The Last Punisher by Kevin Lacz

Author:Kevin Lacz
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Threshold Editions

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By seven in the morning, I had begun to develop a gnarly case of swamp ass. Marc had come by a few minutes before, and the reading on his Suunto watch said 119 degrees. Some people will tell you desert heat is dry heat. My ass on that four-story building would tell you those people are full of shit. Despite the heat, I had a view of about 1,200 meters in which to engage, and I was feeling pretty good about our position. Chris and I had set up a wood pallet to perch on and added some prayer rugs for support. I had a poncho liner strung overhead to block the sun and provide some protection for my Polack skin. Being in the middle of Indian country, I expected to get the jump on some unsuspecting muj. I was ready for some work.

The morning call to prayer sounded angry. It took me back to SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape) school, where I sat caged up in a box, listening to similar music, looking forward to being in this position. The street was a normal beehive of activity, but I’d seen nothing of interest since the sun breached the horizon. My focus hadn’t flinched since I lased my reference points, checked my dope card, and packed a chaw. Behind the gun, a focused mind equals success. Boredom is the main cause of missed opportunity. Like in deer hunting, any subtle movement on my part might catch my prey’s eye. My pool of Copenhagen spit began to threaten my prayer rug, but I ignored it. I remained fixed, scanning the street from near to far.

Then I saw him.

He was only two hundred yards away, and my scope provided a crystal-clear view. A middle-aged man with short, graying black hair, a widow’s peak, and a thin beard walked out of his compound and locked the gate behind him. A crude satchel sagged awkwardly over his brown man-dress as he ambled my way.

“You got him, Dauber?” Chris asked.

I grunted an assent. He slid the satchel around to his front. The clear imprint of a 155 mm artillery round was unmistakable as I repositioned the cheek weld on my Mk 11. I felt the epinephrine pump through my arteries and hit the receptor sites like a freight train.

Ride the lightning.

Whether it’s your first, third, or seventeenth kill, the excitement never fades. I controlled my breathing. The external temperature seemed to climb with my heart rate as he approached a hole in the middle of the road about 120 yards in front of me. The reticle began to settle as he crouched at the hole, pulled the IED out of the satchel, and dropped it in the hole.

As a professional warrior—a steward of the American flag—you operate under a strict set of guidelines. My rules of engagement were clear. Hostile action or hostile intent were the behaviors for which I could kill an insurgent. The presentation of the artillery round left no doubt. I felt the switch as my breathing deepened and my heart slowed even more.

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