Elite Infantry

by Carl Bowen

  “Fair enough,” Yamashita said.

  Brighton was keeping the UAV high and centered, allowing Cross a good view of the route and the surrounding side streets. Four of Shadid’s personal security guards rode in front of his limo on motorcycles, trying to ease the way through traffic. As they approached an intersection, two of the motorcycles pulled ahead and blocked the side streets so the limo’s way would be clear. Then, while those two waited, the other pair of riders moved ahead to the next intersection. When intersections were close together, it made for a lot of stops and long pauses — and many unhappy morning commuters.

  The small convoy came into view of the sniper’s perch at last. At this point, they were half an hour behind schedule. “Got a visual,” Yamashita murmured to Cross.

  “So far so good,” Cross said, his eyes glued to the tablet’s screen. “You see anything?”

  “It’s clear,” Yamashita said.

  Below, the VIP’s procession made a turn onto a side street with no cars on it. That street was the longest, straightest part of the route, offering overwatch the best field of view. The van and limo rolled down practically by themselves as the motorcycles leap-frogged ahead of them.

  “Um, something’s wrong here,” Brighton’s voice reported over the team’s canalphones. “You see it too, Commander?”

  “Yeah,” Cross said with a tap on his earbud. “It’s awfully quiet through this neighborhood. Where is everybody? I don’t like this. Chief, tell your driver —”

  A huge ball of dust and smoke blossomed on the street below, interrupting Cross. A second later came the boom and rattle of an explosion. A roadside bomb had detonated in a trash can at the intersection just behind the team’s van. It did no damage to the vehicles, but the security man on the rear motorcycle disappeared in the fire and smoke. Another rider was knocked off his bike.

  “IED!” Brighton shouted. “Where the —”

  A second explosion went off across the street a little farther ahead, unseating the forward rider on that side.

  “Chief, report!” Cross barked.

  “We’re secure!” Walker yelled over the earphones. The driver of Shadid’s limo panicked and floored the accelerator. Wheels spun and smoked as the vehicle skidded away. “Hey, slow down, you maniac!”

  “Stay on them!” Cross ordered.

  “Sir,” Paxton replied. He gunned the van’s engine and took off after the fleeing limo.

  “Yamashita, two blocks up,” Cross said.

  Two blocks ahead of the limo, a car came barreling down an alley on an intercept course. “Got it,” Yamashita said. He took aim on the windshield for a closer look. “It’s empty, sir.”

  Yamashita squeezed off a round into the car’s engine block. A burst of flame and black smoke billowed from under the hood, but the shot came too late. Before the limo driver saw it, the burning car launched out of the alley and hit the limo in the rear driver-side fender. The limo swerved, bounced onto the curb, and then rammed into the corner of a building.

  Yamashita took a moment to scan up the alley where the car had come from. He saw a single figure at the far end — presumably the man who’d set the car in motion. He was running down the alley with a rifle in his hands. Yamashita pulled the trigger. The man collapsed.

  “RPG!” Cross and Brighton called out at once.

  “On top of the warehouse!” Cross added.

  Yamashita swiveled his rifle toward the rooftop of the building across the street from where the limo had crashed. The first thing he saw was the open door on the roof-access stairway swinging closed. A second later, he saw a man in a black hood leaning over the edge of the roof with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

  Yamashita and the masked man fired at the same time. The man on the roof toppled headlong off the warehouse, but not before his RPG streaked a line of white smoke through the air. The grenade hit the pavement just behind the limo’s front-passenger tire. The car bucked and slammed down, thick smoke pouring out of its front end.

  “Sergeant, get up here!” Walker yelled to Paxton over the earphone. When the chief transmitted, Yamashita could hear someone coughing. Then he heard Shadid’s terrified grandson crying hysterically. It sent a primal shiver down Yamashita’s spine to hear the boy howl. To force a child into this situation made the politician the lowest of the low.

  “We’re here,” Paxton said. He whipped his van around the damaged limo. They stopped just ahead of the vehicle in the street.

  “Chief, damage report,” Cross said.

  “Driver’s dead,” Walker responded. “Ursa Major has a broken leg; Ursa Minor is unhurt. Mister Know-It-All is unconscious.”

  “Hang tight,” Cross said. He looked at Yamashita. “Do you see anybody else?”

  With a long, steady sweep, Yamashita scanned the street for attackers. Then he traced a line up the side of a building overlooking the street from the opposite end of the neighborhood. “Streets are clear, sir,” Yamashita said.

  “Sir?” Walker called, his voice tense.

  “All right, Chief,” Cross replied. “Get the VIPs and Mister Know-It-All in the van. Ursa Minor first.”

  “Sir,” Walker replied.

  “I’ll get the doors,” Jannati said.

  “I’m going to need some help with these other two,” Williams said.

  “I got it,” Brighton replied.

  Brighton hopped out of the passenger-side door of the van with his AA-12 combat shotgun. He ran back toward the limo as Jannati popped the van’s back door open. Meanwhile, Chief Walker was half-climbing, half-falling out of the back passenger door of the limo with his M4 carbine in one hand and the wildly struggling Habib Shadid under his other arm.

  “Whoa!” Cross shouted over the earphone. “Cover! TAKE COVER!”

  Through his scope, Yamashita saw the metal door on the loading bay of a nearby warehouse roll upward to reveal a team of gunmen behind a makeshift barricade of oil drums and sandbags. The man in the middle of the team stood behind a tripod-mounted machine gun. As soon as the door cleared his firing line, the machine gunner took aim. Yamashita sighted on him at the same time. One shot to the chest put him down. As he fell, the gunner squeezed the trigger convulsively. Bullets sprayed out wildly. Careless impacts traced a line across the street between the limo and the van, just missing Brighton as he crossed through the gap. He dove back and shoulder-rolled to safety behind the van’s open back door as Walker pulled Shadid’s terrified grandson behind the open door of the limo.

  In the warehouse, another of the gunmen pushed the dead man out of the way of the machine gun. Unfortunately, he stayed out of Yamashita’s sights by ducking low, then sprayed bullets without looking. The shots chewed into the armor plating on the side of the van and broke up the pavement a bit, but did no serious damage. His fellows behind the barricade opened up with bullpup Khaybar rifles, pinning the Shadow Squadron soldiers inside or behind the vehicles.

  “Covering fire!” Walker called out.

  “Yamashita?” Cross asked.

  “No shot, sir,” the sniper said. He didn’t have a clear line of sight to the gunmen to do more than waste a bullet on a minor wound. If the man spraying the MG3 would stop firing for just a second, Yamashita might be able to shoot it and take it out of commission. But that wasn’t an option at the moment.

  “All right,” Cross said. He tapped his earphone. “Hot seat, you’re up.”

  “Yes, sir!” Shepherd said, sounding a little too excited.

  Brighton took a deep breath, then said, “I’m on it, sir,” He hefted his AA-12 shotgun and whipped around the corner of the van hollering an inarticulate battle cry.

  Yamashita saw a couple of the shooters pop up behind their Khaybars in surprise. He could have taken one or two of them down, but he knew Brighton had things under control. Brighton cleared his cover and opened fire with his combat shotgun
on full auto. The weapon roared like a lion as he let fly. With a fire rate of 300 rounds per minute and a 12-gauge bore, the AA-12 filled the air with lead. One of the gunmen fell lifeless to the ground. Several shots punched into the barricade so hard that sand flew out like firework sparks.

  Satisfied, Brighton dashed over to Walker’s cover behind the limo’s armored door and knelt down next to him. “Drum!” Brighton shouted, ejecting the shotgun’s spent ammo drum.

  Jannati threw him a second one from the back of the van. Brighton rammed it home and leaned around the edge of the limo. The bravest of the gunmen peeked out from cover to try his luck again.

  Instead of aiming at the gunman, Brighton lined up his sight with the gun and let loose. The blasts knocked the weapon off its tripod.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Shepherd said over the comm-channel.

  Before the gunmen in the warehouse could peek out again, a circular hatch in the roof of the van popped open. Sergeant Shepherd rose through the opening behind a mounted M134 minigun. His back was to Yamashita, but the sniper was willing to bet that Shepherd was smiling from ear to ear.

  “Light ’em up, Sergeant,” Cross said, his voice cold and quiet.

  “Hoorah!” Shepherd said.

  Yamashita couldn’t look away as Shepherd hit the firing button on the M134. Its six Gatling-style barrels spun up and put out a laser-accurate stream of 7.62x51mm NATO rounds at a rate just shy of 50 rounds per second. Whirring like a chainsaw, the minigun sprayed its ammo like a power hose spraying water. Shepherd swept an arc of fire across the kill zone, then back again. Bullets tore through the barricade like it was made of wet paper, annihilating the men behind it. None of them even had a chance to return fire before they were cut down.

  A moment later, Shepherd let up to see if anyone returned fire or tried to run away. No one moved.

  “Clear,” Shepherd said, a smile evident in his voice.

  “Roger that,” Cross replied. “Chief, get the VIPs out of the limo and in the van before anybody else shows up.”

  “Sir,” Walker said. Once more he began carrying Habib Shadid over toward the van. The boy had stopped struggling, but from the glimpse Yamashita caught of his face, it was because he was in shock.

  When Walker was clear, Brighton ducked into the back of the limo. He emerged a moment later with Heshem Shadid. Williams was right behind the politician, gently pushing the older man along.

  Yamashita began to scan the horizon, silently enjoying the look of pain he’d seen on Heshem Shadid’s face. That’s when Yamashita saw it: under cover of a rooftop ledge, a sniper was taking aim at something down below. Yamashita didn’t have a clear shot from his position, but there was no mistaking the prone position and the gun barrel.

  What happened next occurred in the span of a second, but to Yamashita’s whirling thoughts it lasted much longer. Part of him wanted to watch and do nothing. He relished the thought of Heshem Shadid’s final moments in this world filled with intense pain and fear. Yet as that savage thrill flickered inside him, disgust rose up and overwhelmed it. Was this who he was now, the sniper wondered? If Neil Larssen were still alive, would he be able to look his friend in the eye after what he was about to let happen? After this, would he be able to look at himself in the mirror? Would he ever see himself the same way, or would he always see his reflection glaring back with silent anger?

  “No,” Yamashita said. “No!” He tapped his earphone. “Brighton, get down! Sniper!”

  Without a word, Brighton whipped the wobbling Shadid back around in a half circle and shoved him back toward Williams. At that precise instant, a bullet meant for Shadid’s heart whizzed between his head and Brighton’s.

  The shot bounced off the armored roof of the limo. Williams pulled Shadid into the limo, then Brighton jumped in after him and slammed the door shut.

  “Where is he?” Cross cried. He had Yamashita’s rangefinder binoculars before his eyes, frantically scanning rooftops.

  “He’s in my sights,” Yamashita said. He set his crosshairs on the muzzle flare as the sharpshooter —who could be none other than Zulfiqar himself — took his second shot. The projectile lodged in the bulletproof window.

  “A little help here!” Brighton yelled.

  Yamashita didn’t give Zulfiqar another chance to fire. A quarter of a mile away, the silhouette of the enemy sniper jerked once, then slumped over sideways. The barrel of his rifle lifted up like a flag pole. For a moment, silence reigned, with nothing moving in that distant space.

  Calm as ever came Yamashita’s voice. “Clear.”

  * * *

  Several hours later — once Shadid, his grandson, and Agent Upton were all safe in the van with the rest of Shadow Squadron — Cross and Yamashita stood together over Zulfiqar’s body. Two motorcycles they’d borrowed from Shadid’s fallen bodyguards stood waiting for them downstairs.

  Across the room, Zulfiqar’s rifle — a variant of the Russian Dragunov sniper rifle — was still propped up where the man’s fall had pinned it.

  Cross pulled the rifle away from the dead man and ejected the ten-round box magazine onto the floor. “I told you we should’ve picked this place,” he said, glancing out the window. “Best sniper perch in the neighborhood.”

  Yamashita leaned against the doorjamb to keep an eye out down the hallway. “I didn’t want the best spot,” the sniper said. “I wanted the second-best perch.”

  “Sure you did, Lieutenant,” Cross said with a smirk. “Because you knew Zulfiqar would want the best sniper spot for himself? And you knew he’d just be waiting up there for his men to flush Shadid out of cover so he could take him out? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “I’m no mind reader, Commander,” Yamashita said. “But this is the spot I would have chosen if I had wanted to kill Shadid.”

  “True,” Cross said. “If you were Zulfiqar, you mean.”

  Cross left the man’s body where it lay and faced Yamashita. The sniper met Cross’s eyes warily.

  “Then again,” Cross said, “you’re not Zulfiqar — you’re you. If you had wanted Shadid dead, all you would’ve needed to do was hesitate at just the right moment . . . and watch as Zulfiqar took his shot.”

  Yamashita paused for a moment. Then he said, “If that’s the kind of solider I was, then you’d have to keep me at arm’s length during every mission. You’d have to be breathing down my neck at all times — looking over my shoulder to make sure I did the right thing.”

  “No,” Cross said. His smirk and sarcastic tone were gone. In its place was an intensely serious, searching gaze that burned into Yamashita’s eyes. “If you were that kind of soldier, you’d be off my team so fast it would make your head spin.”

  “Then I’m glad I’m not that type of soldier, Commander,” Yamashita said.

  As the words came out, Yamashita knew they were true. He’d flirted with temptation and had almost given in. But the regret he would have felt for the rest of his life stayed his hand.

  Or rather, it had helped him pull the trigger.

  “Good,” Cross said, patting the sharpshooter on the back. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Sir,” Yamashita said, the hint of a smile on his face.

  CLASSIFIED

  MISSION DEBRIEFING

  OPERATION

  PRIMARY OBJECTIVES

  - Meet with the VIP and his personal security force

  - Prep a route and determine an overwatch position for transit

  - Protect the VIP en route to his destination

  SECONDARY OBJECTIVES

  - Avoid open conflict with Iraqi insurgents

  - Keep our presence covert

  STATUS

  3/5 COMPLETE

  YAMASHITA, KIMIYO

  RANK: Lieutenant

  BRANCH: Army Ranger

  PSYCH PROFILE: The team’s sniper is an e
xpert marksman and a true stoic. It seems his emotions are as steady as his trigger finger.

  This operation was a perfect example of a worst-case scenario. Everything went wrong, the assigned tasks were complex and varied, and there was a fair amount of dislike for the VIP we were assigned to protect. But from the outside looking in, no one could have known it; our men performed with remarkable proficiency and courage, despite any reservations.

  As for me, I can’t say it was easy to safeguard the life of an evil man. But if I wanted easy, I wouldn’t have chosen to become a sniper — or join Shadow Squadron.

  - Lieutenant Kimiyo Yamashita

  CLASSIFIED

  AUTHOR DEBRIEFING

  CARL BOWEN

  Q/ When and why did you decide to become a writer?

  A/ I’ve enjoyed writing ever since I was in elementary school. I wrote as much as I could, hoping to become the next Lloyd Alexander or Stephen King, but I didn’t sell my first story until I was in college. It had been a long wait, but the day I saw my story in print was one of the best days of my life.

  Q/ What made you decide to write Shadow Squadron?

  A/ As a kid, my heroes were always brave knights or noble loners who fought because it was their duty, not for fame or glory. I think the special ops soldiers of the US military embody those ideals. Their jobs are difficult and often thankless, so I wanted to show how cool their jobs are, but also express my gratitude for our brave warriors.

  Q/ What inspires you to write?

  A/ My biggest inspiration is my family. My wife’s love and support lifts me up when this job seems too hard to keep going. My son is another big inspiration. He’s three years old, and I want him to read my books and feel the same way I did when I read my favorite books as a kid. And if he happens to grow up to become an elite soldier in the US military, that would be pretty awesome, too.