by Danny Loomis
“What about the other units, Sir? If you want to be so hush-hush about this stuff, the rifle range isn’t the place to do it.”
“Normally you’re right,” he said, bringing the floater around the end of the airfield and towards the entrance to the firing range. “But this isn’t a normal day at the range. We’ve made it off limits for a few days. We have it all to ourselves, long’s we need it.”
Ian shook his head in disbelief.
Once on the range, Ian moved into a well-oiled routine of preparation. Settle into the firing pit, lay out a drop cloth to keep moisture and dirt from blow-back after each shot, count the number of magazines… By the time he indicated readiness, Major Grant had turned on the bulls-eye sequence of targets.
“You’ll fire out to a range of eight hundred meters today. Start at two hundred and work your way out. We’ve moved two satellites overhead, and placed half-a-dozen sensors throughout the area. Once you tie in with them, you can start shooting.”
Ian powered up the Webley’s scope, and loaded the first magazine. He snugged his cheek against the stock of the Webley, sighted through the scope and “thought” about the sensor array. Immediately he had a flood of data. He sorted through it and was able to feed it into his scope. The ranging dot turned white to signify readiness. He had to have his head within five centimeters of the scope’s computer chip to activate it, as the interface distance was limited.
Ian sighted on the two hundred meter target and “watched” the air current, altitude, and distance data affect the dot. He readjusted a bit, and fired.
“Miss,” Grant said, now hooked up to Ian through his commo net. “Low and to the right.”
Damn. He’d never missed that bad before. Have to stop concentrating on the data, let the scope do its work. Again he sighted, and watched the data flow in. He adjusted, and fired. “Miss. Upper left.”
Grimly, Ian pulled the Webley tighter into his shoulder, watched the data flow in—and stopped himself. He blinked, relaxed, and moved into his rifle. Focus and calm. Let the weapon decide when… He fired, surprised at the sound.
“Hit, center of the bullseye,” came the call.
Again he relaxed into his weapon, allowed the external data to flow from the bio link to the scope. This time he fired when he wanted to, in control.
“Hit, same hole as last one.”
Ian fired eighty rounds at the two hundred meter target, and achieved a grouping of less than one centimeter. Major Grant then had him fire at four hundred meters. After the first few faltering rounds, he began to group his rounds in the x-ring. The same at six hundred meters.
At eight hundred meters, Ian saw the wind as more of a factor than ever, and had to judge when the next gust would cross the target. Soon it was an automatic reflex to evaluate the cross-winds he saw, and his shot group was again in the bullseye. Now, however, his grouping was spread from as little as three centimeters at best, with ten his worst. Rather than go to the thousand meter target, Major Grant moved him back to the two hundred.
“Rapid fire, two magazines.”
Each shot was one second apart. This time the grouping was four centimeters. Better than he’d ever done on rapid fire, but room for improvement. He was beginning to get into the flow of the data, able to ignore it more and more, while still making full use of it.
“Four hundred meters, rapid fire, one magazine.”
Now the shots were two seconds apart.
“Cease fire, cease fire. The firing range is now closed.” Ian laid his weapon down, and gave a mighty stretch. God, he was tired! Using his bio link for any extended period of time still wore him out. He’d been assured that would pass the sooner he adapted to it.
Grant trotted up. “Okay, Irish. That’ll do for today. Let’s go get some chow.”
Ian looked at his watch, and did a double-take. Only two hours. It felt like they’d been out here all day. Man, oh man, once he ate he was gonna hit the sack.
The next two days were repeats of the first, with the exception of Ian’s energy level. Each day he was able to continue a little longer, until on the third day he was firing steadily for eight hours without the bone-deep weariness he’d felt at first. On the final day, Major Grant allowed him to fire at the thousand meter target. But not without a warm-up.
“Three targets up; one magazine rapid fire at each.”
Ian smoothly came on line with the two hundred meter target, finger tightening. Forty rounds sounded, less than one second apart, all bulls, with less than one centimeter grouping. Four hundred meters. Same time, with a grouping that was still less than one centimeter. Six hundred meters, and the rounds were barely over a second apart. The shot group was at an amazing two centimeters. Without warning, the thousand meter target raised.
“One thousand meters, rapid fire,” came the call.
Again Ian began to fire. Forty rounds, less than two seconds between each.
“Cease fire, cease fire. The range is now closed.” Grant came over, a smug look on his face. “Not bad, Irish. A bit over two centimeters on the thousand meter grouping. Don’t think I’ve seen that before, even on slow fire.”
“That’s fantastic,” Ian said with a slow whistle. “It seems as if all I do is put a sharp focus on a particular point, and when it feels right the rifle shoots itself.”
“Perfect way to describe it,” Grant said. “Let me give you a hand packing up and I’ll get you back to your unit. I think we’re done with the range. Time to start earning your keep.”
Ian nodded soberly and hoped his anxiety didn’t show. He’d heard of soldiers who’d lost their combat edge after being seriously wounded. Was he one of them? An icy knot settled in his middle. It looked like he’d soon find out.
That evening after chow, Brita and Pointy loomed over Ian as he sat on his bunk and touched up his Webley.
“What’s up, guys?” He fitted his rifle back into its special holder at the foot of his bunk.
“We just got the green light from Top,” Brita said. “We laid off any questions about your weird behavior over the past three days, on his orders. So now give.”
“Yeah,” chimed in Pointy, “Give before I have an infarction from curiosity.”
“Okay, okay,” Ian said as he held up his hands in mock surrender. “I know I’ve been a little withdrawn, but it was orders. I’ve been busy with a guy from Intel on an experimental weapons system they came up with while I was upstairs on vacation.”
Pointy snorted. “If you mean the Mark IV’s, there’s not that much new about ’em.”
“No, I mean me,” Ian said.
Brita and Pointy abruptly sat down, looks of astonishment and disbelief on their faces. Ian touched his head, where the interface now resided.
“They put a bio link here. It lets me access electronic data directly into my brain. Among other things.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Brita said, giving his head a searching look. “But I thought they were reserved for certain field grade officers and pilots of space ships.”
“Like I said, it’s experimental. They put a bigger ’puter chip in my Webley’s scope. Lets me download a lot of data into it.”
Pointy looked mystified. “What’cha mean, lets you download? You a bionic man now?”
Ian raised his eyebrows. “Never thought of it that way. But yeah, I draw on data from different sources for target range, wind, elevation, speed of target if moving, and probably a lot more I can’t even think of. When the scope adjusts itself to the download of information, I shoot.”
“How’s your accuracy?” Brita asked.
“Fairly decent,” he hedged. “Seemed to satisfy the intelligence pukes, so I’ve been released back to the unit.”
Brita smiled. “Good. They’ve just scheduled a brief for tomorrow morning. They’ve even brought the rest of the platoon back in for it. I think the big chiefs have finally gotten their heads out of their asses and want to unleash their snipers. That means us.”
Ian came al
ert. “What’s been happening?”
“We’ve met with limited success in our patrols for gooners. Their tactics have changed. They use terrorist type attacks, well-planned out in advance. Makes it hard to be at the right place at the right time. Scout platoon’s been too scattered to be effective. They’ll take one guy and put him with a platoon of regulars, and expect them to play the Great Scout and immediately find gooners. Sergeant Boudreau’s been complaining up a storm. Somebody finally listened.”
“My skills have been wasted out there,” Pointy said. “All we do is try to chase down those who’ve already done somethin’. Won’t let us do any interdiction missions.”
“Which I suspect is about to change,” Brita said. “Maybe we’ll get to zap a few snipers, since they’re more than just a nuisance.”
“By the way, Pointy,” Ian said, “Where’d you come up with a word like infarction? I didn’t think you knew any words over two syllables in length.”
“Y’know that girl I told you about, the one I fell in lust with at the Pelican Pub? She’s a medical technician. Must’ve heard it from her.”
Brita snorted in amusement. “The only word you want to hear from your girl friends is yes, so don’t bullshit the bullshitters.” She stood and stretched, raising Ian’s temperature several degrees. He tried not to stare at her supple form. She sensed his covert stare, and lowered her arms.
“Time to get some shuteye,” she muttered and hurried from the room.
Pointy watched her leave, a thoughtful look on his face. “Huh. What’s up with her? You’d think she’d gotten flustered or somethin’ by your lecherous stare, wouldn’t you?”
Ian felt his face turn red. “What’s the big deal about looking at someone stretch? You’d think it was a sex crime.”
“Only when you look at your team leader with that kinda look,” Pointy said, rising as he scratched his head. “Jeez, I gotta get some sack time. See ya in the a.m.”
Before he dropped off to sleep that night, Ian tried something new with his implant. He tapped into the information that flowed through the communications satellite, found and downloaded the latest situation report. The electronic guardians of the system recognized him, and allowed him to proceed without a murmur. Prior to this, he’d only guessed as to his new clearance level. It made sense. To access the new array of satellites they had put in orbit, he would need the highest possible security clearance.
He scrolled through reams of data, and spotted the information he’d been after. Tomorrow’s briefing. Yeah, Brita sure hit the nail on the head. Not only that, here was tactical data showing why they were concerned. He read on, fascinated with the information.
An hour later, he backed out of the link. Man, what a strain on the brain that had been. Maybe with practice it would become easier to do, like with his Webley. What he had discovered made for an interesting read. Apparently there were several dozen enemy snipers that worked up and down the seaboard, but concentrated around the communities and cities. None had approached the Task Force area yet, but it was seen as inevitable.
There was something about the pattern of sniper attacks reported so far that nagged at the back of his head. Couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something familiar… He fell asleep in mid-thought, too tired to prepare for bed.
STAR’S END: STOBOL AIRFIELD (Day +47):
Next morning’s briefing was anticlimactic for Ian. Major Whitaker, the task force Operations Officer, followed the sitrep which Ian had spent the prior evening sneaking a look at word for word.
“As you can see,” summed up Major Whitaker as he nervously fingered his belt buckle, “our present strategy needs to be—ah—tweaked a bit to make it become—ah—a bit more effective.”
Ian felt Pointy squirm beside him. Glad he wasn’t the only one driven nuts by this guy.
Major Whitaker droned on. “The new thrust of our tactics will be for our units to perform blocking missions, such as beefed up—ah—roadblocks, more security for—ah—vulnerable targets, and conduct sweeps through areas where the enemy is suspected to be.” He tugged at his belt buckle and motioned to Sergeant First Class Boudreau. “Your platoon leader will cover—ah—what your particular role will be in light of this new strategy.” Everyone came to attention as he left the briefing tent. Boudreau walked slowly to the front.
“Alright, sit down and listen up. That means you, too, Corporal Romero.” J.C. tried to look his most innocent, as Boudreau scowled at him. “You close your eyes during my brief like you did with the Major, and they’ll have to send you to the regen chamber for a new asshole.” J.C. melted into his chair under the combined stares of Boudreau and Brita.
“The platoon will be divided into fire teams, with each squad leader acting as the controller for them, with the exception of third squad. Franny, you’ll be acting as my Platoon Sergeant, so Valkyrie and Brandy will act as controllers for their own teams. Put on your helmets and we’ll go over the area assignments.”
Everyone slipped on their helmets, and keyed up the map display. “First squad: both your fire teams will operate around the airfield, plus points south, west and east. Be prepared to respond by foot or air to any point in your area of operations.
“Second squad: One fire team will cover all five diamond mines, on a constant patrol. The other team will be responsible for the communities highlighted on your maps.” A dozen pips showed up, most along the southwestern shore of the continent. In all, it covered five hundred kilometers of shoreline. “You’ll work closely with Major Whitaker to identify potential hot spots.” He noticed the thinly veiled grimaces. “You may not care for his briefing skills or his mannerisms, but he’s one helluva ops officer. Put all your pea-brains together, and you’d still be a mile short of his capabilities.” A different map appeared on everyone’s helmet display.
“Third squad, you’ll root out gooners in Richland. One team north, the other south. Your unit will work with a platoon of our regulars. They’ll conduct sweeps and also pull security for your teams as needed. There’s also a regiment of militia stationed at the barracks just to the west of Richland. They’ll provide additional firepower, if needed, to all the fire teams in Richland and fourth squad in the north. Another regiment is located here at the airfield, and will do the same for the rest of the teams.”
“Fourth squad, your two fire teams will be responsible for the communities to the north of Richland. Yours is the most spread out area, so we’ll have attack shuttles on standby for each team.” Another map, this time the city of Richland, appeared.
Staff Sergeant Williams, first squad leader, raised his hand. “What about fast movers for support? Will we be able to call on firepower from the Wasps?”
Boudreau nodded. “Good question. We’ll have at least two we can use, but it’d be nice if a squadron of them were handy. I’ll look into more support. There will also be artillery available for those within range of the airfield. Another battery is at the base just outside Richland, and will be on call for everyone within its range. They should be operational by tomorrow. No missions will be called in on built-up areas without specific permission from the Star’s End government. You’ll just have to go root them out if they’re inside.
“Logistics requests will go through Franny and me. Try and foresee what you’ll need out to at least a week, that way we can set up a weekly beans-n-bullets run for you. As far as transportation to your areas of operations, that’s been laid on for tonight at twenty-one hundred hours.”
Boudreau looked around the room. “Any other questions? Then get a move on, troops. We’re burnin’ daylight.”
The first thing Ian noticed upon landing just outside the military barracks in Richland was the scars of recent combat. The same time he had fought for his life in the south, a smaller force of rebels had raided the barracks. Several structures had been burned and a large section of the air field was cratered.
Although most repairs were complete, it was still evident what happened. Increa
sed security was also apparent. Concertina wire crowned every fence and piled up around check points. The walk from the airfield was an education. Two separate rings of security meant they passed through two heavily defended gates. Even this late at night the rumble and growl of earth movers plus other heavy machinery was a constant background noise.
Their guide took them to the entrance of an underground bunker, and gestured them inside. Two levels down were their quarters. A squad bay with a separate room for the squad leader was available for each fire team.
“Listen up,” Brita said. “Once you’ve got your gear stored, hit the sack. The platoon we’ll work with was moved up here several days ago. We’ll get a brief from them at 0800 about our first mission. That means you only have eight hours to get things prepped for tomorrow, including your sack time. I’ll give you an hour, then it’s lights out. Now move it.”
Next morning’s breakfast was a packet of long range patrol rations and coffee. “Sheeit, Sarge, you’d think we were at the Excalibur Hotel, the quality of chow they got here,” Pointy said, tearing the top off his packet with disgust.
“You could always eat your own cooking, Pointy,” Brita said. “This stuff will sustain you in combat for an indefinite time. Plus it’s good for you.” She tore the top off her own packet of LRPs. “Even though it does look like horseshit.”
Ian and Pointy burst into laughter, just as Sergeant First Class Nance entered. “Hey, I understand you’ve got an opening for a cook over here.”
“Sergeant Nance! Good to see you,” Brita said. “Pull up a chair and join us. We were just complimenting the chef.”
“Glad to, Brita.” He dropped into a vacant chair and snagged a cup of coffee. “Lieutenant Stanton sent me over to give you the briefing for today’s festivities. So whenever you’re ready, we can start.”
“No time like the present,” she said. “You’ve already met Irish. This is Corporal Pointy Winters, Corporal J.C. Jimenez, and Sergeant Blade Chavez.” Each nodded in turn to Sergeant First Class Nance.
“Good to have all of you here,” Nance said. “We’ve got a perfect opportunity to put your talents to work. This afternoon the Mayor of Richland, along with a couple of commissioners, will be visiting one of the local Neighborhood Watch offices. These are groups of citizens who act as lookouts for signs of any suspicious activity. It’s worked pretty well, so we think the gooners would love to put a damper on the program by creating an incident.”