Sniper Elite

by Scott McEwen

  As Forogh and the others started to cross the T, Orzu led them within a few yards of a deserted-looking, ramshackle building where the east-west lane came to a dead end.

  Four gunmen came pouring out of an open doorway and began shouting for them to get away from the building, aiming their AK-47s at the column and kicking at the horses. General pandemonium ensued as Forogh’s uncles and cousins all began shouting back at them, intentionally creating chaos.

  Orzu sat defiantly in the saddle haranguing the HIK men to stop kicking their horses, threatening to trample them if they didn’t get out of the way.

  “This is not your village!” he shouted down at them. “We go where we please here!”

  More HIK came running down the lane from the command post a hundred yards away.

  A door opened on the far corner of the lane, and Aasif Kohistani hurried outside followed closely by Ramesh, the brute who had cut off Sandra’s finger.

  During all of this confusion, Forogh pretended to lose control of his horse and sidled backward up against the building, tossing the strobe up onto the flat-top roof.

  “What is going on out here?” Kohistani demanded. “Why are all of you mounted and armed? Where are you going?”

  Having seen Forogh place the marker, Orzu raised his hand as a signal for his men to settle their horses and end the tumult. “We’re riding north to timber country. There’s work to be done.”

  “Now?” Kohistani said in dismay. “It’s dark!”

  “Of course it’s dark!” Orzu said with a hearty laugh. “Do you expect us to cut illegal timber by the light of day?” This brought a guffaw of laughter from his nephews and brothers.

  Orzu knew that Kohistani knew almost nothing about the timber-smuggling industry that was so rapidly deforesting the Afghan landscape, and thus would likely believe about anything he was told, within reason.

  “But . . . but what about your tools?” Kohistani said.

  “You think we carry all those tools back and forth with us, Kohistani? Why don’t you come with us? It will do you good to try working for a living!” Again came the haranguing laughter from his cohorts.

  Kohistani was immediately angry to be insulted in front of his men. “I see then, Orzu Karimov!” he shouted over the laughter. “I see! Then since you are cutting illegal timber, you will obviously need to pay a higher tax. Otherwise word could get back to Kabul of your illegal activities!”

  Orzu feigned indignant anger. “Since when does the Hezbi collect taxes for the Karzai government in Kabul, Aasif Kohistani?”

  “Why, the Hezbi does no such thing,” Kohistani replied with a smile, believing he’d gotten the last laugh. “I merely state that a higher local tax will be required to prevent Karzai from learning of your illegal exploits . . . Now go if you’re going! Get your men and these stupid animals away from here. You know very well this area is out of bounds.”

  Hating the Hezbi cleric, Orzu was tempted to say more, tempted even to trample the man to death, but it would not serve their purposes to delay further. The building was marked, and there was no sense to risk an open confrontation that might result in bloodshed. He turned in the saddle, calling for his brothers and nephews to follow him out of the village.

  Kohistani stood in the road watching them go.

  “We should move the woman now, Aasif,” Ramesh said. “If the Americans are watching from above, they may have seen enough to know the command post is a decoy.”

  “You’re right,” Kohistani said, his ego bruised over Orzu’s insult. “But we can’t move her tonight without them seeing where we take her. We’ll need to devise a plan first.” Then he added: “Select a man, someone who knows horses well enough to ride at night. I want him to follow that foul-mannered Karimov to make sure of what they’re up to. He was a friend of Massoud, and I think the time has come to remove him. Our people in the north can see to it that he and his clan do not return. Also, announce to the rest of the villagers in the morning that they’re restricted to the village. We don’t need them evacuating before the American attack comes. The more dead Tajiks when the battle is over, the better. They deserve it anyhow.”

  “It will be done, Aasif.”

  GIL WANTED NO part of fighting a running battle on foot against mounted cavalry in this territory. There were simply too many ridges for the enemy to pop up from behind and shoot. His only chance was to reach the bottom of the mountain and put as much real estate between himself and Panjshir Valley as possible before having to dig in. Before retreating down the back side of the mountain, he took a last look at the valley through the monocular in infrared, looking for the marker. Seeing nothing, he turned away.

  But wait a second.

  He had another look and saw that one of the horsemen was blinking.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, taking a knee. “Is that you, Forogh?” He flipped up the monocular and raised the sniper rifle for a closer look at the rider. Sure as hell, it was Forogh. Gil slid back into his nook between the rocks. “You were supposed to mark the building, not yourself, son. What the hell are you up to?”

  He watched through the scope as the column rode down from the stable and turned north up the lane. When he saw the four gunmen come pouring out of the deserted-looking old building, the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He studied the altercation closely, keeping his focus on Forogh. If he had blinked, he would have missed Forogh toss the strobe onto the roof.

  “I’ll be damned. The command post’s a decoy. It ain’t like you fuckers to be so creative.”

  He spotted Kohistani and Ramesh coming from the building to the right of the intersection on the north side of the lane. “So it’s you doing the thinking, eh? Well, okay, Mr. Kohistani, I guess I’ll have to priority your ass, too . . . along with that ugly cocksucker behind you who owes me a fuckin’ finger.”

  46

  AFGHANISTAN,

  Panjshir Valley, Bazarak

  From his hide dug into the slope overlooking the village, Gil had a good view of the target area eight hundred meters below. It was just after midnight as he lay watching through his night vision. He could see by their movements that the sentries posted around the village were still max attentive to their environment, but he knew their vigilance would flag significantly toward the coming of dawn. He could see Sandra’s building clearly from where he was, the infrared strobe on the roof still flashing away. It was nestled into a small cluster of crumbling structures one hundred meters from the river, nondescript and unobtrusive. Through the nightscope of the sniper rifle he saw clearly the guards lurking inside the darkened doorway beside hers, and he idly wondered whether they realized the darkness afforded them no real concealment in the twenty-first century.

  He saw, too, the decoy building that was intended to foil any rescue mission the US might attempt to execute. Positioned in the center of the village, the structure was well lighted with power from a diesel generator. Six men still stood guard on the roof, and there were more posted on the ground outside the main entrance. The building showed every indication that its inhabitants were ready for a fight, and still more men were billeted in other lighted buildings nearby.

  A decoy building was a smart ploy. Without Forogh’s involvement, Gil would never have guessed Sandra was being held in the ramshackle cluster of buildings on the slope above the river where she was fairly well isolated from the rest of the village. To keep her near the center of town, surrounded by guards in a well-lighted concrete structure would have been a sensible defense against a modern enemy who generally attacked from above in the dead of night, coming in through the windows and doors in overwhelming numbers when you least expected it.

  The first thing Gil would have to do in order to execute the extraction was clear a path to the building on the western side of the village. He would have to do this in complete silence, with zero room for error. If a roving sentry—or even one of the villagers—spotted him or one of his kills, it could easily bring the entire place down on his
head.

  He spent the next three and a half hours studying the sentries’ movements, focusing primarily on those to the west near the river. He counted twenty-nine of them, nearly half of whom were roving. The three rooftop snipers were a separate issue to be dealt with at a greater distance. It was obvious there were few if any radios among the guards, but Gil was confident there would be at least one radio among Sandra’s personal guards. He was equally confident the men in the decoy building one hundred yards up the lane would be listening for the slightest hint of trouble, ready to respond at a moment’s notice. The main road through the village ran directly past the decoy building down the slope to the dead end where Sandra was being kept.

  This setup was obviously intentional, meant to allow for immediate support in the event Sandra’s guards needed assistance.

  At 03:30 hours, Gil sent a text message to Sandra’s husband: KICKOFF. This was the signal telling Brux the rescue was about to begin and that it was time to get the Spectre airborne. The gunship had enough fuel to loiter over the target area for an extended period, but once it was in the air, Gil would be up against the clock, working against any number of variables that might serve to blow the timing for the delivery of tactical air support and, ultimately, their extraction from what was almost definitely going to be one hot EZ.

  Cradling the Remington MSR, he slipped from the hide with his M4 and rucksack slung across his back. It was time to begin culling the herd.

  He made his way down the mountain to the river and crossed to the other side using a path made of large stones he had seen the villagers using earlier in the day. The farm plots were fallow with the coming of winter and would provide no concealment other than the walls, so he kept close to the river, using the sound of the rushing water to cover the sound of his running as he made for cover. A slim crescent moon hung low near the horizon, providing good ambient light for his night optics, but not enough for anyone to detect his movement with the naked eye beyond fifty yards.

  He crept along the river to within one hundred yards of the first two sentries he would have to eliminate before penetrating the southern perimeter of Bazarak. He crouched behind a stone wall, unfolding the stock of the MSR and pulling it into his shoulder. The two men stood close together on the far side of the farm plot smoking beneath a coppice of trees, standing out as plain as day in the night vision.

  Judging that he could take both targets out with one shot by shifting his angle a few degrees, he hurried to take up a new position halfway down the wall, centering the reticle on the lower back of the man closest to him, and squeezed the trigger. The gun recoiled with a whisper as the subsonic round left the barrel. Both men went down in a heap, their guts blown apart by the hydrostatic shock. He put a second round into each of them to make sure they were dead. It wouldn’t be necessary to hide their bodies because they had chosen such a well-secluded spot to smoke.

  Now it was time to engage the rooftop snipers. The first and closest of the three would be the easiest to eliminate. He was perched on a lower building than the other two and out of their immediate line of sight. The second two would be tricky because they could see each other and were only about a hundred yards apart from east to west. Gil judged he could hit the first from where he was, but sniper work could sometimes be like a game of pool. A player wanted to sink each of his shots in such a way as to leave the cue ball in good position for the next. From his present position, he would have to displace rapidly after taking the first sniper, leaving a time lag before placing his shots on the second two, which he preferred to avoid for the sake of efficiency and safety.

  He hopped the wall and skirted around the farm plot to the east side on a northerly heading, moving away from the river to stop near the rusted-out hull of the T-34/85, a hundred fifty yards south of the farthest snipers out to his left and right. The closest shooter was only half that distance away, perched at the acute angle of an inverted isosceles triangle. Placing the reticle on the shooter’s sternum, he squeezed the trigger and the rifle did its whisper kick.

  The target flew backward as if he’d been mule kicked in the chest and landed flat on his back. Gil saw his Dragunov go flying off the edge of the roof and out of sight, and he knelt behind the tank waiting for the telltale shouting that would signal he’d just screwed the pooch. After a minute of silence, he raised up to check on the other two sentries. Neither of them seemed aware anything untoward had taken place, so he took a few moments to practice moving the rifle within the confines of the arc between them. It was a fairly large sweep at almost 45 degrees.

  The plan was to hit one of them when the other wasn’t looking, then sweep across the arc to tag the second one before he realized his counterpart had just been blown out of his socks from a hundred yards across the village. The sniper on the right seemed to be the less vigilant of the two, so, technically speaking, it would be best to start with the sniper on the left, but Gil preferred to sweep right to left, rather than left to right whenever sweeping more than 20 degrees. The movement was more natural to the body, and he would be slightly faster on the bolt.

  He waited until the sniper to the left wasn’t looking in the other’s direction, then swept to the right, shot his target in the center of the back over the heart, and swept back to the left again, working the bolt without taking his eye from the scope and finding that the third sniper had disappeared from the rooftop just that fast. Gil held his position, visualizing the posture of the sniper’s body as he’d swept the scope off to the right. Had the shooter been pivoting to turn, already moving down the staircase before Gil squeezed the trigger on his buddy? It was possible, and if so, the alarm might not be about to sound. The sniper may simply have gone below to grab a cup of hot Joe or take a dump.

  Five long minutes passed in utter silence before the sniper reemerged with a plate of food, his Dragunov slung over his shoulder. The fact that his counterpart was facedown on the rooftop a hundred yards away did not even register with him.

  “Apparently, it’s amateur night here in Bazarak,” Gil muttered, half criticizing himself. He shot the sniper through the side of the head and moved out. There was no telling how soon the bodies would be detected, and there was no time to lose.

  He skirted back toward the river to the west, moving up the grade into the village through a patch of trees, spotting a pair of roving sentries making their way toward him down the worn and rocky path at forty yards. Going immediately to ground, he pulled the rifle into his shoulder. The men were only sauntering along, talking quietly with each other with their AK-47s slung. Gil waited for one of them to lag a step or two behind the other, but they continued to stay abreast, coming toward his position. If he shot one of them now, the other might realize what had happened quickly enough to shout a warning before Gil could cycle the bolt and fire the second round.

  He set the rifle down and drew the 1911 pistol, waiting for them to draw within fifty feet. Concentrating on the illuminated front sight, he squeezed off the first round, blowing the target’s brains out the back of his skull. His partner had just enough time to gasp and turn his head before Gil put 230 grains of lead through his right ear.

  Even before the second fellow was twitching in the dirt, Gil was up and moving, slinging the rifle around his back as he ran to grab him by the ankle, dragging him from the trail into the shadowy dark. Seconds later, with both bodies off the trail, he was crouched beside a thick Chilgoza pine, scanning the darkness through the helmet-mounted monocular. On missions like this he always went with the monocular mount to keep his left eye adjusted to the darkness.

  He moved up the trail to a clearing and took a knee near yet another stone wall, this one stacked chest-high with firewood. He was about to move across the open expanse toward a manger where a small flock of sheep were held, when raw instinct gave him a moment’s pause. Someone coughed in the night, and he turned his head to spot a lone sentry perched atop a stone building with his back against the chimney. A Dragunov SRV stood upright between
his knees, and he was almost invisible, even in the night vision, the rumpled shape of his winter clothing blending perfectly with the large stones used to construct the chimney.

  From a hundred feet, Gil shot him in the center of the face. The only sound was that of the body and the Dragunov hitting the ground, but this was enough to bring someone from inside the house to investigate. Gil got him in his sights and fingered the trigger, realizing the villager was probably a Tajik, and therefore, in all likelihood, an ally of the West. He felt a cold sweat break out across his chest as he prepared to kill the first innocent human being of his career. In these final instants before it became necessary to make his decision, Gil recalled the stories that his Green Beret father had told him of the Vietnam War, of the dozens of innocent villagers—men, women, and children alike—he had been forced to kill during his countless LRRP (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol) missions north of the DMZ. In the end, his father had not been able to live with his conscience and drank himself to death.

  Just go back inside, Gil said to himself.

  The man crouched down to check the body and recoiled the instant he realized the sentry had no face, shrinking against the wall and retreating quickly back into the house. Gil waited three full minutes to see if he would reemerge to sound the alarm. There was only one way to make certain the villager stayed quiet, so he moved to the end of the stone wall, then crossed to the building, where he knocked lightly on the door, knowing the incredible risk he was taking.

  The door opened a crack, and he pulled it all the way open, grabbing the villager by his clothing to yank him outside and using hand signals to order him to drag the body into the house. The villager hurried to comply, and Gil picked up the enemy rifle and followed him inside, where a dim oil lamp burned on a table in the center of the room. He stared hard at the villager, weighing the man’s mettle. His eyes were steady and guileless, and he didn’t stink of fear the way the deceitful so often did. This was no guarantee, but it was good enough for Gil. He put a finger to his lips, and the Tajik nodded once, indicating that he understood.