Introduction: "To End a War"

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic
The tale of an American Sniper, the surgeon with bullets.

Submitted: February 27, 2008

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 27, 2008



It was one of the quieter scenes of nature, wind billowing in tall grass, a lonely dirt road snaking through the landscape with what seemed to be a sort of resignation. No one has visited this place in more than a year, other than the occasional animal and its ilk. Thus, no one saw the bush stand up with a Remington 700P SPS DM, run across the road and quickly disappear in the tall, dead grass. No birds registered the action, nor deer or jackrabbit. Nothing moved except this lone sniper. Day turned to night as the hours ticked by, the sniper and his drag bag slowly making their way to what he thought was the best position to make the shot. The sniper would lie on the slope of a small hill, opposite the road from a copse of trees. Soon the mark would arrive, a high priority target with heavy escort at 0600 hours. The sniper had a claymore rigged in the tall grass near the road, when the guard would predictably run for the trees, in search of this hidden enemy. The sniper slowly cast his gaze around his environment, making sure the area was clear before he reached into his drag bag to retrieve his scope and “dope” book. The sniper then lied in wait, a common practice among those with his training and profession. His watch woke him at 0430 hours, to prepare for the coming battle. Hopefully, very one sided in the sniper’s favor. He checked his rifle, made an estimate on the wind speed and range, opened his dote book and adjusted his scope to the correct minutes-of-angle according to his previous measurements. He retrieved a wide towel camouflaged according to this grassy landscape and laid it upon the ground as to prevent his shot from making a signature that could give away his position. At 0530 hours, he flipped open his lens covers and made a second estimation on the wind speed, just to make sure the shot would stay on the mark. Shortly after, the long sought after sound of a car engine penetrated the peaceful silence of the lonely grasslands. The target arrived 30 minutes early, but this came as no surprise to the sniper. Targets such as these were prone to change their schedules spontaneously, insuring they would not be followed. The sniper steadied his breathing to slow his heart rate, recited a prayer to his Lord and Savior, and prepared to make the shot. The target was moving at low speed, looking out for local fauna. The sniper heard a light rustling in the grass to his right and shifted his hardened gaze in that direction. The intruder was a whitetail deer, making its way to the road. The sniper thanked God, flicked the safety off and placed his finger on the trigger. The vehicle, seeing the deer, slowed as the driver lay on the horn. The sniper squeezed the trigger. A resounding boom echoed across the plain, and the horn stopped. The bush cycled the bolt and acquired a new target. The sniper’s mark, a well known terrorist looked with a blank stare at the driver, still talking, his brain not registering that his chaperone lay dead at the wheel. Another boom signaled the discharge of a powerful weapon and broke the silence. Blood and grey matter splattered against the windows and walls of the vehicle, obstructing the sniper’s view of the interior. The sniper laid his head down once more and waited for the sound of grass crunching over clumsy footsteps, those of the hunted and afraid. Predictably, the back of the van expelled its cargo and left its portal open. Foreign yells and orders were thrown about in a panic, the men responsible for them beginning to run one direction, and at the bidding of their master, in another. This continued for a long fifteen seconds before they regained cohesion and sprinted for the trees. The sniper lifted his head, confident that he would not be seen and rested his cheek on his rifle’s stock, staring once again down his scope. The claymore that he set in preparation earlier went off and three men fell, two to the claymore and another to his bullet. The men searching for him appeared as if their torsos had been jerked back, their legs not responding yet to the urgent willing of surprise and shock. Fierce battle cries and screams laden with dread were let loose, the enemy escort firing blindly into the trees. The sniper designated this moment as the time to escape, and slowly crept backwards, cycling the bolt once again. His primary escape plan was to get to the local river and follow it to the extraction zone, exfiltrating via MH-60 helicopter. Satellite pictures showed no enemy patrols to cover the area, nor any bases set up along the brimming stream. The sniper keyed his radio three times, indicating that he was en route to the LZ, and then stopped to adjust his camouflage to fit his forest environment. He could still hear the sporadic firing of his incapable harassers. He was creeping along the length of the river, staying as low as possible. The sniper estimated that it would take ten minutes at this pace to reach the LZ, without any obstacles, of course. Luckily, the sniper encountered no further resistance. The landing zone was an abandoned farm’s field, tucked away in the lush forest. The sniper stopped at the edge of the forest and cleared the other side with his scope, just to make sure he wasn’t walking into an ambush. Sure of his safety, he rushed out to the middle of the field, dropped his Infrared Beacon, and ran back, waiting for his extraction. An excruciating three minutes followed, in which the enemy stopped firing and, by the sniper’s guess, were headed to the sound of an incoming helicopter at full speed. The MH-60 arrived, slowed and descended into the field, .30 caliber miniguns coming to bear. The helicopter touched down and the sniper sprinted to its doors, jumping in and securing himself in the seats. The chopper began to ascend into the heavens when the blood spattered van came hurtling into view. The MH-60 turned to swivel it’s miniguns onto the hostile vehicle and let its crew do their job. The miniguns spit fire and rained tons of empty brass onto the dead fields below. The van was completely demolished, more bullet hole than car, its passengers seemingly vanished into midair.
“Are you injured, sir!” The man sitting directly in front of the menacing looking warrior screamed directly into the sniper’s ear. It was the first voice the man had heard in a week.
“Negative! Sure wouldn’t hurt to get a decent meal, though!”
The man sitting in front of the sniper laughed, albeit silently. The sniper relaxed for the long thirty minute ride home, laying his head back and listening to the roar of the rotors. The sniper awoke to the lurch of the MH-60 touching down on the black pavement of the helicopter landing pad. The chopper powered down its rotors and opened the large portal in the back, allowing its passengers to walk freely onto land. The sniper disembarked and scanned the area, habit overriding the logic that this was a virtually impregnable base of operations. He ejected the four round magazine from his rifle, racked the bolt and stuck the five .308 caliber bullets into one of his pockets. He watched as a softer looking man ran toward him, pinning his hat to his head to anchor it against the helicopter’s less and less powerful downwash. The crouching man finally closed the destination between him and the sniper and stood to regard him curiously; an armed bush walking off of a landing pad was an odd sight. The man stood and saluted the curious newcomer.
“Sir, the commander debriefs you at 0700 hours! Might want to go clean yourself up!” The man said with a boyish grin. He couldn’t see the sniper smirk under his baklava. After a well practiced routine of shedding himself of the local foliage, stripping away his ghillie suit and donning his lavishly decorated uniform and SEAL trident, he wove his way around the commonly used Quanza huts and bunkers to the commander’s office. Though, as he walked, he could not seem to rid himself of the man’s face. He had always reflected upon his taking of human life, these scruples often visited him in his dreams, but never with this intensity. He paused for a moment, forcing this stubborn image to the darkest corner of his mind he could find, and moved on. After all, the man did deserve to die, didn’t he?

© Copyright 2018 Be0wulf. All rights reserved.

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