Crosshairs on the Kill Zone by Craig Roberts & Charles W. Sasser

Author:Craig Roberts & Charles W. Sasser
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Star Book
Published: 2004-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

During the lull that followed that night, three sniper teams were deployed in bunkers nearest the outer perimeter to pound the hooters a little payback for the ambush. My partner Rick David and I took the center. Tom Rutter and his partner occupied the bunker to my right while Forbush and Moore took the farthest to my left. We engaged targets intermittently during the night as they crawled around in shattered buildings out there in the wasteland. It was a bit like plinking rats in a city dump. The crack of a high-powered rifle would ring out and the target would disappear. No one was going to walk out there to see if the guy was dead.

Shortly after daybreak, following a long respite in the action, I was surprised to see a group of five men venture out of the city and into the open about 400 yards away. They obviously thought they were far enough away from our lines that we couldn’t reach out and touch them. All sported new crisp Soviet Bloc camouflage uniforms. No typical blue jeans and sneakers for these guys: They were important. The leader, the one giving all the orders, had a German shepherd on a leash and carried an AK-47 slung over his shoulder.

Curious, I watched them through my scope for about fifteen minutes as they measured wall craters made by Marine M203 grenade launchers. I assumed they were checking for penetration to determine how much cover their men required. It soon became more apparent that they were assessing fields of fire and selecting avenues of approach for a planned assault against our positions.

Time to put a stop to it.

I dispassionately measured the target on my scope’s mil-dot scale, laid crosshairs almost dead on him at this range, and squeezed the trigger. As the stock recoiled into my shoulder, the target dropped like God had reached down with an invisible sledgehammer and poleaxed him. The startled dog lunged against its leash, broke free from the dead man’s hand, and fled for cover with the deceased’s comrades. The body lay unmoving where it fell. He didn’t look so important now.

A squad of raggedy militia arrived twenty minutes later to engage me with counterfire. The way the streets were laid out, such as they were, attackers were limited to using alleys that opened up directly in front of the airport and Marine lines. I returned a shot or two with uncertain results, whereupon the aggressors entertained second thoughts and withdrew from my sector.

The dummies. They shifted to my right and attempted the same tactics in engaging Marines there. Rutter knocked off one of them, perhaps two.

They still hadn’t had enough. A half hour passed, then firing broke out on my left. Forbush and Moore knocked down two more as the blitzkrieg sneaked down an alley. That did it. The would-be commandos hauled ass back into the ruined city from whence they came.

Force having failed, they now resorted to guile, negotiation, and bitching. A rattletrap Land Rover flying a white flag pulled up to the north end of the airport perimeter.

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