“Yeah, at least one. He hasn’t hit anybody, but he comes close, and we can’t find him.”
The night vision soldier said, “I see his muzzle flash sometimes, but we can’t get him under a gun because we can’t see him through our scopes.
“He fires a shot or two from a building way down the street, then moves to another window. We ought to have a tank level the building and be done with it.”
Galloway turned to the Lieutenant. The officer shrugged and said, “I’ve requested armor or a big gun, but nobody sends anything.
“We shake ‘em up, and sometimes get hits by having a gunner wearing our night vision goggles walk machine gun fire into them. Mostly, though, they scatter before we can get effective fire organized.”
The Lieutenant leaned against a safer wall and explained. “Right now, I’ve got a four-man team trying to work down a parallel street to get a different angle on these guys, but we don’t really want to get into an all-out urban night fight with that many and, believe me, Captain, there’s a lot more that aren’t out in the street shooting.
A light sparked far more distant, and a bullet smacked near a soldier’s head.
The Lieutenant cursed, “God damned sniper!
“Sometimes, the wild shooters out in front get excited and the whole crowd boils outside and blazes away at us. As soon as we return fire, usually with our machine guns, they fade away, and the shooting is often done for the night. When daylight comes, there isn’t a trace of anything except a lot of empty cartridge cases laying around.”
The Lieutenant pondered. “I would like to have an 81mm mortar section laid in and ready. When these maniacs were at their most excitable we could drop four rounds at once on them and maybe a second volley before they got moving. I doubt they would be as interested from then on, but I can’t get any cooperation on the idea.”
Galloway had been looking through his scope, and another bullet entered a window further along. Men swore and crouched lower.
Shooter said, “I think I’ve got him—unless he moves.” Galloway grabbed a wooden chair and knelt behind it. Resting his rifle’s forearm on his hand across the chair back, he aimed carefully and waited.
Shooter kept waiting, breathing slow and shallow, holding his illuminated crosshair on about the right spot. A night vision man said, “I’m holding where I think he is, Captain. If you shoot, I might be able to see something.”
The distant pinprick of light flared in Shooter’s scope as a bullet struck nearby. Galloway adjusted a hair below and a touch to the left of the momentary flash, and squeezed quickly.
The Rock rifle punched his shoulder, but even within the room the sound was little more than a solid thump. The suppressor not only absorbed sound, it disguised muzzle flash. Unless you were looking almost straight down the muzzle the source of a shot was hard to discover. Shooter worked his bolt and waited.
An MP rifleman said, “Man, I’ve got to get one of those!”
Galloway was still watching when a sudden blast of AK 47 fire exploded from the suspected sniper’s window. Galloway shot straight into the middle of it, and the firing ended instantly.
The night vision man said, “I think you got their sniper with your first shot, Captain, and I figure you hit that pissed off guy using the AK.”
A few hoots of approval came from nearby soldiers, and Galloway thought the report was probably right.
Shooter had already moved. Because the Rock rifle was so hard to locate, he had chanced the second shot from the same location, but he would not make a habit of it. Now, it was time to go to work.
The enemy shooters milling about in the open would be easy targets, but a few hits among them would drive the crowd into cover. Galloway chose to begin eliminating some of those hidden along the street. He moved after each shot and realized with a grim satisfaction that there was no reason for him to miss.
Until his bullets struck, his targets believed themselves safe, and there seemed to be no communication with the mob blazing away at the police station to inform anyone that they were taking steady casualties.
When Galloway shot, a man went down. The night vision man could see most of it, and his satisfaction was clearly expressed. His announcements of, “Got him, perfect shot, dead-on, and he’s down,” were echoed by other riflemen’s pleased hoots and grunts.
Galloway began on one side and just kept going, and with the night glasses, the MP observer had no trouble following the Captain’s shots. There were pauses while Galloway reloaded the Rock’s magazine, but there were no delays, and no letup.
Captain Galloway killed eight on one side before he switched to begin across the road. He was equally effective over there, and the night vision man’s reports continued. “That makes twelve down, Captain—woops, make that thirteen. My god, but we’re thinning them out!”
It was like the proverbial shooting of fish in a barrel. Aim, squeeze, and an insurgent died. It was easier than known-distance range firing. The Rock rifle was burning to the touch, and Galloway kept his hands off the metal.
Galloway shifted to the armed mob dancing and shooting in the street. Why did they jump up and down like that? Why did they shoot from the hip? Didn’t anyone use his sights? Even from the shoulder they all seemed to be looking over their rifles just spraying bullets at window openings.
Shooter began at the back—as if he were part of a western novel. This close in, he went for headshots, and men dropped soundlessly while the dead men’s companions kept blasting away. He shot four and reloaded to nail three more before the survivors woke to what was happening and frantically dove for cover.
It was not over, and Shooter Galloway’s crosshair sought out enemy who thought they were safely hidden. Occasionally, he had to settle for wounding because he could not see enough target, but he kept shooting until the last of the enemy slipped away.
The Lieutenant said, “My God, what a massacre.” Galloway saw that the officer had commandeered the second pair of night goggles.
Galloway leaned against a wall forcing his emotions to remain stable, resisting a rush of after-action adrenalin that would start his nerves and muscles jumping. He judged it a lot like a hard fought rifle match, only partly over with awareness of the need to continue punching perfect shots into the tiny bulls’ eyes.
A noncom said, “Now’s the time to keep watching them, Captain.”
Galloway said, “What?”
The Sergeant said, “They’ve always carried off their casualties—not that they’ve had many, but they might plan on doing that again tonight.”
The original night vision man said, “You relax, Captain, I’ll keep watch.”
Shooter appreciated the break. He felt along his bandolier. He had shot a lot, and his match ammunition was stored at his headquarters.
Galloway said, “How about someone delinking about forty rounds of that .308 machine gun ammunition for me. I don’t want to run out.”
The Lieutenant was still marveling.
“I don’t think they know what has hit them. They couldn’t have heard the rifle, and they probably never saw a light signature.” Then he asked the obvious question.
“Why don’t we have rifles like that?
Shooter did not try to answer. How could you explain, much less justify, not equipping combat infantry with the best obtainable? But American armies were notorious for fighting each war with an earlier conflict’s weaponry.
He asked, “Anybody got a pull-through bore cleaner?” One was provided along with a handful of cleaning patches.
Shooter said, “I’m glad to see that our commendable supply system is providing cleaning materials. The question then is: Are you using them?”
“We usually wait until daylight, Captain.”
Galloway said, “It’s better to sleep with a clean rifle. It’s comforting to know that your piece is ready if something surprises you.”
Shooter had finished his cleaning and was beginning to doze when night vision said, “They’re c
oming out, Captain.” Galloway looked, and so they were.
This kind of shooting would be better with a semi-automatic rifle. This was the spot for a squad designated marksman or a squad sharpshooter who could hit fast and accurately at middle distances. This was not sniping, and a perfect rifle would be a 20-inch-barreled M16 with about a 1 1/2X to 6X variable power scope with an illuminated reticle. If he had that rifle, Shooter believed he could rain havoc on the body-gatherers. He agreed with the questioner, “Why didn’t they have those rifles?”
Ignorance was part of the answer. Money was a bit more, and intrusion of berm-shooting, competitive marksmen into combat riflery was another. To hell with all of it, Galloway got ready to shoot.
A group of four was gathered around a fallen companion. Why him, Shooter wondered? Because he was important? Or merely the closest?
If recovered, every body could tell them something. There could be documents, of course, but equally important they could discover who these people were—locals, imports, what country, which branch of Islam? Everything helped. Killing some more of them would certainly contribute.
Shooter took the foursome from standing. He chose center of mass body shots because he would have to be fast. He selected the Iraqi nearest cover and shot him in the chest. The Rock rifle stayed at his shoulder. He snicked the bolt back and forward without moving his head, and punched a bullet into the next man, and managed a body hit on the third before the last insurgent ran. He was leaping an obstacle when Galloway’s fourth bullet blasted him through the hips, and he sprawled still yards from concealment.
The Rock Remington held five rounds, and this time, Galloway waited with his rifle still shouldered. He had guessed right; a figure dashed from cover and reached for his hip-shot companion. Shooter killed him on the spot. Then, Galloway stepped aside and reloaded.
An awed voice said, “I’ve never seen anything like that!”
As he had before, the Lieutenant exclaimed, “My god!” His voice also held amazement.
Shooter Galloway was more than a little amazed himself. It had been a shooting gallery. It had been beyond any rifleman’s expectation. It was dream-like shooting. Galloway doubted that he had missed a shot.
Still, it was not over. For the remainder of the night, Galloway and a night vision observer waited. At times, Galloway dozed, and the night vision men switched around. Three times enemy teams tried to recover bodies sprawled in the open. Shooter killed or wounded most of them and none of the dead left the field.
Many of the dead that had tried hiding behind obstacles were dragged away but not without casualties. There were usually other bodies after each salvage attempt, and Galloway expected even the most fanatical would soon give it up, but they kept running out to salvage or to shoot. Therefore, they kept dying.
Shortly before dawn, an old truck was driven into the road, and two men waving white flags attempted to recover the dead. Galloway warned them off with two very close shots. The flag wavers persisted, and Galloway shot them both.
American soldiers growled their approval, but that was the end of it. When full light arrived, there was no living loitering nearby. Guarded by many rifles, American soldiers gathered all of the dead. They hoisted them into the Iraqi truck and drove them into the police station’s walled compound.
American reinforcements arrived and higher brass appeared to conduct debriefings, to look over the battlefield, to congratulate, to compliment, and to promise decorations.
Sometime during the fight, Galloway had been slashed by something sharp. The wound or injury was along a deltoid muscle and had gone unnoticed. It had bled, and Shooter was treated by a medic.
The wounded hero would receive a Purple Heart award and recognition in his hometown paper. In earlier wars, such minor wounds did not rate decorations. Galloway was embarrassed, but it would be so—Period, and he did not bother to complain.
The thought passed through Galloway’s mind that every time he got in a gunfight he got shot. Maybe, he should change his line of work.
Captain Galloway was hours getting away. His schedule was ruined, and an imbedded reporter had wasted a quarter-hour interviewing him because a Lieutenant Colonel had ordered Galloway to sit for it.
The Rock rifle was examined and exclaimed over by everyone allowed to touch it. Shooter wondered at the attention. Did no one read the literature? Everything Lieutenant Colonel Rock did was known, but both the Marine Corps and the Army had ignored most of it.
And, they would do so again and yet again. Shooter did not for an instant believe that the stone-heads at home would change direction and endorse something they had not developed or recommended—no matter how superior it proved to be in combat.
To Galloway, the dead sniper and the body of the AK47 shooter recovered from the distant building were most interesting. Both were Syrians—in uniform. Both had been one-shot kills, and Galloway thought that—unlike the infantry battle carried out thereafter—that shooting had been real sniping.
His rifle cleaned and his bandoleer refilled with .308 machine gun ammunition, the Captain finally got away. He adjusted his scope zero for ordinary field grade ammunition and made sure that he was turned to the scope’s lowest power.
Shooter waved his driver ahead, saluted those saluting him, and headed for the barn—which was the battalion headquarters compound many exhausting miles distant.
“An American rifleman can always take one more step and fire one more shot. Author unknown.
Chapter 27
Not really looking, Shooter’s weary eyes scanned a closing-in of buildings not far ahead. Mostly abandoned, the complex had once been an area of shops adjoining an unoccupied cement plant. Galloway automatically studied the area because, if he had been a bad guy, he would have placed an ambush there.
Shooter thought of the place as The Chute because it funneled road traffic between buildings close enough to shoot from. A series of wadis led into the surrounding desert, and the dry gullies could also act as concealed approaches for ambushers moving in.
Nothing had ever occurred there, probably because the buildings were only a half-mile from a heavily defended American headquarters, but as a sniper, Galloway recognized the opportunities, and The Chute made him nervous.
Shooter kept himself awake by contemplating annoying subjects. Roy Elder appeared now and then as unfinished business, and he occasionally evaluated his plans to build a proper house in the notch.
The Notch and The Chute. One beloved, the other insignificant—so far.
"Who was he building for?" popped too often into his mind. Himself, of course, but Emma was in her later years, unless she became one of those ladies who somehow kept going until they neared one hundred. Gabriel knew that he would provide for Emma Showalter for as long as she lived, and he was comforted that he could afford it.
His current favorite irritator was pondering Hannah York—who had gone to New York for an interview, had lingered, and had now become Mrs. Frank Dyer.
Damn that Dyer! Galloway wished to believe that Doc had taken advantage of his buddy’s absence, but he could not manage that stretch.
He had never indicated his feelings to Hannah, and if she had restrained secret longings for him, he had not detected them. It was just that he had missed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Hannah was any man’s dream. She had been there when he had been shot by Cal Elder, and she had lived in his house. They had eaten in the same kitchen and he had listened to her stories and read her articles. He . . . they . . . ?
If it hadn’t been for his unfinished business with the Elders, he might have . . . ? Shooter wished to sulk and brood, or to lash out at . . . someone.
Someone was on the roof of the abandoned cement plant, and Galloway watched him for long moments before what he was seeing registered. Shooter woke up and looked closer. He decided that it was not an American and that the figure, a man he supposed, might have a rifle slung across his chest. Before he could be sure, the figure disappeared. Ducked down,
Galloway expected.
Shooter straightened in his seat and stood his silenced rifle between his knees. He sought the driver’s name and got it. At least he got the nickname the troops called the driver.
“Pull over and stop, Buzzy. I want to take a careful look at that old plant. There was somebody on the roof, and he might have had a gun.”
Buzzy stopped the Humvee in the middle of the empty road and looked himself. Nothing showed, and the driver just wished to get on home. Hell, half the Iraqis they met carried rifles. Most of the buildings were a hundred or so yards from the road, anyway, and he could see nothing unusual anywhere.
Shooter got out his binoculars and looked long and carefully. Nothing. The place looked as dead as a grave. There was someone there, however, Shooter knew what he had seen.
An armed Iraqi was too common to indicate a certain ambush, and a lot of Iraqis avoided Americans when they could—still, Galloway planned to pass through the choke point immediately and swiftly.
Shooter Galloway Page 29