A Congress of Angels (The Collective)

by Fore, Jon

  They said that you couldn't take a country made up of tribes of warring peoples. Hell the Russian tried for years and finally withdrew. But not the U.S., by God. In and out and positions secured in less than a month. Now on to Iraq. S.O.C.O.M put Gabriel and Kyle out here as an advanced recon resource over a week ago, or Gabriel thought it might be over a week. Kyle was certain of it. He always put more days on the truth when they were in the field, and Gabriel didn't bother arguing about it anymore.

  "Keep eyes southeast of position three. They are expecting visitors.” Gabriel spoke softly, even though they were so completely alone up here... out here. Alone but for the radio.

  "Roger that.” Kyle said, and put his binoculars in the correct field. "Why don't you take a piss real quick?"

  "I'm good."

  "Well, if you ain't going, I am.” Kyle said in his Mississippi dialect, and worked himself into a walking squat to wobble off behind Gabriel.

  "Make sure you bury it good this time.” Gabriel said loud enough to be heard.

  "Bite me."

  At least the nights weren't as brutally cold as the days were hot. But then again, they spent more time belly down then standing, so the sun baked sand burned their chests, and radiated heat well into the night. If he was boots down in this shit, it might just be a lot colder. Tomorrow would just about bake the skin off though, and he wished they could setup their hide. Just enough stuff to make a shadow, shade they could spend the day in. But rumor had it they were about to be pulled to advance. It wasn't worth the trouble to set the thing up and it would make them far less nimble than this push would allow. Especially now that they were heading, no, flying toward Baghdad.

  The first light broke the edge of the horizon. From this elevation, that would make the vehicle some twenty miles or so away, much too far for a sniper rifle, even a Barrett 50. He keyed his mike, "Bravo Whiskey fife niner, you have a vehicle inbound your bearing zero-one-zero, how copy."

  "Angel Two Six, roger that. Interrogative, force size, over."

  "Bravo Whisky Fife Niner, count one vehicle, unknown foot, over."

  "Angel Two Six, engage when able, execute extreme prejudice, how copy?"

  "Bravo Whiskey Fife Niner, engage, extreme prejudice, over."

  The night vision scope attached to his rifle turned everything a sickly green, but the glare of the double headlights stood out, way out, even at this distance. But with that white-wash of the headlights, other less illuminated objects dissolved into the background. There could be ten thousand troops out there, on foot, and Gabriel wouldn't have a clue.

  "Did you say something?” Kyle asked in his sniper-in-a-hide voice.

  "Yeah, we have movement bearing zero one five, about twenty miles out. Can you find and range them?"

  "You got it, buddy.” Kyle's voice had become serious--or more serious--and he manned his spotting glasses. He was a stout professional. Professional killer.

  "See them?"

  "Yeah, got um. Call in a bearing of zero one zero to Whiskey Bravo and let them know they are inbound."

  "Already done."

  "I got sixteen and a half miles on the vehicle, looks like a pick-up truck... I can make out heads in the back. Troops I bet."

  "We have orders to engage with extreme prejudice."

  "Roger that. I think there are some people on foot, about 19.7, 19.8 out, heading directly towards Whiskey Bravo."

  "Let’s do a fire solution for 2.5 miles.” Gabriel said, making scope adjustments to at least put him close.

  "Two and a half? Are you serious?” Kyle had removed his face from the glasses and turned to look at Gabriel.

  "Yeah. I'm betting if we disable the truck, the foot troops will stop, stand still, and get shot."

  "You're asking a lot of that rifle." Kyle said, and began running the numbers for the firing solution on the tables taped to the inside of his wrist.

  Gabriel rolled the rifle to one side, and ejected the magazine. Then he opened the breech of the Barrett and drew out the mammoth fifty caliber round and set it on his shooting blanket. Other Marines called it the picnic blanket, but whatever name you gave it, it worked to keep the sand out of the mechanics of the sniper's rifle. "I'll use an explosive round on the truck, then go back to lead." He fished out a red tipped round from the box next to him and inserted it into the breach of the weapon, slamming it closed.

  "Then you’re asking a lot of your spotter, Triggerman," Kyle added, "Negative 7.8, left two."

  Gabriel made the adjustments to the scope. If the math was correct, whatever he put in the center of his crosshairs at two and a half miles would be dead, even the truck. And, Kyle's math was always right. It would take a solid two seconds for the round to reach its target, but then it was over for whatever was in the scope.

  "Range eleven miles and closing," Kyle said, his face fixed to the glasses again.

  "Those rags are haulin' ass." Gabriel rested his face against the stock of the Barrett, settled his eye back in the scope, and began his deep breathing.

  "Fife four."

  "Let me know when to let it go," Gabriel said, hugging the trigger with his finger, looking for that feel, that level of resistance he learned over thousands of rounds down range was the very moment before discharging the rifle. He found it effortlessly. Through the scope, he aimed low and between the trucks headlights, now further apart and moving fast enough to make tracking difficult. He would aim for the bumper. If he went low, the round would detonate just below the truck's engine and stood a chance of rupturing the truck's oil pan. Too high would place the round through the radiator, into the engine block where it would be destroyed by the explosives in the bullet. Higher than that, the round would explode either into the hood or in the cabin, killing the driver. It was the best place to put his crosshairs. "Did you calculate for speed?"

  "As best as I could. Three eight and closing."

  Gabriel began to nearly hyper ventilate with belly-deep lungfuls of air, trying to saturate his blood with oxygen. The longer he could hold his breath, the longer he would have to find the sweet spot. It was only mere seconds, but adrenaline burned air fast, so did the thudding the adrenaline put in his chest. His heart was already beginning to pick up its pace.

  "Two eight.” Kyle whispered clearly

  Gabriel exhaled completely, forcing the wind from his chest.

  "Two fife."

  "Gabriel drew half a breath, slow and steady, trying not to bounce the recital in the scope, and held.

  "Send it.” Kyle's voice was flat with stoic professionalism.

  Gabriel squeezed the trigger the remaining distance and the rifle exploded in his hands, his arms, and against his shoulder. The muzzle flash, although muted, was bright enough to turn his night vision scope into a minty cream glare. It slowly darkened and focused back on the headlights. He was not a religious man, was almost proud of his atheism, but in his head he begged, 'God, make it good,' over and over as he watched the trucks grill.

  A sudden flash, small, almost unimportant, sparked against the bullnose of the small truck's hood, just above the grill, and the hood burst upward into a small hill as a flame started within the engine compartment. The truck veered left violently, revealing the ten or so silhouettes in the bed. The passengers began tumbling, falling, leaping from the bed of the truck and diving into the sand, trying to become a one dimensional life form. The truck continued its lazy left and stopped as it struck a shallow dune. No driver came from the cab, which was fine with Gabriel. His field of effective fire was now populated with eight or eleven rags, and his scope was already mil-dotted to that exact range.

  Now was his time to express, fatally, the political views of the American government.

  "Bring it up .25. You got nine targets all at the same distance."

  "Roger that, let’s start on the right, work our way left." Now that the headlights were not screaming into the throat of the night vision scope, the desert became much easier to see, to read and understand. Still, the r
ags were deep in their one dimension and hard to make out. But, that's what all that training was about.

  Gabriel found the first target on his own, and sent a round down range. One of the odd things about the Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle was the round, the metal sent down range traveled faster than the biblical retort it made. For the enemy, those at the business end of the rifle, they would either explode wetly and never hear the sound, or their friend would explode wetly, and as they took in the horrifying site, a distant crack sound would waft over them. It was almost a galactic joke how gentle the report of the rifle was at two and a half mile. The sound was soft, the bullet, not so much so.

  The first round found its target through the drift of sand he was hiding behind. This almost hid the kill and would have except for the burst of mist that rose magically from the sand.

  Surprisingly, none of the targets took flight, at least then.

  "Left fifteen yards.” Kyle said. "You know that was a record kill?"

  Gabriel found the target, and sent the fifty calibers of lead and copper jacketing into the top of the man's head. "You think so?"

  "Well, two now, next is ten yards left."

  Still the targets kept their one dimensional positions in the sand. Gabriel took a moment to find this next one, and fired. An ache began to develop beneath his shoulder blade, in the thick muscle that absorbed the massive rifle's kick. Pink mist popped greenly in the night vision scope.

  "Three now."

  One of the targets, two left of the last got up and broke for the burning truck. What his hope was, Gabriel could not guess, and after tracking him a second, leading him what he hoped would be enough, no one else would know what he was trying to do. This kill was obvious, not just to Gabriel and Kyle who chuckled at the shot, but the people he was running past were now decorated with the remains of that man's upper chest and head.

  Gabriel picked the closest target, who was lifting his head and looking around rapidly.

  "Five left.” Kyle said just as the round exploded from the tube of the rifle's barrel.

  Gabriel didn't hear him.

  This man's head vanished, but for a split second, a mist much larger than his head suspended for a moment, then rained down on the corpse.

  "Four"

  Gabriel scoped the next in a hurry, trying to get them as they lay stunned, unmoving. Much easier picking this way. A flash of light caught his eye just on the edge of the scope, but he fired at this new target.

  Without waiting for the confirmation of the kill, he led the scope to the right, towards the flash of light.

  "Three left."

  Gabriel found the flash of light. It was coming from a flashlight or something, like the guy was advertising himself to be shot. Gabriel ejected the magazine and jammed in the next five rounds. It took a moment to find the guy, but thankfully he was flashing them with light, advertising his position like an idiot. He fired again and saw a man running for the truck and began leading him.

  "Angel Two-six...."

  Gabriel fired the rifle, shaking the very sands around him with the rifle's barely controlled explosion. This one struck the target at the shoulder, just in front of the arm, and his head came off in a pop of mist.

  "...Hold your fire! God Damn it, hold your fire!"

  Gabriel found the last man, he was bent deep and running surprisingly fast for his stance and began to lead him. The battle rage was full on and the blood lust filled his heart. He was not just the battlefield overseer for Whiskey Fife Niner, but the vengeful hand of God himself. Eight troops down and one vehicle in less than two minutes. It made him feel like God, at least one of God's angels. Not the angel of mercy, but the vengeful angel of death.

  Before he could send the last round, send the last rag to his grave, Kyle jumped on top of him, driving the air out of his lungs and sending the scope into the night sky. Gabriel reacted immediately, rolling Kyle off of him, driving the back of his head into the sand and drawing his side arm. With the trigger fingered, it took Gabriel a minute to realize he was about to kill Kyle, his spotter, his best friend. Kyle's face was a twist of surprise, fear and anger all one.

  "Get the fuck off me you asshole!” Kyle shouted, and shoved him with both hands.

  Gabriel allowed himself to roll off Kyle, shocked at what he almost did and terrified of his own hands. They shook violently now, and he dropped the sidearm.

  "They are fucking friendlies! Didn't you hear the radio? What the fuck is wrong with you man!” Kyle stood, stood over Gabriel, pointing down at him. "You're screwed in the head man! You're fucked!"

  "Angel Two Six, you got friendlies in your range! Cease fire!” The radio continued to squawk.

  Friendlies?

  "Whiskey Fife Nine, received, over." Kyle said, trying for that stoic every-one-can-hear-this voice, but failing completely.

  "American?” Gabriel asked as if it would make a difference.

  "British, special forces in bound with a prisoner!"

  Gabriel rolled his head and vomited.

  Gabriel snapped his eyes open to find Lance and Big guy standing around a dead fire in a large sand-filled clearing. The sun was up, that was obvious even if hard to find in the sky. The clearing was now lit and so much easier to see. Then it dawned on him he had fallen asleep. For the first time in five or six days, he fell asleep. The dreams made it a restless sleep, but it was still sleep. Up in a tree, ten feet from the ground but still. He looked at his watch to find it was just after one in the afternoon. He looked back to the horses, and they were close together, barrel belly to barrel belly, and Lance was sneaking bites from the tied grass on Big Guy's back. He felt that sickening wave of 'what the fuck' he got whenever he woke from a trip-out like this.

  Fug.

  He searched around the horse’s feet, but he was not there. He had wondered off. Unable to lay on his chest or lap, the dog had wondered off in search of a place to sleep. Or worse. Oh no. Not Fug"

  Gabriel twisted over, slid from the crux of the large branches, dangled a second then dropped to the ground. When he turned, he found Fug standing there, waving his tail lazily and staring.

  Gabriel was surprised at the amount of relief he felt at that moment. Yeah, he loved the dog, but it was a dog. What the hell was he going to do when it was time for Fugster to move on and pass away? The twenty seconds Gabriel had lost the animal was almost too much.

  He knelt down and the dog came for an embrace, which drove his tail faster, whipping back and forth in a love frenzy. "I thought I lost you boy.” He said, trying to sooth the dog but knowing he was really soothing himself.

  Idiot.

  You leave me alone, bastard. "Come on boy, let’s go feed the horses and get a move on. We're not even out of Vermont yet, you know that?"

  The dog responded by tilting his head and staring, which made Gabriel smile for the first time in days. As sick as he felt, as scared as these little trips made him, the sleep had done him a world of good.

  "Come on.” He led the dog back to the horses where he doled out food for all of them, and waited for the animals to finish their meals. His was a small portion of the deer jerky, which didn't take long. What it did take was water. That salt was really beginning to dry him out and he knew he would need to get some water soon. For himself and the animals.

  After tethering Big Guy to Lance, he set off, again to the south. He considered tracking back to the farmhouse to see if they had a well or city water service that still worked, but decided against it. The need was not great, and there would be plenty more houses between here and Virginia. He was not in danger of running out of water yet. As long as he kept an eye on it, that is.

  The forest here was more scrubby and young than the last, which made going a bit more difficult, but later on into the day, it began to age. The trees grew taller, the scrub less and less. Then it broke open and into a neighborhood. It was not a gentle transition, one step they were in the woods, the next step they were on the edge of a manicured lawn of some
upper-middle class home, complete with in-ground swimming pool. Gabriel knew the woods would end soon. Any idiot could have sensed the clearing ahead. He just didn't expect it so abruptly. It was a blessing, though, as it was already growing towards dusk. That and his back ached with the riding and backtracking to get around the thornier bushes that seemed everywhere.

  The neighborhood looked new, or at least newer and at one point it was easy to see it had been a prosperous little community. The homes were all of different and more modern styles, all two stories, all painted some shade of brown or grey, trimmed in grey or white. A number of them had an identically styled white nylon fences around their backyard. The landscaping in each was different but entirely similar, each yard holding nearly the same number of the same shrub or tree. All of this, though, had gone brown or was on its way.

  Each house he studied he found silent, still, and like the manufacturing plant, sterile of life. Gabriel had a sudden and disquieting thought. Maybe he was not the only one around here that was alive, maybe he was just dead. What a pretty pile of crap that would be. The world hadn't been overrun by these monsters, he was just in his little personalized hell, that was all. Gabriel branded eternal torment. That's why he couldn't find living people anywhere. They weren't supposed to be living. He was just being punished for his killing ability.

  God did he miss beer.

  He pulled Lance up to the side of the large two story home to his left, where he found a spigot standing defiantly on the gray windowless, featureless, side. It was next to what looked like a dried holly bush, which itself was next to the cement driveway. He dismounted and twisted the blue wavy knob on the top of the faucet and was relieved to hear water gurgling and then come spitting out in a forceful stream.

  He went to his knees, filled his hands, and then scrubbed his face with the bone numbing water. His knees began to get drenched but he didn't care. This felt too damn good. After scrubbing his hair under the flow, he put his hat on and found Fug trying to lap the water up from the dried grass. "Hold on a second there, Fugster. Let me get your bowl."