Sniper Up!

Sniper Up!

         It was unbearably hot, probably somewhere around 115-degrees. There was very little wind, only enough to tease him as it occasionally caressed his sweating brow, providing very little relief. Marine Lance Corporal James (Jim) Caraway chided himself even though he realized it was supposed to be hot; and besides, there was nothing he could do about the environment anyway. He’d have liked nothing more than to strip down to his t-shirt and leave his protective gear folded in a pile beside him; but it wasn't the sniper’s way. He would work through the heat; it was worth it for the shot.

         “How long have we been here, Jim?” Corporal Kirt Jurgens asked.

         Jim glanced at his watch and shrugged, “Going on eighteen hours

         “Damn, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this--freeze my butt off at night and bake it during the day.” Jurgens confirmed what Jim had just been thinking.

         The sniper team known as Shadow One laid and crouched behind a stand of rocks positioned on the hillside. Approximately a half mile away they looked down into the valley at a hodge-podge of tan and bland boxed structures which the local folks called homes and businesses. For the most part, the structures were squared off with no pitched roofs unlike the ones Jim was used to back home in Georgia. Here, the roofs were an extension of the house—another room, a place to escape from the hot night, a place to hang clothes to dry, or gather for family events. Here in Iraq they actually lived on the roofs of the houses. At home Jim hung his satellite dish on the roof.

         “Range on the water well in the middle of the street is 865 meters. The clothes on the roof of our target’s house is blowing from the east, but it’s a light breeze. The high grass around 400 meters is being blown from the west, but its also light. Seems like they are compensating.” Jurgens kept his eye glued to the spotters scope as he continued to cite factors that controlled the flight of the deadly projectile. “Our elevation is about 30 feet higher than the target and its hotter’n hell. Put all that together in your snipers bag, shake it up, and give me a kill shot.”

         Jurgens grinned at Jim, as he removed his eye from the scope and glanced at the sniper, who was consulting the little book issued to all snipers. In the heat of action, Jim could mentally, almost by feel, make the calculations in his head and place the shots for a kill. However, that sometimes required more than one shot, as he adjusted the next shot from the placement of the first. When he needed “one shot-one kill” accuracy, and he had time, he consulted his shooters bible.

         Jim turned to his spotter and casually shared, “You know, Jurgens, these flat roofs provide less obstructions, as would have the pitched roofs we have back home. It means less obstacles and barriers to clutter our view of the killing field. Makes it easier to watch our targets."

         He returned his eye to the Schmidt-Binder variable power scope mounted on his M40A3 sniper rifle. He panned the central court area in the small Iraqi village, which served as a market place for the village. It featured a public water well in its center, from which the precious liquid was drawn for those who did not have water piped to their residence, which was most of the houses. Through the market place passed two principle roads leading to larger cities; among the traffic activity were frequent US patrols.

         Jurgens focused his eye through the Leupold Gold Ring 45-to-60 spotter’s scope, which was set up directly behind Jim so he had the same line of sight as his sniper. Both men were accomplished snipers. Both men could spot targets, determine range, and calculate the score of variables it took to set up a kill shot. Today, Jurgens was spotting for Jim. The other two men in the team were security; they watched the shooter’s back. Jurgens adjusted the power on his scope and focused on a taxi parked near a corner in the market area.

         “Damn, that thing deserves to be blown up.” Jurgens replied. “That is one ugly pile of parts. You’d think they’d use something better than that--something that didn’t say, ‘Look at me. I’m a piece of junk. Put an IED in me!’”

         “Shame on you, Jurgens,” Jim scolded, bringing the taxi into view on his scope. “Don’t you know that’s someone’s pride and joy. Antiques like that are hard to come by, being they blow so many of ‘em up over here.”

         Improvised Explosive Devices (IED) came in many shapes and sizes. Most of them were simply ordinance buried at the side of the road. In this one, explosive was packed firmly into the trunk of the worn-out taxi sitting at an intersection of the market area; it was armed with a remote detonation mechanism. It waited there for the right opportunity, unknown to the patrolling troops or many of the citizens of the village. However, Jim Caraway knew very well about it. Intel had identified it two days ago; it was the reason they were there.

         Jurgens looked up from his scope and took in the distant site with his naked eye as he replied, “This is a hell of a good hide, Jim. We can see into most of the first floor rooms of all the houses facing us. The side streets empty into the market area and there’s a clear line of sight down those for at least a block or two.” He shook his head affirmatively and continued, “Yeah, you did real good, Buddy.”

         “Thanks,” Jim responded. “You just gotta know how to pick ‘em. Sometimes you luck out. This rock outcropping works well. Eons ago those big ass rocks fell together and formed that window we’re shootin’ through. If anyone looks for us over here, they’ll probably think we’re in that house 300 meters out in front of us.”

         “Like I said,” Jurgens chuckled, “you done good, Buddy.”

         Both men returned to their scopes. Since early in the morning they had watched the residents of the village come and go. They were not unlike the folks back home who were likely doing the same thing—going to work, visiting on the corner, picking up some groceries at the store, playing in the street, living life to the fullest.

          “Target up!” Jurgens exclaimed, his eye still glued to the spotter scope.

         Jim adjusted his view through the sniper scope and picked up the target.

         “Got ‘em!” Confirmed Jim.

          “Range is 830 meters. Wind’s unchanged.” Jurgens confirmed.

         “Sniper standby.” Jim stated as he continued to monitor the activity of the target. “Squats’ on hold.” Any other time he would just take the shot and then move. But this was a coordinated effort with a patrol scheduled to pass through in the morning.

         The target in his scope was one of the bad guys. Near daybreak, they had watched him open the taxis’ trunk and attend to the charge, probably to set the firing mechanism. It was Jim who had nicknamed the terrorist Squats, who had since taken a position on the roof of a nearby building located a block from the IED, supposedly waiting for the appropriate time to detonate the explosive device. The cross-hairs on Jim’s scope were focused at the base of his nose—a head shot.

         “What do you think he’s thinking about up there?” Jurgens asked.

         “Who knows.” Jim breathed slowly and continued to watch the man. “He’s probably thinking he’s pretty safe. He’s dreaming about all his heavenly rewards and those virgins waiting for him. He’s most likely excited about the next patrol, like a fan at a football game.”

         “Well if that’s what he’s thinkin’,” Jurgens continued, “It’s a big-ass mistake.’

         Jim smiled. It was true; he had Squats registered in the cross-hairs of his scope. He had the range and variables calculated; Squats was as good as a dead man with only a short time to live. Tomorrow the patrol would be driving through the village. Squats would not be permitted to detonate the IED.

         From Squats’ actions and general demeanor, it appeared to Jim that the Iraqi believed his mission was an easy one. He would likely casually wait for the first Humvee to pass the taxi and then he would push a button. It was doubtful the Humvee would be destroyed by the blast. All they really wanted was to disable it. Squats knew the Marines would not leave the disabled vehicle with injured men. Squats and his brothers in Jihad would fire down on the Marines from the crannies and corners of the market area as the Marines tried to rescue their injured buddies in the Humvee.

         “Look at that ass-hole sittin’ up there soaking in the sun. He and the rest of his Jihad buddies are just itchin’ to kill as many Marines as they can pick-off before the heavy armor and Apache attack helicopters scream in to kick their asses.” Jurgens mused, “Hell, ole Squats there wants to kill and maim those guys and then disappear into one of the crap-houses of the village. And he’d damn right do it too, if we weren’t sittin’ out here waitin’ for ‘em.”

         “Yeah, and afterward each one of them would swear they were innocent noncombatant civilians.” Jim added. At least that was how he had witnessed it happen from past experiences with the insurgents.

         Squats was totally oblivious to the fact that he was being watched. Even if he had known, he could not have seen the sniper and his spotter. From where Squats stood on his roof, the most logical place for a sniper would be the rooftops of the adjoining buildings. There were a few two-story buildings three blocks away which would serve just as well. However, Squats suspected the insurgents themselves had snipers positioned on those rooftops. Anything further out would be entirely too far. Therefore, the Iraqi did not appear to be worried. Jim watched as the terrorist leisurely occupied himself on the roof, smoking cigarettes, sometimes leaning back in a chair with his feet propped up on the raised wall around the roof, patiently waiting for his opportunity to detonate the IED. Squats smiled to himself, apparently quite confident in the deadly exercise about to be effected.

         Jim heard the radio squawk in the other room where the two marines were watching their back. Shortly one of the men stuck his head in the doorway to the room where Jim and Jurgens were stationed and replied, “We’re not alone out here. Shadow Two is set up about 1,500 meters from us on the other side of the roadway.”

         Jurgens responded, “Good, they will have an unobstructed view of most of the other side of the street which we can’t see.”

         “Yeah,” continued Jim, “between the two of us, Bravo One’s back ought to be sufficiently covered. This could be very interesting.”

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          The morning took a long time to break. It always did when it began at 0400 hours. Pfc. Jose Mendez was geared up and ready to load into the Bradley. Three crew members and five fully equipped soldiers squeezed into the vehicle with him and prepared for the short jump to the morning mission. Two Humvee armament carriers would accompany them. Including the two three-men crews of the Humvees, Bravo One numbered a total of fifteen Marines. The Gunny had told them they would be clearing an IED and searching the immediate area for an insurgent armament stash. They should be back at base in time for dinner. Jose hoped so. This was the first patrol he was involved in since he arrived in the sandbox. He was looking forward to combat, but was scared just the same. He was a well trained Marine, but there was no denying this was his first time, and the butterflies were certainly active.

         They rolled out of the base perimeter at 0530. In an hour they would be there and the day would begin. It had already begun for the drivers and the gunners of the machine guns on the Humvees and Bradley. The men crouched low in the openings, staining to see into the darkness, trying to recognize any unusual landmark that should not be there, ready to spray it with death. It would be a long ride. Jose wanted nothing more than to get out of the lumbering transport.

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          Jim Caraway peered through the scope at the gray forms in the town. The early morning was just dawning. He knew the vivid reds, oranges, and yellows would soon streak across the heavens as the sun painted the underside of the high cirrus clouds. It would be a glorious morning. Unfortunately, he did not have time to watch it break. He was expecting Bravo One to roll into the village at any moment. Squats would surely hear the vehicles and pop up to the roof for his big performance. He and his spotter were waiting for him to show himself.

         On cue, Jim saw his head pop up on the roof.

         “Bravo One is in the perimeter of the village.” Jim heard Jurgins announce.

          “Roger that.” Jim acknowledged and then added, “Target’s up.”

         “Wind’s steady from the west at the target.” Jurgens shared.

         Jim settled the cross-hairs on the terrorist a click and a half to the left and about a foot above his head. It was time.

         Sorry, Squats, Jim mumbled to himself and then announced, “Sniper up!”

          “Send it!” Jurgens responded.

         Jim took a deep breath, let a little of it out, and then squeezed the trigger of the M40A3 sniper weapon. In a fraction of a second the firing pin struck the base of the .300 Winchester Magnum cartridge, igniting the explosive in the shell, which burned in a thousandth of a second propelling the bullet into the rifled barrel. It took a second for the bullet to travel the 836 meters to the terrorist’s rooftop. Traveling at over 2,000 feet per second the bullet actually broke the sound barrier, causing a mini sonic boom of its own, which sounded more like a loud crack. The bullet entered the body just below the nose and exited at the base of the skull. The man known to Jim as Squats was dead before he even knew what happen. He dropped to the floor of the roof; the detonating device fell from his hand. The clothes hanging behind him on the roof were red with his blood.

          “It’s a kill!” Jurgens confirmed.

          There was no time to consider the consequence of killing the man. Jim completed the action of releasing the bolt and fed a new cartridge into the heated barrel. There were more targets.

         “Target on the roof!” Jurgens shouted

         Jim peered through the scope and saw another figure in the cross-hairs. The target bent over, picking up the detonation device. He ran to the edge of he roof and looked for the patrol entering the market.

         “Sniper up!” Jim called.

          “Send it!” Jurgens answered.

          Jim squeezed the trigger again with different results. The hand holding the trigger device appeared to explode. Jim had opted to disarm the IED rather than kill the terrorist. The terrorist writhed on the floor of the roof, holding the stub of his hand and screaming in pain. He raised up on his knees as he cried out. With head and shoulders above the wall of the roof, Jim placed the cross-hairs on the injured man and took a second shot. The clothes on the roof were painted again.

         “Target down!” Jurgens shouted and then followed with, “Targets in the street!”

         Apparently, the word was out. However, no one else ventured onto the roof.

         “Jurgens, let Bravo One know that we have hostiles in the market area!

         “Roger! Get the targets in the street!”

         Bravo One had entered the market place and were assuming defensive positions. Jim saw a man sprint across the street carrying an object.

          “RPG! That guys got an RPG!” Jurgens exclaimed.

         “Damn!” cursed Jim. “He’s against the side of the building and I can’t see him.”

          Before he could say anything else, Jim and his spotter saw the man tumble into view and fall spread eagle in the street. The RPG fell harmlessly into the middle of the street as a pool of blood rapidly spread around the fallen man.

         “It's Shadow Two! Shadow Two is acquiring targets.” Jurgens proclaimed.

          “Yeah, I bet that messes with Abdul’s heads.” Jim chuckled, "Nowhere to hide!"

         Bravo One was returning fire now. The Marines had deployed from the Bradley and sought cover in the houses around the perimeter of the market place. He also saw terrorists falling in their tracks as Shadow Two continued to acquire targets.

          “Targets coming out of the woodwork, Jim!” Jurgens shouted.

          It was true. Jim could see what looked like dozens of men popping up on rooftops and leaning out of windows. He saw insurgents running down side streets and flanking the Marines in the market.

         “Tell Bravo One they’re being flanked. We’ll try to slow them down.” Jim yelled at the soldier with the radio.

         “Target on the corner by the taxi!” Jurgens called out.

         “Roger the taxi!” Jim returned.

         He saw the man. At least he saw a piece of him every time he peeked around the corner. He was being cautious. Every three seconds of so he would peek his head around, trying to decide whether or not to sprint across the street. Jim waited. He timed the next time the man peeked; Jim counted to three and then pulled the trigger. The terrorist peeked back around just in time for the bullet to enter his head.

          “Target down!” Jurgens confirmed but then continued, “On the roof next to Bravo One! They’re getting on the roof where Bravo One is!”

          “Got it!” Jim announced. However, before he pulled the trigger the terrorists flew backwards in a spray of blood. Then he saw a soldier of Bravo One claim the rooftop. Soon three of them were up there retuning fire into the street below.

         Three of his buddies had scrambled up onto the roof. Jose Martinez and two other Marines huddled behind a corner of a building in the market area. He heard the machine guns of the Humvees and the Bradley chatter as they chewed up real estate and structures across the market. He had not yet fired his M16; he hadn't had time. Yet, he saw bodies laying in the street. He knew they had not had time to inflict that damage on the enemy.

          With a confused expression on his face he looked to his Gunny and asked, "Who the hell killed those guys?"

          Gunny grinned an replied, "Snipers."

         "Geeze," Jose muttered under his breath, "I'm glad those guys are on my side."

         Shadow One continued to acquire targets and systematically cull the opposing force. Jim located a target, fired his sniper rifle, cleared the chamber, fed a new cartridge into the barrel, snapped down the bolt and found another target. Like a smooth running machine he coolly and methodically did his job.

          “Jim! We’ve been made! Pickup with hostiles in the back coming towards us on the side street!”

          Jim peered through the scope but could not see the targets.

         “Where are they!” he shouted.

          “The abandoned building 300 meters out! They think we’re in that abandoned building!” Jurgens proclaimed.

         Sure enough, the pickup pulled up near the abandoned building. The men piled out between the building and Shadow One. There were five of them. One of them was carrying an RPG. They gathered behind the pickup with their backs to Jim. One of the terrorists raised up over the hood of the pickup and fired the RPG. It screamed into the upper floor window and detonated, expelling flame and debris out every window of the empty building.

         “Sorry guys,” Jim whispered as he placed the cross-hairs on the driver of the pick-up and pulled the trigger. The terrorist slammed up against the pick-up and sunk to the ground. The other four men turned in shock and looked to the rocks where Shadow One was hidden. Their faces registered disbelief that their antagonists were raining hell down on them from a half mile away from the market place. However, they had little time to ponder the amazing feat.

          “Everybody get a target!” Jim yelled.

         Each of the soldiers of Shadow One was firing. At 300 meters the terrorist were well within the range of the M16 standard issue weapon. All of the terrorists lay dead around the pickup. Jim and Jurgens returned to their scopes. The Marines were out of their cover and in the street. The shooting had stopped as fast as it began. He scanned the rooftops and side streets and found them clear. He noticed the Bradley aiming its primary gun at the taxi. Everyone scattered for cover as the Bradley opened up on the taxi trunk. The explosion shook the square, knocked out any window that wasn’t knocked out in the fire-fight.

          Shadow One and Shadow Two stayed in position and secured the Marines back as they searched the houses. He watched as an Iraqi platoon moved into town and claimed responsibility for mopping up. They would find the stash house. But their mission was complete. Bravo One loaded up and headed for their base. Later that evening, Jim and Jurgens were introduced to an attractive female reporter, who was interested in the angle on the snipers. The reporter and her cameraman stood in the compound in the midst of a small group of Marines. Jim stood next to the reporter, who was decked out in Marine issue with an armor vest on but no helmet. It appeared there was a price to be paid for celebrity; you simply did not muss the hair. The cascading blond hair framed her face as she spoke into the handheld microphone and faced her cameraman.

          She turned to Jim and asked, “I understand you were in the battle that took place this morning?”

          “Yes ma’am, we were there.” Jim offered.

          “They told me you shot a man on a roof from a half mile away; is that true?” she positioned the microphone closer to Jim to assure she got his response.

          “Yes ma’am, it’s true.”

          “Isn’t that a little hard to do?” the reporter slowly asked Jim and then turned her attention towards the camera and continued, “I mean to kill a man?”

          Jim waited for a moment pensively and then slowly responded, “No ma’am, it isn’t hard. All you gotta do is take a breath and then slowly squeeze the trigger.”

          “But, to know you are the one who ended a man’s life. That has got to be a difficult thing to know. Does it bother you? I mean, do you ever have difficulty sleeping at night? Do you see their faces?”

          Jim turned his attention toward the attractive blond reporter and looked steadily into her eyes as he replied, “I sleep just fine at night. My conscience is clear. And yes there are a lot of faces. But, I never see the ones I’ve killed. The one I see is the one I let go the first time I saw a man in the cross-hairs. I always wonder who has died because I let him live. That’s the one that bothers me.”

          To the side, a young Marine watched the interview. Jose Martinez was a veteran now. He had been under fire. He had experienced other men trying to kill him. He didn’t know if the folks back home would understand what the sniper had just said. But he did. He was breathing now because that sniper and others like him had done a job, and done it well. He looked at the Marine Corps sniper and for a brief moment their eyes met. He nodded to the sniper and quietly said, “Semper Fi.”


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