Smith said, “Shoot when you are ready, I’ll be watching.”
Galloway took a quick look to make sure that his men were facing out and not focusing on what the snipers were doing. He recognized the sniper’s problem. The scout snipers he had met were always complaining that they did not get enough range time.
The long shooters could not just go to any rifle range. They had to have one thousand yards to train properly, and their needs often got put aside for more conventional training.
Most snipers claimed that their officers had no idea of their capabilities or how to employ them. Doane would do his best. His mil dot reticle would give him the range, but he would have to estimate his hold based on his rifle’s performance at the shorter distances.
Some of Doane’s trouble would be that ammunition lots varied ballistically, which could make results different—even if he could manage the mirage, the heat, and the god-awful small target.
The greater difficulty appeared to be that he had only recently been issued his M40A1 sniper rifle. There had been frantic replacing during the too short run-up for deployment. Beat-up weapons were turned in for rebuild or for less worn rifles. The odds were that snipers, like some of the grunt riflemen, had not had range time to become familiar with their new weaponry.
An infantry rifleman might get by shooting the shorter distances because one 5.56 M16 was a lot like another, but a sniper trying to make head shots at extreme ranges had to know his 7.62 rifle and where it shot.
Doane’s rifle cracked, and there was stillness between sniper and observer. Doane asked, “Could you see it?”
“Not sure. If what I saw was your shot, you are way low. I’d say a hundred yards short.”
“Hell, I’ve got all the elevation cranked in already. Watch close. I’ll hold high for this one. What’s the Iraqi doing?”
“Still looking, I think. If that bullet ricocheted, it must not have come near him.”
Doane became still behind his rifle, but the wait was short.”
Crack!
“How was that one?”
“Geez, still low, but better. I’d guess twenty-five yards short, but I didn’t pick up the bullet in flight, so I’m going by what I think is dirt kicking up.”
Doane again got settled, but Galloway was nervous. Firing repeatedly from the same position under these circumstances invited trouble.
As if thinking the same, the spotter said, “You’re OK. The guy is still looking the other way.”
Doane took his time, and Shooter judged he was holding one of the vertical mil dots on his target. The rifle barked, and Doane asked, “See that one?”
“Nope, maybe it got close, but . . . “
Dirt flew, and Doane jerked as if scalded. Smith asked, “What?” Then both snipers slid backward into the protection of the sand ridge.
“Doane was scratching at his face and repeating, “Damn, damn,” over and over.
Doane said, “I’m hit. In the face, damn it.” He clawed at his features, and Galloway could see blood welling from what appeared to be tiny punctures.
Smith’s arms flapped, but he did not seem able to get moving, so Shooter did. He twisted Doane’s hands from his scratching, and made his explanation brief.
“Leave your eyes alone, Corporal. Rubbing will ruin them.” Doane swore some more.
Galloway asked, “Can you see?” He was studying Doane’s wounds closely.
The Corporal tried, and Shooter struggled with him to keep his hands away.
“Can you see?”
“Yeah, at least out of my left eye. God, they feel full of gravel.”
“Alright, don’t touch them. I’ll wash your eyes out.” Shooter freed Doane’s canteen, loosened the cap, and tipped Doane’s head back.
The Corporal’s face had been peppered. Gravel, driven by a bullet’s strike Galloway thought. He poured water liberally, and Doane blinked his eyes hoping to wash the grit away.
Shooter emptied the canteen and asked, “Do any good?”
“A little, I can see, but my eyes feel like half the desert was in there scraping around.”
Galloway said, “You took a load of dirt all right, but if you get your eyes looked at right away—and don’t scratch at them—they’ll clear up.” Shooter was not that sure, but it was what Doane needed to hear.
Smith said, “That sniper damned near got us. I didn’t even see him move.”
Galloway guessed that Smith was not the sharpest mind in the Corps, but he had other things to think about for the moment.
Galloway said, “You’re through for now, Corporal.” He called to one of his men. “Monty, get over here and help the Corporal.” The Marine scrabbled closer.
Shooter said, “You get Corporal Doane back to an aid station. You stay with him until he gets to the Corpsmen. That clear?” It was.
Galloway went on. “After that you report in. Tell the Gunny what happened, and that we are carrying on with the mission.”
Smith, the observer, said, “What? Wait a minute, we can’t . . .”
Shooter said, “Yes we can.” He kept after Monty.
“Keep the Corporal from rubbing his eyes, and stay low. Anything else you need to know?”
“Nope.”
“Then get going. Good luck, Corporal. Smith will bring your rifle and your gear in when he comes.” Monty started away with Doane close behind.
The observer didn’t like it. “We’re a team, Galloway. Where Doane goes, I go.”
“Not this time. You know how to observe, and we’re not done here. I’m the ranking man, and my order is that we get back to it.”
Galloway grabbed the sniper rifle and pulled Doane’s pack from where the Corporal had been using it as a support.
Doane had opened a box of Lake City match grade 7.62mm cartridges. The brown box was marked M852 followed by Not For Combat Use. Doane had fired three rounds, and they had come from this box. Who cared what the box said?
Galloway ejected the empty case and checked the magazine. Doane’s rifle was empty. Seventeen left. Shooter doubted they would need that many.
Shooter reloaded sniper style. The Remington’s magazine held more, but scout snipers were trained not to shoot many shots from a single position, so they often loaded only three rounds.
With his bolt open, Galloway slid a cartridge most of the way into the chamber. He depressed the magazine follower and pressed in two additional cartridges. The M40 action was slick and smooth. Shooter closed the bolt, chambering the single cartridge and was reloaded.
He told Smith, “Reach up and slide your spotting scope down here. We won’t be looking from this spot anymore.”
Then he called his men in and gathered them close.
“Listen up. Corporal Doane is gone, but we haven’t gotten the sniper, so I am going to have a crack at him.
“Golder, you are now in charge of security for Smith and me. You saw how I did it. You do it the same.” Golder and his single man departed.
Shooter turned to Smith. “Can you shoot this rifle?”
“I’ve only been at this for three weeks, Galloway. They just picked me out, and I haven’t had a chance to shoot an M40.”
Galloway was only a little surprised. “Haven’t you been to sniper school?”
“I just got assigned. I haven’t been to any schools. Doane taught me what I know, and I think I’m a pretty good spotter.”
Shooter wanted to snarl, but he stayed military. “Glad you are good. Tell me what that Iraqi was doing the last you saw of him.”
Smith appeared puzzled. “Glassing, like he had been all along.”
“What does that tell you, Smith?”
“That it wasn’t him that fired the shot.”
“And he never will. Can’t you figure that a guy with his head sticking up like that, who didn’t move for three shots, wasn’t alive?”
Smith still did not look clear on it, so Shooter explained. “The odds are that what you saw is a dummy, a decoy set up to sucker us into shooting. Wh
ich it did.
“What we’ve got to figure is where the shooter is—or at least where he was. He probably moved after his shot.”
“Well, I didn’t see him.” Smith sounded defensive.
Galloway thought about it for a long moment. “Doane got hit mostly along the right side of his face. His left eye didn’t get as much, so probably the Iraqi sniper is out front and over to our right, maybe at one or even two o’clock.”
Smith nodded that he could see that, and Shooter took a moment to check on how Golder was doing. The men were back in their holes and looking out. That was good, but they would all be moving in another few minutes.
Shooter asked, “Do you know how Doane was holding for that last shot?”
“Way high is all I know.”
Galloway already knew that much.
“Alright, what I’m going to do is shoot this rifle at a range as close as we can figure to match where that dummy head is showing. I’ll do it here in this swale we’re hiding in. The idea will be to get a zero at the dummy’s range so that I can hit a real sniper after we find him. That Iraqi will hear us, just like we hear him, but he won’t see anything. Once I’m zeroed, we’ll move.”
Shooter looked down the almost endless hollow the team occupied. “Smith, get your scope on something that you feel is the right distance. Pick something I will be able to see through the 10X, then direct me to it.”
The new sniping team set up, and Smith was reasonably quick at locating an acceptable target.
He talked Shooter onto the target with decent directions, and Galloway supposed that Smith was not as thick headed as he had appeared.
Shooter said, “I think I’ve got it. There’s a bunch of gravel sticking up just to the left and a darker patch of something maybe three feet to the right.”
“That’s it, Galloway. My estimate is nine hundred yards, on the button.” Smith sounded confident.
Shooter Galloway had never fired an M40A1, but he wasn’t telling Smith that. If he could get zeroed, he had a chance.
He tried to remember Doane’s conversation. Smith had reported the first shot about a hundred yards short, and Doane had already been cranked all the way up.
For his last shot, Doane had certainly used a mil dot on the target instead of the crosshair, but which dot and . . . Shooter did not know enough.
Galloway got behind the rifle, bedding it securely on top of Doane’s pack. Smith assumed his position to Galloway’s left almost at his shoulder. The sniper team worked at getting spotting scope and rifle scope settled and aligned on the distant target.
When they were ready, Shooter placed the mil dot below the crosshairs on his target. He squeezed carefully. The trigger broke cleanly, the way Remingtons usually did, and the rifle fired. Galloway absorbed the recoil and worked the bolt without moving his cheek from its weld against the stock comb.
Smith said, “All right! You are about four feet low and a finger to the left.”
Galloway smiled to himself. Doane must have been old school to be teaching his spotter estimating by fingers. Shooter held a little higher and to the right, and his second shot felt good, but who could tell down range?
Smith again sounded almost exultant. “Nice!
“Range is good, but you are a foot or two to the right.”
Shooter adjusted his aiming point. When he fired, Smith thought the round went in.
Smith said, “Perfect.”
Galloway reloaded, then relaxed for a moment getting his mind set before he said, “Then we’re ready to go.”
Shooter assembled his team and explained his plan.
“I’ll lead off to the right. Smith and I will find good observation points, and we will try to locate that sniper. We’ll keep moving until we succeed.
“There’ll be no need to dig in because we won’t be staying. If I shoot, we’ll move out all the sooner.”
Galloway grinned at his seriously reduced fire team. “Golder, your job is the same. Keep strangers off our backs. Smith and I will be busy with the sniping. You make sure of the security.”
To Smith, Shooter said, “If you see something I don’t, speak up sooner than later. Look close because this guy is smart and obviously alert.”
Galloway hesitated, then added, “He’s also a confident bastard. He didn’t call in any heavy stuff. That means he wants to do it himself.”
Shooter mused, “I wonder if he is dug in real comfortable and might not be willing to move around? We could figure that he’s been out here for a long time. He might have a dozen great hides, or he might be settled into one spot that he thinks is undetectable.”
Smith said, “He ought to move.”
“Yeah, he should, but look for good camouflage. I can’t believe he will have his head sticking up or something glinting in the sun. Ignore the obvious spots. This guy won’t be there.”
Smith said, “We really ought to be calling in, you know.”
Galloway said, “Monty will tell them what we are doing. If they want us, they can call.”
Shooter looked closely at his observer. Then he said, “I’ll tell you what, Smith. If we are getting close, I doubt I’d be able to hear that radio, anyway.”
The spotter looked a little shocked, but then he grinned and nodded. “I know what you mean, Galloway, excitement of the moment and all.”
Gabriel Galloway could barely accept what was happening. He had been gratified to have his team picked to go out. Now, here he was carrying a sniper rifle with a spotter, going after an enemy that so far had proven impossible to detect—a deadly accurate shooter that had wounded once and would likely kill if he were not stopped.
How had he dared? Galloway could not answer, but as long as he could remember, he had been taught to seize initiative, lead by example, to take charge, and all the other accepted clichés of combat soldiering.
And, he was loving it. He hoped that he did not get anyone shot, including himself, but he was going after the Iraqi sniper with all of the skills he had developed hunting those mountain crows and on the ranges at Carson Long, Paris Island, and Camp Lejeune. He had read everything he could find, and he would do his best to apply what he had learned.
Shooter hoped to all of the gods that his zero was as good as it had seemed. If they found the sniper, the range could be very different or. . . Maybe he would get a shot. Galloway stopped worrying and began concentrating.
Smith said, “We aren’t going to find him.”
Shooter shared the doubts, but they had heard the sniper (or someone) fire four more times. The Iraqi sniper was being very cautious. He certainly knew there had been Marines out looking for him, and he probably believed he had scored a hit, on one of them. Galloway hoped the Iraqi believed he had driven the enemy away.
Galloway said, “It’s only been two hours. We’ll keep looking.”
“Gunny will kill us.”
“He won’t if we get the guy, and he can call us on the radio any time he chooses.”
They had been moving and looking without rest and Shooter could feel his eyes tiring and his concentration faltering. He had put in a lot more time behind the spotting scope than Smith because he wanted to, but they had found nothing.
Smith had begun calling Galloway Shooter because his fire team did. Galloway kept to the Smith title. His leadership position based on being a Lance Corporal was a bit precarious. He did not know Smith, and he did not intend to be weakened by over-familiarity.
Behind the spotting scope, Smith said, “Take a look at this, Shooter. It’s probably nothing, but it looks odd to me.”
They swapped places, and Galloway worked at following Smith’s directions.
“What I’m seeing is a sort of dark spot in the face of that ridge the dummy head was on. See it over here almost dead ahead? The sun has shifted, and it might only be a shadow, but . . .?”
Galloway interrupted. “Or it might be an entrance to a hole, or a tunnel clean through the ridge.” Shooter’s voice sounded excited.
Shooter was quick with his retort. “Suppose it was a hole through the ridge, and what we are seeing is a firing opening on this side?”
“I never heard of anything like that.”
“There’s one on the KD range at Quantico. I think the sniper school put it in.”
Galloway and Smith leaned back to think about it. The Marines wore their boonie caps, their helmets side-lined while they were spotting.
Shooter Galloway Page 15