Shock Factor

by Jack Coughlin

  He shifted his scope and searched for activity on the rooftops down the street. Nothing of interest, but it got Adam thinking about some of the things he’d learned during the urban warfare section of sniper school back in Indiana.

  The avenue stretching south had two visible cross streets. One was about two hundred yards away. These side roads channeled wind, and because of the dynamic currents in an urban environment, the wind can blow in different directions and speeds from block to block.

  Take a shot at a bad guy three blocks up a street, and a sniper might have to deal with three different wind factors in the shooting equation. This can make shooting at a distance in cityscapes a significant challenge.

  Another challenge is the nature of engagements in urban terrain. In rural areas, or open terrain, the range between friend and foe is usually a lot farther away than in urban areas. This makes things easier on the sniper, as he can take a Win Mag or an M40 or a .50 cal and know the general distance at which he’ll be shooting targets. In Afghanistan, MARSOC snipers routinely opened fire at Taliban fighters twelve hundred yards away or more.

  In places like Ramadi, the enemy can be anywhere. Firefights will range from farther than a thousand yards down to point-blank with sudden, surprise attacks like the one that killed Mike Monsoor. Snipers have to fulfill multiple roles in a city fight, which requires multiple weapons—an operator cannot effectively clear a room with a Win Mag. Trying to shoot a target at close range with a ten-power scope presents all manner of problems as well, so the snipers in Ramadi carried M4s as well as their sniper rifle.

  On the fourth floor of the new 17th Street COP, Adam had a better field of fire than usual. He could see out to perhaps eight hundred yards down the street. The buildings were not uniform in size and shape, more of a mishmash that created corners and dead spaces between the alleys and side streets. This made for lots of places for insurgents to lurk. Adam scanned each one, then started back on the rooftops.

  Right away, he spotted an Iraqi male atop a building a few hundred yards away. A quick examination of the man revealed that he had no weapon in his outstretched arms, but he was holding something small cupped in his palms. He walked to the edge of the roof and flung something into the air.

  It took a moment for Adam to register what he’d just seen. The man had tossed a pigeon. The bird began flying around as the Iraqi disappeared from view. He returned and released another one. Within a few minutes, he had a whole feathered squadron loitering overhead. He began to whistle and clap at them, which prompted the pigeons to do aerial front-flips. They spun and tumbled around him while Adam watched with interest.

  What kind of a person played with pigeons in the middle of a combat zone?

  A memory welled from his mind. A movie from a few years back … what was it?

  Tom Berenger.

  Denzel Washington.

  This Iraqi reminded him of a scene from that movie. It was in some American urban ghetto. As Denzel’s character approaches a neighborhood, they saw the same thing. What did they call it?

  Flipping pigeons.

  That’s right. Training Day. The gangbangers used the birds as a way to signal impending danger.

  Could this guy be doing the same thing?

  Adam watched him more closely now. He was a male of military age. Bearded, like everyone else. No weapons, of that he was certain.

  Where did this fit into the ROEs? Every time an America sniper pulled a trigger in Ramadi, the military made him fill out a shooter’s statement and the incident was investigated to make sure the shot didn’t violate procedures or the current ROEs.

  He reported what the Iraqi was doing to his commander, who told Adam to keep an eye on the pigeon flipper.

  A moment later, Dave called out the arrival of several military-aged males in the street, about a hundred thirty yards away. Just as he did, the pigeon flipper vanished. Adam checked the street. In the nearest intersection a group of men were gathering. They were laughing and smiling, like they were meeting at a park back home for a soccer game or something.

  Laughter in Ramadi was not a common commodity.

  What the hell was going on?

  Adam looked over the crowd and saw one of the males gesture toward the COP. He was wearing a big, baggy brown sweater, the sort you might see a merchant seaman wear. It looked like it hadn’t been washed in years. In Ramadi, nothing had.

  Brown Sweater abruptly stopped and looked directly at the fourth floor. He seemed to be staring right at Adam.

  Okay, asshole. Maybe you know where I am. Fine. Bring it. Let’s get this on.

  “Boss, can we pull on these motherfuckers?” Adam asked his commanding officer.

  “Any weapons?”

  “None visible.”

  “Negative.”

  Something did not feel right here. The gagglefuck in the street looked like nothing more than a cover for surveillance of the new COP. No sneak and peak here. They knew the ROEs and knew the SEALs could not engage them. They were exploiting the Coalition’s own rules to get a handle on the best way to launch an attack.

  Adam sat there, watching them laugh and felt cold rage.

  This kind of bullshit will lose you a war.

  A few of the men drifted away down the side street. The remaining ones stayed only a short time longer before walking casually away. After they left, Adam pulled his eye from the scope and looked down over his rifle. The street was empty, at least for the moment.

  He was about to go back to glassing the rooftops when he noticed a scuff mark on the windage adjustment dial on the side of his Nightforce.

  Oh shit.

  He’d zeroed his rifle to seven hundred yards before the start of the mission. The scuff hadn’t been there. With a sinking feeling he realized he must have struck it when he fell off the wall during the infil.

  Was his zero off?

  There was no way to tell. He couldn’t take a shot without revealing his position. Besides, if he fired randomly in the city, surely somebody would have his ass for that.

  The uncertainty fed his rage.

  He stared down into the now-empty street, wondering if he should swap out with Dave or another sniper whose zero was certain on his rifle.

  That might be the professional thing to do.

  He considered it for another moment. Each sniper’s weapon was tailored and zeroed specifically to his eye, grip, and cheek placement. He couldn’t just take another rifle and settle back down. He would have to either switch out, or make it work and compensate for any movement on the dial after he saw where his initial shot went.

  Adam watched as a Marine patrol dashed into his field of view. They crossed through the second intersection a few hundred yards further down the street, their Humvees rumbling through the rubble and trash while their gunners held their heavy weapons and scanned the rooftops. The column vanished from view a moment later.

  He wasn’t going to leave; no way. He’d just gotten to this shithole, and he was determined to help those Americans below in the street.

  Right then, an explosion tore through the neighborhood. Dirt and debris fluttered down from the ceiling as the shock wave shook the building. The platoon radio filled with chatter. One of the Marine patrols had just taken an IED strike.

  Adam gritted his teeth and seethed. There wasn’t anyone in his field of view, not even any civilians. They’d cleared the area, probably having known in advance the attack was coming.

  Another explosion rocked the school. More grit filtered down from the ceiling, peppering the snipers with dust and grime. Probably asbestos, too.

  The snipers had no eyes on the blast, and there was speculation as to what it was. An IED? A heavy mortar—say a 120mm? Maybe a rocket strike? Whatever the case, the enemy had just made it clear they would not let this COP go up without a fight.

  A few minutes passed without any further activity. The street remained empty until a wrecker turned a corner and came down toward the COP, towing one of the Marine Humvees.
The whole front clip had been blown apart by the IED hit. The wheels were mangled, the tires burned. The hood was gone, the windshield spiderwebbed with cracks, and the engine was a tangled mess of broken metal and hoses.

  A burst of automatic weapons fire rang out a few blocks away. Again, Adam had no visual on it. An American machine gun rattled off a long series of replies. The exchange reminded him of his first tour as a Mark 48 automatic weapons gunner and his first firefight.

  His platoon had established an overwatch position in Mosul. The unit’s snipers had set up hides on the top floor of the building while Adam and the rest of the guys pulled security on the ground floor. For hours, they kept their eyes on a fractious, hostile neighborhood until a sedan sped around a corner and screeched to a halt right in front of their building. Four insurgents with AK-47s bailed out of the vehicle, while several more came out from a doorway across the street.

  It was a classic case of a sudden, point-blank situation with the enemy in an urban environment. The enemy had no idea they’d just parked in front of a SEAL Team, which made things easy. The snipers opened fire first, dropping several Muj before Adam could even pull the trigger on his 7.62mm machine gun.

  Adam’s burst raked right through a window, blowing out the glass and sending shards flying into the street. He laid on the trigger and caught one of the insurgents still standing by the sedan as he wielded his AK-47. The man went down, riddled with bullets.

  The enemy tried to maneuver on the SEALs’ position, but the team killed them all or drove them off.

  Adam kept that fight in the back of his mind as he watched the street and listened to the sporadic gunfire erupting around the school. In an urban environment, you can’t take anything for granted. One minute you can be watching an intersection eight hundred yards away. The next you’re locked in a battle at near hand-to-hand range. Relax only at your peril.

  He scanned the street again, looking for any Muj trying to sneak up on the building. Then he worked his way forward, his crosshairs passing through the first intersection. Nothing so far. He began to work on the rooftops. And that’s when he saw him.

  The pigeon flipper was back on the roof.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Bull’s Horns

  “Boss, can I engage this guy?” Adam asked as he watched the pigeon flipper. The man had sent his birds into the air over his building again, and they busily executed somersaults at his command.

  If you have to ask, you probably shouldn’t take the shot.

  Adam thought of the paperwork required after every trigger pull. Some JAG guy second-guessing his every move, passing judgment on whether he should have fired his weapon in the middle of a war zone. His maternal grandfather had served in Europe during World War II. What would have happened if they had these ROEs then?

  The team’s officer in charge told Adam that if it becomes obvious the pigeon flipper was signaling enemy forces, he could take him out.

  Who plays with birds when running gunfights have broken out all over your neighborhood?

  The sun was to the man’s back as it rose over the buildings to Adam’s left. The classroom grew increasingly bright, making the Illinois native worry again that his hide could be seen from the street.

  The pigeon flipper disappeared again, and the birds all landed somewhere out of sight. This gave Adam a chance to take stock. He pulled his eye from his Win Mag’s Nightforce and glanced around the room. Sunlight streamed through the glassless windows and soon there would be no shadows concealing their position. Behind him, somebody had covered the wall with camouflaged paper. It was the same woodland pattern he wore when hunting in Illinois. Against it, his hide stood out. Maybe Brown Sweater had already made his location. If not, whatever eyes were out there watching him would surely have him and Dave when the sun rose a little higher.

  At least if anyone started shooting at him, he could return fire without having to worry about a prison sentence. Plus, he knew he was a better shot than al-Qaida’s warriors were.

  Fine. Bring it.

  He settled back into his stance and brought his eyeball to the scope. At the closest intersection, the gaggle of military-aged men returned. They were laughing and joking again, but this time, several broke into spontaneous dances. A few pointed at the school and made mocking gestures.

  They were celebrating. Right there in the street, right under the eyes of the enemy they’d just hammered. Smack in the middle was Brown Sweater, slapping backs and high-fiving like some immature athlete.

  Dave was watching them, too. Adam heard him say, “They’re rubbing our faces in it.”

  “Yep.”

  There were eight to ten in the middle of the intersection now. The celebrating died down, and they went into a tight huddle. Every few seconds, one of them would stick their head up out of the huddle and stare over at a particular part of the school. He’d nod, then drop back down into the huddle. It seemed as if they were calling their next play against the new COP.

  Street football, Ramadi style. You fire the RPG at the gate, we’ll sweep left and emplace an IED.

  “Can we pull on these motherfuckers?” Adam asked. But as soon as he did, he knew the answer.

  “Can’t man. Can’t do it. We’re not inside the ROEs.”

  ROEs the enemy clearly understood.

  Adam scanned for weapons, though he knew they’d be unarmed. He checked Brown Sweater thoroughly, looking for a pistol in his waistband, or perhaps in his pocket. Nothing.

  Brown Sweater’s head rose above the huddle. He looked straight up at the school’s fourth floor. From his scope, Adam could see his dark eyes seemingly boring into his.

  He sees me. I know he sees me.

  Snipers spend so much time watching other people who don’t know they’re being watched that they can tell who is up to no good, and who’s just a passerby pretty easily after a while. Little details—facial expressions, body movement, the way somebody walks or stands—they telegraph tension, or fear, or anticipation.

  Brown Sweater’s eyes were full of hate. Adam had no doubt of that.

  But he knew he could not take the shot. Even if he didn’t get prosecuted, there could be a media circus. Those vultures were always circling, looking for another Haditha story, or Abu Ghraib. Even if it escaped the notice of the press, there were other drastic measures that could be taken against a sniper who’d strayed from the ROEs. A Trident Board could be convened by Naval Special Warfare, and the sniper could be kicked out of the teams. For Adam, after ten plus years, to get booted back to the fleet as a medic was a fate worse than death.

  The huddle broke as the men dispersed again. Some ran across the intersection and disappeared to the east. Some exited to the west. A silence fell across the neighborhood, broken only by a few stray AK reports in the distance. A few more minutes passed. The snipers scanned and searched to no avail.

  A third explosion shattered the calm. Another IED, but this time nobody was hurt and the targeted Humvee was not damaged.

  A few minutes later, the pigeon flipper reappeared on the roof. His feathered pals began their aerial acrobatics. Adam reported it, and observed him long enough to make a decision.

  Okay, that’s it. This guy is definitely signaling somebody. He needs to die.

  Before Adam could take aim, though, he ducked out of sight again. Adam vowed to dump the son of a bitch the next time he showed his face.

  Sure enough, the birds had just landed back at their roosts when the gagglefuck returned to the intersection. The same ten, scruffy-looking males. This time, they stood close together, as if hiding from view something going on in the middle of the huddle. Adam couldn’t get a fix on what they were doing. Neither could Dave.

  Once again, Brown Sweater was right there in the mix. Greasy hair combed forward over his forehead. Long enough that his bangs almost touched his eyebrows. Cold eyes.

  Adam reported what was going on again. This time, the officer in charge, the OIC, had had enough. “Hey fellas, you see anyth
ing suspicious, drop the hammer. I’ve had enough of this shit.”

  So had everyone else. Everything going on since sunup had been hanky. Now it was game on, bad guys.

  As if they sensed it, the gagglefuck broke up again. Brown Sweater trotted off, exit stage right. The street grew quiet again. The pattern had been established, and it was getting old. Time to throw something new at these sons of bitches.

  A car rolled up one of the side alleys and pulled to a stop. Brown Sweater got out and walked into the street Adam was overwatching perhaps forty yards farther down from the first intersection.

  He walked along the right side of the street to a doorway. It was set back a ways from the street, and the corner of a building partially obscured Adam’s view of it. Nonetheless, he had a good enough view. He watched Brown Sweater through his Nightforce as Danny called out the range.

  “Hundred ninety-three yards.”

  Adam stole a quick look at the intersection to make sure the wind hadn’t picked up there. In these moments, he looked for any indicators of a breeze—a fluttering towel, a passerby’s shirt riffling, paper or trash cartwheeling as it rode the wind. Anything to get an idea of the dope to dial into the scope.

  The morning was still. Nothing moved in the intersection. If Brown Sweater did anything to merit dropping the hammer on him, this would be a straightforward shot. Except the Win Mag had been zeroed at more than twice the engagement distance. Adam made a mental note to adjust for that by aiming a little lower.

  But what if the fall knocked the scope out of alignment? What if the dope had been messed up when the dial got scuffed?

  Brown Sweater knocked on the door. It opened, but neither Dave nor Adam could see who was inside. A hand reached out toward Brown Sweater to pass him something. For an instant, Adam had a clear view of the tailpipe of an RPG. Brown Sweater gripped it.