Sniper One

by Roy F. Chandler

  "Hit, and over she goes!" Giacamo's voice was strong in Clicker's ear. Damn, he had not even thought to move his observer along with him, but there was Mo, using his binoculars and doing exactly what he was supposed to do.

  The Unertl showed a cloud of dust with something rolling inside it. The driver had probably swerved too hard either from the engine hit or due to a .50 caliber slug in his own carcass and had dumped his vehicle.

  The second jeep had not ignored its companion's fate. The driver turned sharply and headed for the too distant cover of taller rolls in the land. Not likely, Bell's mind concluded.

  A rifle cracked along his line, and Clicker judged that Gilroy was putting his sniper rifle to use. That would be too long range, but a few rounds snapping by would help discourage any of the Iraqis from the tipped-over vehicle that tried to move closer.

  A sudden thunder shook them all, and a dust cloud swept through, destroying Clicker's view. The chopper had arrived. The big bird veered away, and Bell could see again. He still had time. He aimed swiftly and plugged two rounds at the angling jeep. Nothing! Not enough lead? He slapped in a fully loaded magazine and got settled.

  The jeep bounced wildly over an unseen obstacle and a figure was jolted loose to be left sprawled in the vehicle's wake. Then the driver changed directions and was coming straight on. Foolish, but maybe the terrain forced him.

  Bell closed his mind to everything except his target. The calm of a thousand bull's-eyes descended on his stilled figure, and when the Barrett spoke, Clicker knew he had held for the ten ring. He let the recoil rock him and pumped another round into the general shape of the Iraqi vehicle. Then the sand swirled as the chopper settled, and he could see no more.

  The chopper pilot slowed his blades only a little, but it was enough for Bell to judge what was happening.

  The downed pilots were close, struggling up the incline of the slope and no more than two hundred yards out. Clicker turned to the chopper and swore aloud.

  The machine was the one that had brought them in and regularly resupplied them. That was good, but all he could see in the open door was boonie caps with heads under them. The chopper was already loaded to the gills. The pilot had been either exchanging or bringing in teams when he got the emergency call. Seven more men? Clicker doubted it.

  He waved his team aboard, and grinning widely, sniper Gilroy was first inside. Bell got them all in, but just barely. The pilot was screaming something, and Clicker finally figured it out.

  "Too heavy, I can't lift! Too heavy!"

  The downed pilots heaved into view, and Clicker shoved on one of their butts getting him aboard. The last was the Colonel. Damned if he wasn't wearing his eagles. God!

  Clicker crammed, and the jam above gave. The colonel was more or less in. Bell jumped onto the skid and the watching pilot poured on the coal.

  The engine howled, but Bell felt no lift at all. He squalled into the faces straining toward him. "Dump your gear." There was no hesitation. Equipment flew out the door.

  "Dump the load, dump the load!"

  Men scrabbled trying to make room, and cans and ration boxes began to topple from the door. Clicker saw his sniper rifle go by, and he swore at Gilroy for that, but other weapons went too, and the chopper began to slide across the sand.

  Still not enough, and the stream of available junking slowed to a trickle. Only a little more, Clicker believed. Without hesitation he stepped off the skid, and the chopper began to slide away. A hand reached for him, but he stayed free, watching the machine's struggle to lift. Suddenly another figure, unidentifiable in the blasting dust toppled almost onto him.

  One of his team, Clicker supposed, and it was enough. Grossly overloaded, the chopper slid and began to rise. Fortunately, the struggling machine drifted to the south rather than over the disabled Iraqis who might have poured rifle fire into it.

  It was still not a sure thing, but even as the chopper lifted, other gear was dumped onto the desert, and the craft began to win the battle. Bell watched it move away until he could believe the chopper was indeed going to rise and fly. Then he turned to see what the enemy was doing.

  The turned-over jeep vehicle lay without movement around it. Its crew had been killed or injured, probably in the crash, but Gilroy might have connected with the sniper rifle. The other jeep? It, too, sat without movement. No immediate threat, Clicker judged.

  A voice almost in his ear said, "Now what?"

  Clicker turned, and all he could see were eagles. Damn it to hell, the colonel! How in...?

  His exasperation approached rage, and Bell allowed it to show.

  "Damn it, Colonel, you're the one this is all about. Why in hell did you jump off that chopper?"

  "Jump? Don't be ridiculous. I was pushed."

  Bell did not believe it.

  "Don't glare at me, Bell. I'm telling you that I had a grip on the door edge that a crocodile couldn't have loosened. I was reaching for you when somebody pried my hand loose and shoved my bony butt clean off the craft."

  Clicker still doubted it, but he couldn't argue.

  "Well, what is next, Colonel, is that cloud over there." Bell's chin indicated where to look.

  The colonel's grunt was meaningful. "Yeah, I was watching it when we were getting away from the plane. Thought we might get some cover, if we could survive the damned thing." He studied the storm for a short moment while Clicker judged the equipment strewn around them.

  "You got a place to go, Clicker?"

  "Yep, if we can move fast and stay smart."

  Bell pointed to the tossed radio. "I'll pack that. You grab that sniper rifle and load a water can onto one of those packs. I'll lug another.

  "We'll carry a third can between us. That will help keep us together. You take the left handle, and I'll take the right. Once the storm comes down on us don't let go of that handle no matter what.

  "I'll be feeling my way as it is, and if we get separated, we'll never find each other. If I once lose orientation, I might never get it back again, so I don't want to turn off the track I'll be following. That clear, Colonel?"

  "Clear, Staff Sergeant."

  Bell loaded swiftly and showed the Six how to wrap his face with a towel from the pack so that the sand would not blind him. They gripped the water can handles and started off.

  The colonel moved well, but he was older, and Bell wondered if he could make the necessary mile through the sand storm about to descend on them.

  Then he wondered how the colonel knew his name was Bell? He didn't know many colonels. Hell, the Bird knew his rank and his nickname. At least the Six wasn't giving him a ration and trying to take charge. He had sense enough to let the man who knew do his job. He'd better, or he'd get left to join the camel buried in the desert

  A huge and powerful blast of driven sand slashed at them and turned Bell's thoughts to the route he had to follow. That project promised to be more than enough for right now.

  Chapter 3

  Nouri The Camel woke with dirt in his mouth. He twisted onto his back, spitting frantically before remembering what had happened. Then he froze immobile and prayed that the enemy had not noticed his thrashing.

  Rolling his eyes to the side, he could see the wreck of his jeep canted into a bank, and an arm dangling motionless was probably that of his friend Karhoun who had been driving.

  When enemies had opened fire from the hills, Karhoun had driven hard for cover. He, Nouri, had clambered to the jeep's rear to man the pedestal-mounted machine gun, but Karhoun had struck a monstrous bump and he had been hurled from the vehicle and knocked unconscious. That he lived seemed miraculous, and it might be that Allah had further use for his Soldier of God. Clearly, Karhoun had gotten little further, and his jeep had smashed its front end in collision with a small earth ridge.

  Nouri moved his head until he could see the wreck of their lead vehicle. Smoke rose, but there was no human movement.

  Where were the ambushers? Nouri inched his head to see.

  Ye
s, two of them heading away and carrying something between them, but the helicopter was gone, and The Camel could not hear its engine. Two of the enemy against one man of the desert was fair enough, and The Camel allowed his anger to grant strength and determination. Three of his companions lay dead, and both of their vehicles were destroyed, but the enemy would not know that he lived or that he followed. When he was ready, he, God's Warrior, would gain vengeance.

  Beyond the fleeing criminals a monster storm had blossomed, but a man of the desert could survive nature's wraths. The escaping terrorists? The Camel would not leave them to Allah.

  Ignoring the pound of a massive headache and the ache of his battered body, Nouri, The Camel, struggled to his feet, found his rifle nearby, and scrubbed it clean as he began his pursuit.

  +++

  Clicker Bell swung his route into the partial shelter of a long swale that would lead him close to the team's hide. The bottom of the gully held loose sand that slowed their progress, but with the whole desert blowing at them visibility was dropping toward zero, and Bell needed the draw's direction.

  The Colonel was slugging it out leaning into the gale with his head ducked against the blast of wind-driven sand. The sand cut like a thousand knives, and Bell knew his exposed hand gripping the water can handle would eventually abrade, and if not protected, the skin could be completely removed with the very flesh soon to follow.

  Bell leaned into the wind, feeling it swing to their side as the draw turned. The single great blessing brought by the storm would be complete obliteration of their tracks. Clicker had no doubts that the radar site was screaming for support, and troops would pour in from the nearest bases.

  If everyone in the jeeps had died, the Iraqis would believe the entire party had departed on the helicopter that had dominated their radar screen, and there would be no trail to disclose a continued presence. That was all well and good—providing he and the Colonel could regain the shelter of the hide before the desert wore them down and buried them.

  No one can peer directly into a sand storm, and visibility to the sides is barely feet. Looking down the track of such a storm is, however, often possible. As the draw twisted, Clicker Bell turned regularly to examine their back trail.

  Surely, no one could follow, but the Staff Sergeant's back itched. Bell supposed his unease was caused by his need to move before determining that neither jeep had survivors.

  No figures could be seen plodding after them, but Bell wished that he could stop for more than an instant to allow any trackers to heave into view. If they did, he could shoot them virtually unseen because those bucking into the storm would not see as far as he could looking downwind.

  There was no time for poking around. The storm heightened, and Bell needed all of his attention on his direction and progress. If he missed the hide he doubted that he could retrace and try again. Clicker spit grit and dropped a shoulder into the blasting sand. He hauled the Colonel along, and felt the officer's struggle and determination to keep up.

  Not too far to go, if his figuring was correct. There would be a low rolling ridge, then a sharply angled cut in the desert floor just before he would swing toward the radar site. That turn would lead to the hide's entrance.

  Before they disappeared within the storm's fury, Nouri, the desert warrior, saw his enemies dip into the protection of a long gully. He judged their course and knew that he could cut them off. He shifted direction and forced himself into a trot.

  The unfortunate fact, rarely faced by Nouri, the Iraqi, was that he was not really of the desert. Despite his claims and his earned reputation as rarely needing water, the soldier his companions called The Camel had been raised in the streets of Baghdad.

  To gain face, to be seen and recognized, Nouri, with no other name, had suffered the ravages of desert training with little water. At times he feared he would die, but his apparent disregard for the very essence of life astonished his equally citified companions, and they gave him his cherished name, The Camel.

  Now Nouri would triumph where the others had failed. He would track and kill their enemies. Then, important men would know The Camel.

  Perhaps he might even gain the attention of the great general who had once exhorted them to prove themselves Soldiers of God that the great Satans from the west could never conquer.

  Perhaps ... yes, it could be possible! He, Nouri, The Camel, might gain rank and recognition. He might even become a Sergeant!

  In beating his way ahead, the Soldier of God had lost track of time and distance, and he feared his only recourse was to turn his back on the raging sands and seek what shelter he could find amid the rolls of earth until the storm eased. He was about to give up when the tracks appeared at his very feet.

  The tracks were there, so fresh that the sharp edges of the imprints were still falling. The Iraqi gripped his weapon, holding it barrel forward in his armpit and snapping off the safety. When he saw, he would shoot.

  Nouri turned onto the track, and hurried his pace. Allah was granting him victory, and he was eager to drive his bullets into the hated enemy, whomever they might be.

  Still he saw no one. The tracks led onward, and The Camel wondered if he was merely keeping pace. The enemy's path had turned straight into the blasting wind. Visibility was at best only a few yards beyond his rifle's muzzle and more often barely beyond his front sight.

  When he came upon them, shooting would be swift, and he would be merciless.

  Death to the invaders of his homeland! Nouri's finger rested on his trigger, and he struggled ahead.

  For an instant, the blowing sands swirled, and Nouri saw his enemies, almost within touching. For another instant they appeared as one, but both were there, huddled together, clutching something between them. The Camel raised his Kalashnikov and snatched at his trigger.

  The sky had darkened under the layers of wind-hurled sand, and Clicker Bell slowed his pace almost feeling his way. He knew they were close to his final turning point, but he needed a mark lest he miss completely.

  The Colonel found the turn by floundering through the softer sand of the team's landfill. Bell heard the officer curse and felt the colonel use his grip on the water can to haul himself erect. Then Clicker saw the familiar contours and knew they had made it through. He pulled on the can handle drawing the Colonel close and leaned almost against his ear so that his words could be heard.

  "We turn east here, Colonel. The hide entrance is only a hundred feet or so." The Colonel was nodding understanding when the bullets struck.

  Even as he fired, the sands swirled again hiding his targets, but The Camel knew he had hit. His grip on the trigger was too tight, and the rifle kicked impossibly high in recoil, wasting bullets before The Camel could free his finger and silence the drumming hammer of the full-automatic Kalashnikov rifle.

  As taught, the Iraqi dropped and rolled aside. Staying low, he dragged his rifle into firing position, but the storm hid whatever was to be seen.

  Had he killed them both? The Camel suspected he had, but he took no chances. He began a swift crawl to one side. He would circle and slide silently back into the battle from a new angle. Probably he would find both enemies dead. Certainly, they were wounded.

  When he found them, he would finish the task—or should he march a survivor back to the radar, perhaps dragging his dead companion?

  Nouri worked away, staying low, but hurrying. His heart thumped in triumph as he savored his emergence from the storm as the only victor of the ferocious battle.

  The .30 caliber bullets slammed into Clicker Bell's back as if sledge hammered. The blows drove the wind from his lungs and fire burned across the top of a shoulder. He went down on his face losing his grip on the water can, and the slung Barrett .50 caliber flopped around and cracked him along the head.

  The Colonel was also down, and Bell saw him scrabbling to face him, his eyes wide, and his mouth forming an anxious "O."

  How hard had he been hit? Bell felt pain, but it was more like hard blows tha
n the expected numbing destruction of a bullet wound.

  Then he knew, and if he had time, Bell would have laughed aloud. The bullets from the unseen attacker had blasted into the radio hung on his back. A shoulder burned, so he had been wounded, but not the deadly impacts he had believed probable.

  Bell slued himself around and struggled to shed the radio and the Barrett which would be useless at close range. The Colonel asked, "Are you hit bad, Clicker?"

  "Not bad." Bell drew his pistol and jacked a round into the chamber. "You hit, Colonel?"

  "Nope, I'm just staying low." The officer was tugging his own pistol from its shoulder holster.

  Bell felt wetness on his pants and saw the water can leaking a stream. He shifted the can so that the single hole was on the high side. A stray thought crossed, and he wondered why the can had not exploded the way liquid-filled containers usually did.

  How many had found them? Bell's eyes searched down the path of the storm, and he saw a single form worming its way to the west. Hell, not more than fifteen yards away. He leveled his pistol, but the figure vanished behind a wall of blowing sand.

  Why hadn't the single Iraqi charged on in? If he had, neither he nor the Colonel could have been ready. Inexperience perhaps. Could his rifle have jammed? Bell began to move.

  The Colonel gripped his arm and shouted above the storm. "Do you see anything?"

  "One man, crawling west. I'm going for him. Don't move from here, Colonel, or we might never find each other again."

  Bell started away, but again paused. "If you see someone to shoot, make sure it isn't me."

  Then he was gone, moving on his knees, keeping his pistol barrel out of the dirt, and trying to see down the slants of the blowing storm.

  The trick would be to see the Iraqi before being seen. Old sailors would claim that he had the weather gauge on the Iraqi, and they would mean that he could come downwind with all of his maneuverability while his enemy had to sail into the wind. His was a huge advantage whether in a sand storm or at sea, and Clicker Bell would use the weather wisely.