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.
A mountain cloak hung from a nail beside the door. Gil pointed to it and then back at himself, asking with his eyes if he could have it. The man nodded and gestured for him to take it. Gil let the MSR dangle from its sling and shrugged into the heavy cloak. The villager showed him how to shape the hood so it would cover his IBH helmet, leaving only the monocular showing, and then reached for the Dragunov Gil had placed against the wall, offering it with both hands.
Gil tucked the Remington inside the cloak and slung the Dragunov. He didn’t like having to lug the bulky hunk of junk, but the villager was right about it helping him to blend in.