shots.”

  “Sorry. I’m just anxious,” said Lauren.

  “It’s okay. I like to shoot guns, too,” Sanchez replied with a grin. “Okay, shooter. Target, eleven o’clock. Lone infantryman, big red-painted head.”

  “I see him,” said Lauren.

  “Say again? Did you mean to say ‘target identified’?”

  “Yes. Sorry. Target identified.”

  “Outstanding. Clear, concise language, chica. That tells me you see what I see,” Sanchez said. “Now, we can move on to range estimation. Again, we’re gonna go with simple because simple works most of the time. Range, four-five-six point two meters. Four hundred ninety-nine yards. This is the point where you would make focal and range adjustment clicks to the scope. Since it’s already dialed in for five hundred, just acknowledge the range call out by saying ‘roger’ or ‘range dialed in’ or something along those lines.”

  “Roger. Range dialed in.”

  “Okay, wind right to left, six miles per hour. You acknowledge that by repeating my call back to me.”

  “Roger. Wind right to left, six miles per hour.”

  “Aye. Now, sometimes the shooter waits for a fire command, but I don’t like that shit,” Sanchez elaborated. “It’s like having a safety on that weapon—it’s one extra step, and once you’re dialed in for mils, range, wind direction and speed, there’s nothing left but pulling the trigger.”

  “Okay. Can I pull it, then?”

  “Sure…what are you waiting for?”

  Lauren took a deep breath and exhaled as much of the air in her lungs as she could, bringing her body’s natural vibrations to a near-standstill. She pressed her finger against the trigger guard to stretch it before placing it on the trigger, and then squeezed it, taking the shot. The rifle exclaimed its report, and just after, the sound of the slug striking the steel target five hundred yards away met her ears. Lauren moved away from her position, turning her head to her spotter to see his response.

  “Excellent shot, but your follow-through needs work.”

  “Huh?”

  “Release the trigger, but stay with the rifle and reload immediately,” Sanchez instructed. “Always prepare for follow-up shots. If you miss, you’re going to want to get another shot in sooner rather than later.”

  Lauren nodded and got back into position while reaching forward to cycle the bolt. “Shooter ready.”

  “Bueno. Target. Ten o’clock. Lone infantryman. Large red head, like previous.”

  Lauren adjusted her aim slightly to the left. “Target identified.”

  “Range, four-six-four meters. Five hundred eight yards.”

  Lauren reached for the optic’s controls with her non-shooting hand, recalling the need to make adjustments only if necessary. “Roger. Four-six-four meters. Five-zero-eight yards.”

  “Wind same as previous—right to left at six.”

  “Roger. Wind right to left at six.”

  Lauren squeezed the trigger and the rifle discharged. A loud ding reported back, signifying another solid hit as she quickly cycled the bolt, reloading the M40.

  “Target is down. Good hit—the target is definitely down.” Pulling away from the monocular, Sanchez peered over. “You sure you haven’t done this before?”

  “I’ve shot rifles before, but I’ve never done the sniper thing.”

  “Well, you coulda fooled me. Can you see the pink, orange, and purple targets farther out?”

  “I can. They’re a lot harder to see, though. Why?”

  “I wasn’t going to do this until later this week, but since you’ve got yourself a decent skill set already, I want to see about going a bit longer out today.”

  Sanchez instructed Lauren on how to properly unload and store the M40A6 while he began assembling another rifle, which incorporated a more distinctive design.

  Lauren studied the new weapon with a skeptical eye. “What exactly is that beast?”

  “This beast, my young shooter friend, is perfection. Or at least as close to perfection as a rifle can hope to achieve. It’s the civilian version of the Mk 21. It’s a Remington MSR—which stands for modular sniper rifle. This one is chambered in .338 Lapua Magnum. I can easily hit targets with this bad mamma jamma out to eighteen hundred yards or thereabouts.”

  Lauren sized the rifle up with wide eyes. “It looks menacing.”

  Sanchez nodded. “That’s because it is menacing. It’s the queen mother of reach out and touch someone,” he said, caressing the weapon. “As you’ve probably heard said before, there a
re many like it, but this one is mine. Kicks like a fucking mule, too.”

  “And you’re going to insist I shoot it.”

  “Do I need to insist?”

  Lauren grinned and slipped a hair tie from her wrist, pulling her hair back and into a ponytail. She situated herself and held out a hand, reaching for the weapon. “No. Although, you might have to twist my arm a little.”

  Chapter 21

  Trout Run Valley

  Wednesday, December 1st. Present day

  After saying farewell to her mother, kissing John goodbye, and following an inordinately long last-minute chat with her sister, Lauren loaded her gear into the bed of Norman’s Dodge crew-cab pickup. She lifted herself up and into the bed and then spent several minutes arranging her belongings.

  Lauren hoisted a plate carrier over her head, made some adjustments, and secured it to her upper body. It was the same one she had told Grace to wear into battle last month, and today, during their chat, Grace had insisted Lauren take it along on the trip.

  Lauren unzipped a duffle bag and pulled out three thirty-round magazines, then slid them into the pouches attached to the carrier’s MOLLE webbing. She then placed two extra fifteen-round magazines for her sidearm into a drop-leg rig on her right thigh. After making sure her Glock was holstered safely on the opposite thigh, she reached for her M4 and took a seat on the wheel well opposite of where Bo Brady and his son, Austin, were sitting.

  Lauren wasn’t too familiar with either of the men across from her, but while Bo Brady smiled once at her and moved on, paying her no further mind, his son would not stop staring at her. He did so nervously and rather thoughtlessly, as if he had no idea the act was oftentimes considered rude.

  Lauren couldn’t help but wonder if this was the first time he’d ever set eyes on a girl before. Then she considered there might be more to it than that—since she was wearing tactical clothing, holding several guns and had just donned body armor.

  She turned her head away dismissively, trying not to think anything else of it, and peered to the front of the truck where Fred had parked his Humvee. Norman was busy working on attaching the Russells’ trailer to Fred’s rig, while Fred was loading and strapping down several jerry cans full of gasoline to the trailer. Both men were wearing combat gear. Fred’s looked more modern, and authentic, while Norman’s looked more like tactical equipment on loan. It was functional, but mismatched. Still, he wore it proudly in spite of the downhearted mood Lee’s illness had put him in.