Sniper One Page 3

Gilroy had no suggestions. Clicker Bell told him that the skill would be in seeing before being seen, then fading out of sight as they had been trained to do.

  The drop point had been selected for its safe distance from the objective, but also because the helicopter delivery could be made via a long and deep valley that put the machine below the normal valley floor and out of radar detection.

  The pilot hated it. He grumbled to the waiting Marines and complained less directly over his radios. The pilot's worries were legitimate. Flying the same route with any regularity was asking for ambush. Skimming along at ground level made the chopper an easy target. The pilot varied his approaches as best he could, but Bell's team was only one of a number that the pilot supplied, and sooner or later the chopper had to drop below the desert floor and hope that no one had figured him out and was waiting with something that shot big bullets very fast.

  Living inside the cave was purely boring. Watch on the spotting scope changed with monotonous regularity with each tour dutifully logged. Marines slept, played cards in the light of the opened back entrance, and improved their quarters. Despite the misery of muling the heavy loads back from the helicopter, men volunteered—anything to break the stupefying boredom. There had already been three such trips, and the team wondered if the war would ever get going.

  Given the time, troops always improved their living conditions. In the World Wars, commanders discovered the mistake of allowing their men too long without movement. Fighting holes became tunnel complexes with dug-out shelves for equipment. If above ground, stones appeared in lines to mark walkways, and signs pointing to important places got tacked up. Latrines boasted conveniently placed stakes holding tin can protected rolls of toilet paper and even planks or logs to sit across were emplaced. Troops too dug-in got hard to get moving.

  Too often, such lessons were forgotten between wars. If the allied armies delayed overly long, they might suffer similar immobility, and in a rapid moving desert war, that could be bad news.

  Because improving their dugout filled empty hours, Clicker Bell chose a particularly innocuous gully and allowed continual dirt filling.

  There was risk, but his observations demonstrated the Iraqis to be disinterested in the desert surrounding them.

  In addition to their often absent truck, the radar site had two jeep-like vehicles, but except for the Iraqi major's occasional trip down the single dirt track leading to and from the site, they seldom moved. No foot patrols were sent out, and Clicker's own careful scouting showed no security protecting the radar during day or night.

  Clicker Bell had no real qualms about fighting the Iraqis protecting the radar. He had four men and himself, and his team was equipped for hard battle. He expected they would make short work of the ill-prepared soldiers they would face. If they fought the eight Iraqis, Bell intended to take zero casualties.

  The team's weaponry was impressive. Their heavy piece was the new Barrett 50 caliber, semi-automatic rifle called an M82A1. The Barrett hurled its one-half-inch diameter bullets with armor-puncturing accuracy out to two thousand yards, and Staff Sergeant Bell expected that he could demolish the Iraqi site with only the .50 caliber.

  As the radar lay a mile and a half distant, Bell knew that by moving a half mile closer he could destroy the light vehicle transportation and punch holes in everything else, but equally intriguing was the dirt air strip only two miles to the south.

  Bell judged its length could accommodate almost any aircraft built. There were no buildings or drummed fuel placed along the strip, so Bell assumed that it was not in regular use, but if something important sat down out there, a simple shift of his position could put the aircraft at the Barrett's mercy.

  There was also the team's M40A1 sniper rifle that could reach out and touch an enemy at one thousand yards. The Iraqis appeared to be armed with the much shorter range Kalashnikov rifles, and in the open desert the Marine sniper would have an immense advantage.

  Although he considered the sniper rifle his own, Staff Sergeant Bell usually carried the Barrett. Deadly in battle, the .50 caliber was twice as heavy as the sniper rifle and about three times the weight of the M16 rifles that armed the rest of the team. As leader, Bell chose to pack more than his share.

  If fighting got close and personal, the light-weight, fast-firing M16s would match the Iraqi Kalashnikovs, and two of the M16s had grenade launchers attached. 40mm rifle grenades were more than equalizers. The explosive grenades tore up everything in the immediate neighborhood, and ducking behind a sand dune was not likely to provide much protection.

  The fact was, however, that the team was not there to fight. The Marines were in place to collect intelligence. If the site or the air strip became active, Bell's men would see and report everything.

  There were many such teams scattered about the desert, but the Marine teams Bell knew about were positioned far to the east, in the Marine Corps' section of the soon-to-be war. Bell's five man team was answering to the United States Army. Their call-ins were received by the army, and their instructions would come from the same service.

  The war was to be a huge combined arms operation, and Clicker Bell assumed the shortage of capable intelligence gatherers who could exist as long as necessary in the middle of enemy territory was critical. The Marine Corps had been training such scout snipers for two decades. The army had not.

  +++

  Bell found the camel bones while he was enlarging his corner of the dugout.

  His first discovery was a blue painted hoof. The bony hoof appeared to be petrified by age, but the paint was till clear on its upper surfaces.

  The discovery woke up the team, and everyone wanted to dig in Bell's spot He shooed them away as if they were overly-eager children, and continued his enlarging. Almost immediately he struck the animal's skin-covered skull and began digging it from its lengthy burial.

  Speculation ran rampant, but it seemed probable that whether dead or alive, the beast had been buried by the desert's many storms and had quickly atrophied into its current mummified condition. Not particularly exciting, perhaps, but anything beat simply sweating out the hours.

  Corporal Todd Gilroy decided that the camel was probably an old plug too worn to carry on, and it had been abandoned to die or perhaps finished off while the caravan moved on.

  The team's assistant leader, Corporal Peter Giacamo, called "Mo," of course, doubted Gilroy's explanation.

  "I figure Arabs would have eaten the camel if it was dying, and the bones would have been scattered around. Food couldn't ever have been easy to get out here."

  Bell agreed. "You're closer, I think, Mo. I've got leg bones in the right places, so this camel is more or less whole. Then, there's the question of the painted toes. I can't believe just every old camel had its toes painted. Somebody back then thought this animal special."

  An hour later, Clicker found the bells.

  The bells were gold. They lay in disorder, but close together, and Clicker supposed that there had been a cord connecting them, but it had disappeared.

  Holding the team back with an extended palm, Clicker said, "Damn, men, we've got treasure."

  The treasure was small, but exciting. Each bell was barely a half inch in length, and they could not find all of the tiny clappers which had separated from their individual bells.

  Giacamo was admiring. "Bell's bells. Now that's fitting." The corporal was more than a little awed. "Imagine how long these things have been laying out here, and we stumble on them after how many hundreds of years, I wonder?"

  Clicker said, "I think they must have been part of a necklace that hung around the camel's neck."

  A Marine said, "You sure that's a camel, Sergeant? Looks more like a dragon or some kind of snake to me."

  "It's a camel. I've seen their skulls before, and so have you. Don't get too dramatic here."

  Clicker bounced a bell in his hand feeling the polished warmth of the gold. He could see the interest and perhaps hunger in his men's faces. Gold had a way
of getting inside a man's skin. It wasn't just value, there was a quality about gold that drew humans into longing. He decided quickly.

  "All right, everybody gets a bell. We'll hang 'em around our necks, and they will always be part of Team Bell's memories." He handed out bells.

  "How many left, Staff Sergeant?" It was Gilroy, of course.

  Bell counted. "I've got seven more, and I'm keeping them, Gilroy."

  He considered for a moment. "Maybe there's other gold in here. The animal might have had a saddle, or whatever they rode on, that could have had gold or silver on it.

  "But, this is my camel, and I'll do the digging. If you want one, go find your own."

  A PFC said, "I'm digging for the guy who owned the camel. He could have ruby rings and maybe diamonds."

  "The rider could have had a gold necklace, or...."

  "Maybe a gold or silver concho belt."

  "Conchos? Are you nuts? This isn't Mexico."

  "You have your dream, Jack; I'll have mine."

  One of the team was unsympathetic to his buddies' hopes. "Well, whoever he was, he sure as hell kept going after his camel went down. So, he won't be laying here, Dumbos."

  Clicker had the camel's front end nearly dug out when the radioman called, and the possibility of buried gold fled from their minds.

  +++

  They had never been called before and were not now, but the transmission came in as if the sender were outside the bunker.

  Bell had insisted that all listening be done with earphones, lest the radio betray them to someone passing. No one passed, but the earphones stayed in use.

  The radioman said, "There's a plane in trouble, Clicker. Pretty near here, I think. I'll have its position in a minute. You want to listen in?"

  "No, you handle it. Just repeat everything to me."

  "Well, they are talking in the clear, and there is a lot of excitement on the other end."

  "What kind of an aircraft is it?"

  "Don't know, but there is a Six aboard, and I think the plane is coming down. The Six seems to be the excitement. They've already redirected a chopper toward...."

  The radioman hesitated. "Damn it, Clicker, I think they are trying to get onto our runway."

  "The dirt strip?"

  "Sounds like it. Check these coordinates."

  The operator read them off, and Bell did not have to look. "That's us, all right. How far out are they?"

  "Can't tell for sure, but I'd guess maybe five minutes. The pilot is sweating it, I'll tell you that."

  "How close is the chopper?"

  "It hasn't come on, but it can't be much further away."

  "If they've got a helicopter that close, these are the luckiest people in this desert."

  Bell considered the difficulties. Assuming the pilot could make the field, and the chopper was not too far out, the only real problem would be the Iraqis manning the radar site.

  "The pilot getting any instructions for once he's down?"

  "Just getting them, Clicker. He's to disable the aircraft and move west until picked up."

  "Trying to get into the hills a little, I guess."

  Not that there would be any real cover. When the Iraqis came after the pilot and the Six there would be no place to hide.

  "We going to help them, Clicker?" Corporal Giacamo saw the problem. Hell, the whole team had to see it.

  "Not unless we get told to, Mo. Bad as it seems, they aren't our mission."

  Gilroy was strong in his opinion. "Hell, Staff Sergeant. We could take out those eight Iraqis and be back under cover without anyone knowing who did it,"

  The corporal was right, but it was not their call. Bell said, "Switch to our channel, call in and tell 'em how it is."

  "You want to do, it Clicker?"

  "You're the communications man, Charley. You do the talking."

  The conversation was short. Charley turned to his Staff Sergeant. "They said, stand by, Clicker."

  Giacamo said, "The plane's coming, Sergeant. I caught the sun reflecting off it way way out there.

  Bell said, "All right, just in case they say to go, we'll get ready. If we move, we won't be out for long, so don't pack gear. All we'll take is ammo, weapons, and a canteen. Charley, you'll pack the radio, of course.""

  "Leave the scope, Clicker?"

  "Leave everything."

  Charley was hunched over his radio listening, and he began to say, "Yes, Sir ... Yes, Sir" before "Rogering" and turning to Bell.

  "Damn, Clicker. We're to go."

  The radioman frowned. "Damn it, Clicker. They wouldn't even wait for me to put you on. They're shook up big time back there. The Six on that aircraft seems to be someone they don't want taken, and...."

  A Marine asked, "What's a Six, anyway?"

  "A full colonel. Don't you know anything?"

  Bell said, "What do they want us to do, Charley?"

  "We're to go down and give them cover. They figure the Iraqis will be on top of them, and...."

  Giacamo said, "The plane's on the ground and rolling toward us, Click."

  "And what, Charley?" Bell ignored the aircraft for the moment.

  "We're supposed to load on the helicopter and go out with the Six and the pilot."

  A soft but enthusiastic cheer rose. They could fight and then get the hell out of here. Sounded good all around. Bell waved them quiet.

  "If we're leaving, take what you've got to have, but we're going out to fight, so don't overload."

  He turned to Giacamo. "This changes things, Mo. I'll carry the scope."

  The bailout order made sense. Once the team disclosed itself, even killing all of the Iraqis might not disguise the presence of an intelligence team, and if the enemy hunted in strength, the Marines could be discovered.

  While his men prepared, Bell turned his attention to the downed aircraft. The spotting scope brought the distant ship in close enough to make out some details. A fighter or reconnaissance craft, Bell supposed, but he could not identify the type. Two men were near the plane, but even as he watched, the figures moved away. A moment later, he thought a puff of smoke emerged from the cockpit but he could not be sure. No doubt the pilot had destroyed the plane's ability to fly and the Air Force would blast it into junk as soon as they could get a fighter into action.

  Clicker swung the scope and refocused on the radar site. There was activity. The Iraqi jeeps were moving around. It was time for his team to hump. He folded the M49's tripod and jammed the scope into his pack. Bell was ready as quickly as his men.

  The Marines paused only long enough to close their entrance, and even as they worked Communications Charley kept them up to date.

  "The chopper's only a little way out, Clicker, but he's sweating the weather."

  "Weather?" Bell looked around.

  There it was, coming out of the north, boiling in a wall of wind-driven sand rising steadily until it obscured all of the sky with the horizon closing more rapidly than he could have believed possible.

  "Sand storm, and a big one."

  "Man, it would have to come right now." Gilroy, of course.

  Bell trotted them to the southeast through the dunes, staying in the swales and avoiding skylines.

  After a half mile he paused to take a look. Their quarry was less than a mile away, and coming right at them. Where was the helicopter? No sign of it.

  Bell said, "Listen up, Marines. We'll shuffle down this draw and on my signal form a defensive line across it."

  He turned to Corporal Giacamo. "Have a flare handy, Mo. Pop it if the chopper can't find us."

  "What chopper?"

  "Yeah, good question, and it better be close because that storm is hauling ass."

  "Suppose it gets here first, Click?"

  "If it does, then we'll gather in those wandering sheep and feel our way back to our hole. The storm will wipe out our tracks, and if we stay inside, the Iraqis will believe the airmen drifted away in the storm or that the chopper did get to them. Hell, the Air Farce can pi
ck them up later."

  The Corporal sniggered. "Air Farce!" The Marine Corps preferred their own.

  They moved forward and then into line. Clicker unslung the Barrett and saw that everyone else was weapon-ready.

  He studied his troops and knew they would do the job. If the Iraqis came? Too bad for them.

  When the ground began to drop away in front of them, Bell halted his team. As one, they disappeared into the sand and only the puffs of digging-in betrayed their presence.

  The sky seemed darker, and Bell turned to look at the approaching storm. God, what a monster. They had listened to weather earlier in the day, but the featured reports were hundreds of kilometers east where the main fighting would take place, and no major blows were mentioned.

  The pilot and the Six were moving smartly, but even as he watched, the Iraqi jeeps swung into view. Although well behind they would catch up quickly. Bell again searched the sky, but no chopper had appeared. Damnation!

  Bell stood up and waved until the Americans saw him. Unexpectedly, they halted to glass his figure. Cursing himself for not expecting it, and despising every step wasted, Bell pumped his fist for double time, and one of the men urged the other into motion.

  Clicker judged the approach of the jeeps and moved to an end of his line where there would be no chance of the fliers blocking his shooting.

  The range was long. In the field, anything approaching one thousand yards was long, but the wind of the storm had not yet reached them, and the Barrett would do the job.

  He could wait until the airmen were closer and his shooting would be more certain, but the Iraqis were almost within the useful range of their lighter pedestal-mounted machine guns. Better to stop them now.

  Clicker extended the big rifle's bipod and crawled into a solid prone position. Nice—the surface sand was like a bed. He clicked on twelve hundred yards, nestled his cheek firmly against the built-up stock and caught the reticle of the Unertl 10X scope in his eye. First one first. He centered the crosshair on the jeep's radiator and squeezed quickly.

  Recoil was controllable, about like shooting a 12 gauge shotgun he believed. Without judging the effect of the first round, Bell shifted his aim to the distant figure hunched behind the wheel of the vehicle and fired again.