Sniper One

by Roy F. Chandler

Bell concurred, but his voice was barely a whisper. "Gone like it never was, but now we've got to be quiet and careful until we know who is looking for us."

  Maynard watched as the Staff Sergeant carefully removed the cardboard disguising the observation port. Loose sand fell into the hide, but Bell ignored it and continued enlargement using extreme care.

  The slowness of the simple operation and his eagerness to admit the still living world twitched Maynard's patience. "Good God, Bell! You don't think the enemy is sitting outside waiting to drop a grenade in on us, do you?"

  Clicker ignored the Colonel's irritability. "Not much chance of that, Colonel, but suppose someone was out there looking around?

  "If we make one detectable mistake we are likely to die. Keep that high in your thinking, because the people in that radar site lost men and vehicles yesterday. They won't be friendly, and there's no telling who they've called in to help."

  Maynard knew the Staff Sergeant was right, and he wished his impatience had not surfaced. The Colonel vowed to do better. This was Clicker Bell's kind of work—and without Bell? Greg Maynard doubted he would survive what had to come.

  Bell got the hole to softball size. He moved around looking to the edges of their field of view. He grunted noncommittally before sliding aside to let the Colonel look.

  Maynard took his time.

  "The airplane blew over, Clicker. It's nose down off the runway."

  "I saw it, Colonel. I'm surprised our people don't blow it up with an air strike before the Iraqis cart it away for rebuild."

  "Not much activity down there, but we'll need binoculars to see well."

  Bell poked him in the side with the M49 spotting scope. "Try this, Colonel. You'll see the marks where the tripod stood before."

  Maynard positioned the tripod legs. You had this with you?"

  "Sure did. We went out to fight, and we took what we thought we would need before the chopper would lift us out. We left everything else, but I figured they might put this hole back into use later on in the war—if we ever get to fighting a war, that is."

  Maynard was slow in answering, but when he spoke, his words shocked Clicker Bell.

  "Well, unless plans changed big time, Click, the war is on right now. Me knowing is one of the reasons they came after us so swiftly. I guess everybody, me included, doubted that my old carcass would hold out long if the Iraqis got serious with their interrogating."

  "What were you doing in that plane anyway, Colonel—if it isn't too hot to talk about?"

  "Coming back from Turkey. I've been coordinating a lot of stuff, and the Air Force offered to get me back real quick.

  "Seemed like a no-sweat ride, but our engine quit cold and that slick had the glide ratio of a streamlined stone. Man, we came down from twenty thousand feet in about three blinks. Damned lucky that airfield was sitting there, and more than a miracle that your team was waiting."

  "Well, I've been thinking about that. The race might have been close, but it seems to me that you would have made the chopper with or without us, and if we hadn't been overloading the machine you would be safe and sound out of here."

  "Brilliant Monday morning quarterbacking, Bell. Everybody knows how to do it better the next day. Me, I was mighty pleased to see you waving from that high ground.

  "Anyway, my judgment is different than yours. If you hadn't popped that first jeep he'd of poured a lot of bullets into us and the chopper before we got airborne."

  Clicker had moved to the rear entrance.

  "You going out, Bell? You were warning me to be careful just a few minutes ago."

  "I think it is all quiet, Colonel. There are no vehicles at the site, and I didn't see any dust movement out on the desert"

  "Maybe you killed 'em all."

  "There were more than those few in the jeeps. Question is, why aren't they out milling around in this bright sunlight?"

  "Maybe they evacuated."

  "Why would they do that? They are supposed to think that we all got away by chopper?"

  "Maybe we should sneak down and burn the station."

  "Seeing the war is on, maybe we should, but not in the middle of the morning."

  Light flooded in as Bell peered out their back entrance.

  "Oh man!"

  "What?" Maynard's voice was fearful.

  Clicker was hastily reclosing the entrance.

  "This nice weather is just a break in the storm, Colonel. To the west it looks just like it did yesterday. Those Iraqis are probably battening down just like we will have to."

  "Well, don't close up until it is necessary. I really hate sitting in the dark for hours on end."

  Maynard saw the Marine's pain when he moved his injured side. "You'd best quit wriggling around, Staff Sergeant. The last thing we need is to stir up your wound."

  "I'm watching it, Colonel, and it only hurts when I move that shoulder. Assuming the damned thing doesn't infect I'll be in pretty good shape by the time we have to make our move out of here."

  Maynard slid down to a more comfortable position. "What is your plan on moving out, Clicker? You got a vehicle hidden out around here, maybe a Harley-Davidson dresser that we could ride out on in style?"

  Bell sniggered "I've only got one of those, Colonel so I'll save it for the next time I leave here. Us? We'll let our feet do the walking."

  Clicker smoothed the dirt floor and drew with his finger. "If this is Jordan and this is Saudi, we are about here."

  Maynard groaned. "That isn't anywhere, Bell. My lord, how far will it be?"

  "Well, our best bet is to go straight west, or a little north of that. Maybe pick up a 280° course so that we hit Jordan."

  "Jordan? They haven't been too friendly in this campaign. They're siding as much with Iraq as with us."

  "They are our best bet, Colonel. Western Saudi Arabia is huge and there isn't anything there. We could wander forever in that desert.

  "If we get into Jordan we can turn north and hit the haul road they have that comes directly out of Iraq."

  Bell hesitated. "You will know more about Jordanian politics, but I can't imagine King Hussein doing worse than interning us until the fighting stops. If we're lucky, we'll get passed to our embassy then on through to Israel and back to our own units."

  "You still didn't say how long the hike would be."

  "I can only guess because I don't have a map, but before we came in the first time I looked at possible withdrawal routes, and I think that we should plan on about a one hundred mile march before we hit the road itself.

  "Of course, we will be in Jordan for nearly half of that distance, and we might come onto a village or travelers."

  Maynard glanced at his feet. "Thank all the gods that I wore my combat boots. How long do you figure we will need?"

  "We'll be moving at night, and that will slow us down. I've no idea what the terrain will be like, but if we don't hit dunes we should make regular route step speed. Figure two and a half to three miles per hour, but add in regular breaks, and we should cover twenty-five miles a night."

  "What? We ought to do better than that."

  "Maybe we will, but it will be dark for only about twelve hours, and we will probably waste one of those hours finding our new hide and getting settled in. It will be best to expect the worst even while we hope for the best."

  Maynard was grumpy about it. "We ought to do at least thirty miles, and more likely thirty-five. Why...." He realized he was only griping and shut up. They would do the best they could, and Bell was right. They should plan on the worst happening. These sand storms were good examples of what could turn a three or four day march into a week-long disaster.

  Bell sat down with gingerly care that reminded Maynard that he would be traveling with a wounded man. Suppose...? Maynard was disgusted by his own doubts.

  As the sun rose, less light would be projected into the hide, so the Colonel chose to examine their quarters more thoroughly while he could see.

  It appeared that each team member
had worked on his own niche as well as the main observation area. Bell had caved one hollow onto the dead Iraqi, but in the better light Maynard saw that the burying had not been complete.

  "Hell, Staff Sergeant, you left one foot sticking out." Maynard reached for the entrenching tool.

  Bell acknowledged his poor burial with disinterest. "Guess I was in a hurry, Colonel."

  "What are all these animal bones doing in here, Clicker? Looks like a camel to me."

  "It was a camel. Look closer and you will see that they are ancient. I've been digging them out of the wall over there." Bell's finger pointed.

  Maynard ended his puttering and sat down beside his companion.

  Using his good hand, Clicker fumbled in a breast pocket. He got what he wanted and held it out for Maynard to examine.

  "It looks to me as if the camel had a string of these around its neck. Made us wonder if there might not be more gold further in, but I haven't struck anything yet."

  Maynard was fascinated. "Holy smoke, it is gold, isn't it. How many were there?"

  "I recovered thirteen. I gave each member of the team a bell, and we planned to wear them as remembrances of this operation."

  Clicker watched the colonel run his finger over the tiny bell.

  "Consider that one yours, Colonel. When we have our annual reunions you can show up as a full member." They chuckled together.

  "Well, thank you, Staff Sergeant Bell. I will wear my award with pride."

  "The camel had painted hooves."

  "What?"

  "Yep, painted blue. Makes you wonder if this might not have been a royal camel or perhaps a special pet camel."

  "No wonder you kept digging. If we have to stay here very long, I'll go in deeper." Maynard gestured towards Bell's wounded shoulder. "You won't be able to do any digging for a long time."

  Clicker nodded agreement. "Digging isn't my worry, Colonel. The problem is I will not be able to carry much of a pack on our way out. We have a lot of water right now, and it would have been nice for us each to carry a five gallon can on our hike into Jordan."

  Maynard thought about it before speaking. "I've counted five canteens lined up over there. Are they full?"

  "Always full, Colonel. Those were our spare "get away" canteens. We left them when we went for you and the pilot."

  Maynard kept figuring. "We've got two full five gallon cans in here plus what little is left in the one we carried in."

  Bell said, "The canteen on my belt is also almost full, Colonel. We each drank once out of it coming here, so there is a lot left. We're in good shape right now."

  Maynard said, "We'll have to make our move out of here before water gets critical, but for a four or five day march, one can should be more than enough."

  The sky darkened, and the hide turned as black as night. Clicker shifted himself enough to place the cardboard seal over his small hole, and Maynard was quick with the flashlight so that the Marine could see what he was doing.

  Bell said, "If we hit a few of these storms on our walk we might not feel that a single can was such a great reserve." He attempted to shrug before swearing at the pain he caused himself.

  "I don't like the idea of packing all of our water in one container, anyway. One leak and we would be in trouble.

  "What we'll do is load my belt with canteens while you pack a full five gallon can. With that much water we ought to be able to march to the Mediterranean Sea."

  They dozed through the day listening to the storm whistle against their cardboard seal. They used the flashlight only rarely, and Maynard swore that he couldn't last any longer and used the Iraqi's earth mound to relieve himself. Clicker Bell did not complain, and before long he followed the Colonel's example.

  Maynard said, "If we keep that up for a few days we'll run ourselves out of this hole, Clicker." They chuckled together and tried to sleep some more.

  There was still a little light when the wind fell, and Bell reopened their observation port

  "What time is it, Clicker?" Bell held his watch to the light. About 1900 hours, Colonel. I'll take a look before the light dies."

  Bell placed the spotting scope and got comfortable behind it.

  "Wind is still blowing, but not very hard. The plane has gone on over and is on its back. Must have been powerful out there for a while."

  Bell hitched himself around so that he could study the compound.

  "There are lights on in the main building, and ... Holy Hell!"

  Bell's voice, loud and excited, brought Greg Maynard wide awake. "What is it?" He scrabbled to the Marine's side.

  His voice again soft, Bell said, "You'll have to see for yourself, Colonel. Just give me a little longer look."

  Eventually, Clicker slid aside, and Maynard got himself in position. The buildings looked the same, although a few men hustled about. Off to the side ... "Holy Hell!" The Colonel's surprise echoed the Staff Sergeant's.

  Bell waited until Colonel Maynard had time to absorb most of what he was looking at. Then he got close alongside, as if he was whispering on a night mission amid a battalion of enemies.

  "That is a Scud missile on its launcher, isn't it, Colonel? And that other tractor trailer has a spare missile aboard, right?"

  "Right, Staff Sergeant."

  "Holy Hell, and we haven't any way to tell anybody about it."

  "They aren't setting up to fire, Clicker. They are working like beavers to cover both vehicles with camouflage. Looks to me as if they have heavy canvas with dirt glued to it. Once they get that in place, no one will see it from the air."

  The Colonel slid down to sit beside the Sergeant. "I wonder why they aren't getting that thing into action? Our planes are constantly searching for Scuds, and the quicker they launch the safer they will be."

  "Well, they brought those missiles out here to shoot, that is for sure, and there is only one target. They will reach Israel easily from here."

  "Then why aren't they preparing to launch?"

  Bell climbed back behind the scope. "Damned if I know. You'd think they would get set right now, launch both missiles at dusk and have the launcher hidden or out of here way before dawn."

  "Maybe the missiles are part of a larger plan and will be launched as support at just the right moment." Maynard knew that neither he nor Bell had the slightest idea, but it was comforting to speculate.

  Clicker said, "Man, they are really staking those tarps down. They must be expecting ... and they guessed it together."

  Greg Maynard provided the words.

  "Another big storm."

  "Right, and it will be tonight, or they would be launching ahead of it. You figure it that way, Colonel?"

  "Makes sense, and nothing else does."

  In the fading light the Staff Sergeant studied the Colonel, and Maynard studied Clicker Bell. The Staff Sergeant was the logical leader for their expedition, but Maynard knew what they had to do. If Clicker Bell did not agree, Colonel Greg Maynard would pull rank and order it done.

  Before he could question, Bell spoke what the Colonel wanted to hear.

  "That being the case, it seems to me that we've got a chance to do what the Air Force won't be able to accomplish."

  He saw Maynard's head bobbing and continued with expectation of agreement

  "So, tonight, we'll go down there and destroy those monsters as thoroughly as we can. Then we'll come back in here and hope to hell they don't hunt too hard for us."

  Chapter 5

  Greg Maynard asked, "How do you figure to do it, Bell?"

  The Marine had spread a blanket and his field-stripped pistol was laid out for cleaning. For the moment he avoided answering.

  "I should have cleaned this pistol last night, but I was too used up. You might want to do yours while I've got the Hoppe's out."

  The Colonel removed his pistol's magazine and jacked the slide a few times while inspecting the chamber.

  "How come you're carrying a .45 caliber, Bell? I'm an old soldier, so I stick with my Colt, but
the Baretta is the assigned pistol for about all of the military."

  "A Baretta is a nine millimeter, Colonel. Hit a man with a nine and you will probably make him mad. Shoot him with a .45 and he goes down."

  "So, where did you get the .45 caliber?"

  "The Corps encourages initiative, Colonel"

  "They don't know you carry it, huh?"

  "Close enough. They know, but they don't see. Makes everybody happier."

  The 1911 model Colts required only a few moments to field strip, and as he laid out the parts Maynard waited for the sniper's plan.

  Bell said, "Well, we have two ways to destroy those missiles. At least that is all I can come up with.

  "We have the best way thanks to Mo Giacamo, my assistant Team Leader. Mo brought in a pound of C4 plastic explosive, some fuse and five detonators. He figured that we might be able to blast fighting holes in terrain where digging wasn't practical." Bell chuckled. "I told him he was nuts, but he brought the stuff anyway."

  Clicker motioned toward their back entrance. "The explosive is buried just outside, and the fuse and detonators are only a yard further."

  "So, we just mosey on down there, plant some charges, and haul ass." Maynard sounded pleased.

  Bell chuckled. "That would be the outline, but what I'm hoping is that you know something about a Scud because I don't know squat about how one is built or even what fires the damned thing."

  The Colonel was bemused. "Hell, Clicker, neither do I. I heard enough times, but I never paid attention because it didn't have anything to do with me. Big, inaccurate, and Russian-developed is about all I can remember."

  Bell grunted. "I guess that means that we go down and try to find likely looking places to plant our charges. I would think that anywhere in a missile's ass-end would do. Even if the thing doesn't explode, the control surfaces will be all bent up."

  Maynard asked, "How do we light off our charges? I gather you don't have any of those nifty timers with blinking lights that secret agents plant?"

  "Nope, Mo forgot those. I suppose you have matches or a Zippo lighter, don't you, Colonel?"

  "I don't smoke, Bell."

  "Neither do I, but no desert warrior like myself is without his fire-making tools." Bell showed a butane lighter. "Lejeune Base Exchange Model. Right off the counter."