Sniperman

Sorry, no sex to speak of so you've been warned. Just a chunk of action and a bit of emotion at the end, and a decision to be made?

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Family, friends and others who thought they knew what I did for a living would have advised me to stay calm and leave it the experts.

The few people who really did know what my job was, advised me differently. They told me to be careful and not to leave any evidence! My handler told me that he couldn't sanction any action, and then promptly arranged for an airplane to get me home as quickly as possible.

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Officially I'd been away on one of my frequent business trips; this time just east of Paris. That being partly true if the word 'just east' could be stretched out to three thousand miles or so, to a place far hotter and dryer than Paris would be at that time, or any other time of the year for that matter.

My contract had been successfully and cleanly completed, a favour to our American friends I'd been told, who wanted to make sure our target didn't survive the drone attack that would be following closely afterwards to cover up what was really going on.

The helicopter was dead on time and within minutes of me packing my rifle away, I was being whisked back to safety. At least that was what was supposed to have happened, but we hadn't reckoned on passing low over the heads of a group of 'unfriendlies', or for that matter that one of them would react so quickly and spray our transport with a hail of metal. Miraculously missed the pilot and me, but didn't miss something pretty vital in the machinery above us.

"Prepare for a hard landing," shouted my pilot, something that I would have guessed anyway from the grinding sounds coming from above me, and the way the 'copter was swaying around. Then the engine stopped, the sound of tortured metal ceased, shortly followed by a loud crunch and the sound of broken glass as we hit terra firma.

Then utter silence, but not something that we were able to enjoy for very long. We both leapt from our stricken bird, and ran for cover, scuttling over the scrub and darting behind a pile of large boulders as if our life depended on it.

Which it did of course!

Jim, the American pilot, and probably not his real name maybe, shouldered the light machine gun he'd grabbed, while I, trying to remain calm, opened my leather case and carefully assembled my own weapon, aware that I only had a very limited supply of the very special bullets that I'd prepared myself just a few days earlier. My gun, a weird looking thing to anyone not in my line of business, had been made specifically to my orders, and in my line of work if I'd needed more than two shots I would count it as a failure.

We didn't have to wait long!

"They know what they're doing," I muttered as we watched them spread out and work their way towards us, one at a time darting from one of the boulders that were strewn along the gulley and sliding behind another one. Each movement bringing them closer to us, but beyond the extreme range of Jim's weapon, but not out of range of mine as they were about to find out.

I didn't have time to line up any of them once they'd made their move, so I simply focussed the telescopic sight in on one of the boulders that I'd seen one of them disappear behind and waited... and waited!

Then the kick into my shoulder as my rifle barked, and my bullet wasn't wasted. My preference at that range would normally be a head shot, but it was a moving target and death wasn't essential, so I settled for dead centre of the body, more concerned about taking my target out of the equation than actually sending him back to his maker.

Five bullets, five victims and our attackers, quite sensibly, decided to try another tack. The ground to our right was too steep and too open to attempt a flanking attack, so much as military commanders have done over the centuries, they dispatched a small detachment off to the left in order to try and outflank us. Their cover was much better, and I wasted one bullet trying to discourage them, but then decided to hold my fire and not use up my dwindling supply of ammunition.

We were left with two choices, if you don't count surrender. That was to try to defend on two fronts, which for obvious reasons didn't appeal, or to try to outflank the outflankers. So it didn't take a military genius to make that decision. While Jim let off the occasional short burst down the gulley, more to remind them that he was there than with any hope of hitting anyone, I gathered my gear and crawled from behind our boulder, and made my way uncomfortably back away from the scene of battle, praying that a lucky bullet wouldn't find me. I hoped that they'd think I was retreating and escaping leaving poor Jim to face the music, not grasping the fact that distance was my one advantage. A few hundred yards, and safely well out of the range of anything they seemed to have, I veered off course, and started the climb, intent on getting higher up the slope than the group working their way to get above where Jim was. I deliberately didn't try to get behind them, not having the time or energy left to do that, and not having to with the weapon I had. I at last found a suitable spot and settled down, waiting for my breathing to settle down, before shouldering my rifle, and zoning in to where I hoped the 'baddies' would be setting up their next attack.

Three shots and three down, but only one bullet left, which would leave me with my small calibre handgun, which in those circumstances might as well have been a pea shooter, distance changing from my best friend to my worst nightmare.

I wondered what they'd say to my wife back home who thought I was in France when I didn't make it home.

Then, right on time the drone struck!

An almighty 'KRUMP', and the skyline lit up as whatever had been dropped must have obliterated the camp that I'd been spying down on, what now seemed like ages ago. Made me wonder whether my input had even been necessary.

Then as suddenly as it had all started, it ended, our adversaries melted away to go back and find out what had happened.

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The wump wump wump of an approaching helicopter was never more welcome, and they looked like avenging angels, as three of them, a big twin rota job and two smaller gun ships, swept over the brow of the hill and down towards us. While the two smaller birds stayed up making sure nobody interfered with us, the big boy touched down, and we both ran towards it. Moments later we were inside and being flown off to safety, while one of the gunships blasted our helicopter to pieces, not wanting it to fall into the enemy's hands.

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The last person I'd expected to greet me when we got back to the American base we'd been operating out of, was my boss Gerald. That's Major General Sir Gerald Blunt (retired), late of the Coldstream Guards, not my regiment, and now a senior member of a somewhat more secretive department of the British government, and not someone who I expected to be there to congratulate me, especially since we'd misplaced one of the American's precious helicopters.

"Well done Tom," was all he had to say on that subject, before he launched into why he was really there.

"Bit of an incident back in your home town, Tom," he told me sombrely. "Two undesirables have got themselves into trouble and have taken some hostages."

"You want me back there Sir Gerald?" I queried. "If they're not terrorists then surely it's a police matter and we shouldn't get involved."

"Normally not," he sighed back, obviously something being wrong. "The trouble is Tom, they're holding the hostages at the nursery school where your wife works."

"Is she Ok?" I shot back, an icy fear gripping my insides. "Have they got her?"

"Afraid so Tom, but she's ok as far as we know," he replied, reaching over to prevent me from rushing out to do something stupid, though quite what I have no real idea.

"It seems they've shot the school janitor who tried to tackle them, and they're threatening to kill someone else. But everything has gone quiet for the last few hours."

"I've got to get there," I growled, pushing his hand away.

"I know Tom," he tried to calm me. " But you realise the department can't be involved. It's out of our jurisdiction."

"I've got to go," I repeated, trying to work out the best way to get home quickly.

"Of course Tom," he smiled almost fatherly. "There's a jet waiting outside on the tarmac for you. Get kitted up and you take the navigators seat. The Yanks are thankful for today's piece of work and are happy to provide it."

Talk about breaking just about every rule in the book, but all I was concerned about was getting back home, and a jet fighter/bomber was about the quickest way of doing it!

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In super quick time we were landing at Brize Norton, where a car was waiting for me as I exited the plane, no questions being asked about what was in the leather case I was carrying. Then half an hour later and I was dropped off on the town square of the market town where we lived.

It didn't take long to determine that a section of the town was cordoned off by the police, and that there was no way that I could simply stroll up to my wife's school. I was familiar with that area of the town having frequently dropped my wife off, or picked her up over the the five years we'd been married. So I hardly had to scout the place out to know that the three story building opposite is where I had the best chance, with my skills, of making a difference.

But how was I to get there?

"That was quick," Came the solution from a senior policeman who approached me. "The army said it would take an hour or more. Follow me."

No idea who he was actually expecting, but theoretically I was still a sergeant in the army, so I simply nodded and followed his instruction.

I soon found myself walking out onto the roof terrace of the three story building, where the policeman simply nodded and left me, probably not wanting to get personally involved in what was about to go down when someone like me got involved.

Unlike the guy who I found crouched there behind the parapet giving me the once over much as I was doing to him.

It takes one to know one, and I didn't have to tell him what I had in the case I was carrying, anymore than he had to tell me what he did for a living. Besides, the M4 sniper rifle laid out alongside him on it's cradle, pretty well gave the game away.

"Army?" The man queried. "Weren't expecting you so quickly."

"Yes," I replied, that being close enough. "My transport was pretty quick."

"Police?" I countered, and he simply nodded and turned back to check on the building opposite before glancing back in my direction as I began assembling my gun again.

"Belgian?" He queried.

"Special order," I replied.

"Heard of them but never seen one," he commented, the pair of us content that we both knew what we were doing.

"I've just the one bullet left,' I felt the need to inform him.

"There's only two of them, so that should be enough if we're called upon, shouldn't it?" He said with what was as close to humour as we were likely to experience.

I smiled back, nodded my assent, and the pair of us settled down with our weapons ready and our hand scopes trained on what could soon be our target area.

"We're now live," my new partner whispered, after responding to a call on his portable radio."

"What's happened?" I demanded, fearful for the well being of my lovely wife.

"No idea," he responded. "But something's changed and they're nervous. Top brass are worried they're going to take someone else out so we're now live. They're both armed and dangerous and we have to take both of them out at the same time, otherwise it could become a shooting match in there. They keep coming to the window to check what's happening outside

"I'll take the left hand window and you take the right," I made the obvious decision. "You're familiar with the standard protocol?"

"He simply nodded and the pair of us, put down our scopes, shouldered our rifles and zoomed into our respective window, both aware that the two targets had been wandering around behind them regularly, but that we needed them to come to the windows at the same time.

"Live, live, live, live," he called out calmly, telling me that he had a bead on one of them, but I didn't and he fell silent as his man moved away, much as happened four times between us over the next ten minutes or more.

"Live, live, live, live, live," I called out again, only my years of experience and training enabling me to keep my breathing under control, but this time he responded, "live", and the next instant the crack of our rifles rapidly followed one another. His window shattering as the large calibre bullet smashed it's way through it, whereas my slimmer lighter projectile just seemed to punch a neat hole in the glass.

"Target down," I snapped.

"Target down," he responded, and immediately grabbed his radio and reported the same to whoever he was working for.

"Good shot," my man grinned at me as he packed up his weaponry, and I responded likewise, dismantling mine.

"Give me ten minutes," was the last thing he said to me, as he stood up and left, sensibly not wanting the two of us with our cases to be seen leaving together by the press who were no doubt milling about down there somewhere.

Taking back up my hand scope, I focussed back on the school opposite watching the stream of kids and teachers who were rushing out of the door to safety, praying that my wife would be amongst them.

My prayers were answered.

But whichever God I'd been praying to, decided to kick me in the teeth.

My wife ran out hand in hand with a good looking guy that I recognised as Mr Jones, the school sports master, and the very man that I'd caught her kissing under the mistletoe rather too enthusiastically at their Christmas party a few weeks previously. The very Mr Jones that I'd heard rumours about, but which my wife had dismissed with a wave of her hand. The very Mr Jones that at that very moment pulled her into an alcove and wrapped her in his arms as she responded likewise. It could have been put down to the relief from the stress they'd been under, but not the way they were kissing, and certainly no excuse for where his hands were wandering.

My scope had cost the government quite a lot of money, but at that moment in time I wished the resolution hadn't been so perfect. Who wants to watch another man put his hand up his wife's skirt as if he was standing right there alongside them? Who wants to watch his wife shuffling her feet apart to encourage him?

Who would want to be me at that moment?

"What's going on?" Shocked me out of my despair, and looking up I found yet another military type, clutching a case not like my own but perhaps somewhat bigger.

"You're a bit late for the party," I greeted him, picking up my case and saluting him as I walked off and left him standing there. "Give me ten minutes."

Let them sort it out!

_——————

Back at our house, safely ensconced in my workshop, waiting for my wife to come home no doubt at her normal time, though she clearly wasn't still at school, I sat there trying to work out what decisions I had to make about our immediate future.

My workshop is where I retreated when I needed time to myself and to reflect on some of the things I'd done that my wife would never begin to understand. It was where I thoroughly cleaned and checked my rifle, and where I built up the very individual ammunition that I would need for my next assignment. Normally my rounds of ammunition were configured for long distances and less frequently for medium. Rarely did I need to prepare any for shorter distances, like I was at that moment.

But I had a difficult decision to make before I could consider my work finished for the day.

The first bullet I'd already assembled lay there on the table before me.

My problem was whether one would be enough to satisfy my anguish, or should I prepare a second one?