Freudotopia
24-08-2004, 08:08
---In the hills outside the Rubberduckistani Sniper School---
Sergeant Ray Peterson felt the sweat slide down his nose on the fifth straight day of hiding in a bush under a ghillie suit, the fifth day of staring through a sniper scope at a large compound. With several buildings and a good deal of long firing ranges, the place looked like any small military installation. In fact, some of the world's best armies had men here training to become snipers.
Peterson never had much use for training. He was practically born with a rifle in his hands. He took his first deer at age seven and signed up for the Army Sniper Corps without even thinking about it. He had seen plenty of action in the last eight years, most impressively taking out four terrorist leaders in the span of two months. Peterson was the best sniper in the Corps, and he knew it. He was calm, controlled, and ready to take a shot at a moment's notice. And he wasn't alone.
Lying next to Peterson under the ghillie suit was Lt. Charles Lukens. Lukens had been spotting for Peterson for two years, and they had formed a working partnership. Lukens had sharp eyes, a quick mind, and the uncanny ability to recognize targets of opportunity in a split second.
Lukens was focusing his attention on the largest building, the barracks, knowing that in the early morning more and more soldiers would begin to pass in and out, exposing themselves to a killshot while opening the doors.
Suddenly his sharp eyes locked on a tall, straight man in a green uniform. His pace suggested decades of service in the military, and his back was as stiff as a ramrod. He probably looked exactly the same out on this dewy morning at four o'clock as he did on the parade ground during drills. He was clean-shaven and had graying hair and a mustache that looked like he trimmed it with a slide rule. Lukens knew this was the man they had been sent to kill.
"Ray, officer on the path. Two o'clock. It's gotta be him."
"Alright I got him. Anyone nearby?"
"Nope. Probably going to the main barracks."
"Yeah, it's still early. I wouldn't expect these Rubbie bastards to roll out until after seven."
"Five actually, Ray."
"Whatever. Yeah, he's headed to the main building. You think this is it."
"We won't get a better chance. The stupid SOB went out unprotected. This has gotta be it. We can't expect him to make the same mistake again."
"Right. Green light?"
"Affirmative. Take the shot at will."
"Roger, Charlie. Safety off."
Ray's finger rested on the gun's hair trigger. This was the prize pig of rifles. The Jackson-Sheen M440 was the most advanced sniper's rifle available. Almost four and a half feet long, it took high velocity .50 caliber bullets in a magazine of five shots. With a scope capable of 20x magnification, an optional laser sight, and an integrated silencer, it could drop a buffalo from 1,500 yards with barely a whisper.
Ray gave the trigger a soft squeeze. The rifle kicked satisfyingly against his shoulder. The silencer muffled the flash, and the slug ripped through the air. The lead hammered into the back of the unfortunate victim's head. Where there once was skull, now there was only dust and air. A cloud of blood and bits of bone exploded to create a sickeningly beautiful collage. The body remained upright for half a second, swaying almost imperceptibly before his muscles relaxed and the corpse fell like a marrionette whose strings have been cut to the cold concrete and the mess at his feet.
"Keep the change, fucker."
"Nice shot, Ray. They shouldn't find him for at least a few minutes, probably more. Let's move it out. Echo 14 is inbound. We'll evac back at the camp."
"Affirmative."
Sergeant Peterson had started dismantling his rifle as soon as the target dropped. Within twenty seconds both soldiers had all their gear stowed in their packs. Now was the critical period. Both men knew that many snipers grew overconfident after taking out the target, and such snipers are doomed to an early death. The two soldiers had a habit of not leaving anything to chance. They each ran ten miles every morning to prepare themselves for situations like this. They were conditioned to never fail, to never stumble, and to always come back alive.
They ran for twenty-five minutes, covering four miles without breaking a sweat.
Finally they saw the edge of the woods where their camp was situated. In another minute they reached the camp, and began the well-practiced drill of packing up all material so as to avoid leaving evidence or supplies. Packing took another eight minutes, and by the time they finished, they could hear the soft whirring of a Night Hawk heliccopter. The chopper touched down in a nearby clearing, and Peterson and Lukens jumper aboard. The flight officer closed the door, and the craft lifted above the trees and away towards its base, the R.F.S. Intimidator
Five hours later, the helicopter touched down on the deck of the mighty aircraft carrier. Brig. General William Hawkins approached them on the helipad.
"I take it the mission was successful?"
"Absolutely, Sir."
"Well done. Cigars all around, and then we'll go straight to debriefing."
Sergeant Ray Peterson felt the sweat slide down his nose on the fifth straight day of hiding in a bush under a ghillie suit, the fifth day of staring through a sniper scope at a large compound. With several buildings and a good deal of long firing ranges, the place looked like any small military installation. In fact, some of the world's best armies had men here training to become snipers.
Peterson never had much use for training. He was practically born with a rifle in his hands. He took his first deer at age seven and signed up for the Army Sniper Corps without even thinking about it. He had seen plenty of action in the last eight years, most impressively taking out four terrorist leaders in the span of two months. Peterson was the best sniper in the Corps, and he knew it. He was calm, controlled, and ready to take a shot at a moment's notice. And he wasn't alone.
Lying next to Peterson under the ghillie suit was Lt. Charles Lukens. Lukens had been spotting for Peterson for two years, and they had formed a working partnership. Lukens had sharp eyes, a quick mind, and the uncanny ability to recognize targets of opportunity in a split second.
Lukens was focusing his attention on the largest building, the barracks, knowing that in the early morning more and more soldiers would begin to pass in and out, exposing themselves to a killshot while opening the doors.
Suddenly his sharp eyes locked on a tall, straight man in a green uniform. His pace suggested decades of service in the military, and his back was as stiff as a ramrod. He probably looked exactly the same out on this dewy morning at four o'clock as he did on the parade ground during drills. He was clean-shaven and had graying hair and a mustache that looked like he trimmed it with a slide rule. Lukens knew this was the man they had been sent to kill.
"Ray, officer on the path. Two o'clock. It's gotta be him."
"Alright I got him. Anyone nearby?"
"Nope. Probably going to the main barracks."
"Yeah, it's still early. I wouldn't expect these Rubbie bastards to roll out until after seven."
"Five actually, Ray."
"Whatever. Yeah, he's headed to the main building. You think this is it."
"We won't get a better chance. The stupid SOB went out unprotected. This has gotta be it. We can't expect him to make the same mistake again."
"Right. Green light?"
"Affirmative. Take the shot at will."
"Roger, Charlie. Safety off."
Ray's finger rested on the gun's hair trigger. This was the prize pig of rifles. The Jackson-Sheen M440 was the most advanced sniper's rifle available. Almost four and a half feet long, it took high velocity .50 caliber bullets in a magazine of five shots. With a scope capable of 20x magnification, an optional laser sight, and an integrated silencer, it could drop a buffalo from 1,500 yards with barely a whisper.
Ray gave the trigger a soft squeeze. The rifle kicked satisfyingly against his shoulder. The silencer muffled the flash, and the slug ripped through the air. The lead hammered into the back of the unfortunate victim's head. Where there once was skull, now there was only dust and air. A cloud of blood and bits of bone exploded to create a sickeningly beautiful collage. The body remained upright for half a second, swaying almost imperceptibly before his muscles relaxed and the corpse fell like a marrionette whose strings have been cut to the cold concrete and the mess at his feet.
"Keep the change, fucker."
"Nice shot, Ray. They shouldn't find him for at least a few minutes, probably more. Let's move it out. Echo 14 is inbound. We'll evac back at the camp."
"Affirmative."
Sergeant Peterson had started dismantling his rifle as soon as the target dropped. Within twenty seconds both soldiers had all their gear stowed in their packs. Now was the critical period. Both men knew that many snipers grew overconfident after taking out the target, and such snipers are doomed to an early death. The two soldiers had a habit of not leaving anything to chance. They each ran ten miles every morning to prepare themselves for situations like this. They were conditioned to never fail, to never stumble, and to always come back alive.
They ran for twenty-five minutes, covering four miles without breaking a sweat.
Finally they saw the edge of the woods where their camp was situated. In another minute they reached the camp, and began the well-practiced drill of packing up all material so as to avoid leaving evidence or supplies. Packing took another eight minutes, and by the time they finished, they could hear the soft whirring of a Night Hawk heliccopter. The chopper touched down in a nearby clearing, and Peterson and Lukens jumper aboard. The flight officer closed the door, and the craft lifted above the trees and away towards its base, the R.F.S. Intimidator
Five hours later, the helicopter touched down on the deck of the mighty aircraft carrier. Brig. General William Hawkins approached them on the helipad.
"I take it the mission was successful?"
"Absolutely, Sir."
"Well done. Cigars all around, and then we'll go straight to debriefing."