Short Stories

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The crosshairs in the sniper's scope settled firmly on the man's forehead. It was an easy shot, even at this distance. In fact, those sitting near the target would hear only the dull thud of the bullet and see the resultant spray of blood, bone, and brain tissue as a life was swiftly ended; the life of one who had not so swiftly ended the lives of many others. Those standing more than two meters away, engaged in idle chatter, would be startled by the screams and turn to find only a body prostrate on the ground, the head unrecognizable as such. There would be no open casket funeral for this man. Those closer than two meters who were speaking with or looking at the man would only remember the surreal impression of his head seeming to suddenly swell slightly and then disintegrate as an invisible force slammed him backward and off of his chair. They would have the scene replayed in slow motion in their dreams for months afterward.

For a few split seconds confusion would reign until it dawned on some to look for the source of the sudden demise of their acquaintance. Had one of them been looking directly at the sniper's position, he would have seen neither the shooter nor any indication that a shot had been fired from that location. It would be futile to run for help or call a medic, though it was doubtful that any would. The man was as feared by those close to him as he was hated by those who knew him from a distance. He had no friends, only those who did his bidding because they knew the terrible consequences of doing otherwise.

The shooter was the best of the best, able to narrow his concentration so effectively that in live fire exercises when others sent their shots wide of the center circle on the target, there was often debate about how many rounds he had actually fired into a circle no larger than a quarter. Now he needed to be that good because the order called for a head shot. His commanders wanted to be sure that the target was dead, and not just wounded. They also wanted those witnesses present to be permanently warned that no one, no matter how powerful or dictatorial, was outside the reach of "extreme prejudice."

Finn, as he was called by his friends because he hated the name Phineas with which he had been saddled by his parents, had thought about this moment many times. With the other members of his unit, they had concluded that the world would be a much better place if the man whose head was now in the crosshairs of his rifle would be sent to meet his maker. There were several "believers", along with Finn, who debated whether it was right to take a man's life from half a mile away as he sat having lunch on his patio. They were all, however, men who believed that the Bible sanctioned war as a last resort when people's freedom hung in the balance.

But was this kind of "assassination" a part of war? Was it right to calmly pull the trigger on a weapon that was specifically designed for this gruesome task and loaded with ammunition that would literally decapitate the target if it were to hit him in the neck and not in the head? It was one thing to defend himself against an enemy who was bent on killing him, but this man, albeit a known terrorist, was drinking tea with his family and friends, not shooting at him from a dozen yards away. Finn could see clearly enough in his scope to tell that there was a light hearted atmosphere on the porch where his target sat, and in just a few seconds, that would all change.

Those thoughts ran through Finn's mind as he awaited the final order to "execute" the carefully laid out plan that would end the man's life whose face he could clearly see in his rifle scope. At Finn's side, his spotter was rechecking the range to target and watching for signs of wind that would affect Finn's bullet as it sped to it's deadly mission. They both wore radio headsets on which they would receive the shoot/no shoot order. Why they had to wait was beyond Finn. Either this man deserved to die, or he didn't. Finn had managed to stay out of the debate about whether or not the terrorist should be brought to trial for his crimes. To Finn, it seemed a waste of time and money to try a man for crimes that you knew he had committed. What did they expect to do, uncover that the target's brutality had been the result of a less than proper upbringing? Would some glory seeking lawyer try to be the first to bring before an international court the insanity plea on behalf of one who had committed crimes against humanity?

The insanity was that there was an argument being made for preserving the life of such men. Finn had a firm conviction that the Bible gave clear definition about the penalties that should be exacted for crime, and he bolstered his argument with the crime rates that resulted when that definition was ignored. The fact that his target was an international leader and that his heinous acts had been committed against his own people shouldn't matter.

But now he was in the judge, jury, and executioner's seat, ready to unleash a 7.62 mm match grade round from a rifle that cost more than a good used car, thereby ending the life of another human being. Could he really do what he said he believed needed to be done? He had been trained to dispassionately kill unsuspecting soldiers from so far away that it seemed death had come from heaven itself, perhaps from the hand of God. He'd actually done it many times. Yet those men were dressed in soldier garb and carrying weapons with which they would readily kill him, should they get the chance. This man was dressed in a flowered shirt, had obviously shaved recently, and was lifting a delicate china cup of tea with manicured fingers that wore gold rings. Even his body guards, if that's what the men standing to the side were, didn't appear to be armed. When Finn fired the shot, if he ever did, their weapons would come out, but too late.

So Finn waited. All the debates with his friends and all the mental gymnastics in his own mind now slowly melted away as he transformed himself into the focused shooter who had won more first place shooting competitions than he could remember. His breathing slowed and his world centered on the point where two thin lines intersected with the forehead of a man he would never meet who sat nearly 1000 yards away.

Suddenly both men, Finn and his spotter, heard the order crackle in their head sets, not once, but repeated to make sure that it was heard. The rifle shifted ever so slightly and then cracked with the sound of a pine board being broken over someone's knee. The spotter could see the vapor trail of the bullet as a thin disturbance in the air, followed it all the way to the target, and then saw the patio erupt in panic in the instant that it took for him to come to the realization of what had just happened.

Finn closed his eyes. He knew that the head shot had missed, but he also knew that the man was no less dead because of it, rather that he had had a few seconds to realize that he had been dealt a death blow. Instead of having his brains exploded all over the porch, he had his heart exploded within his chest. That last second movement of the rifle dropped the cross hairs from the man's forehead to his sternum. Finn wanted him to have time to repent, if repentance were possible for such a man. He would have lived long enough to know that his body guards had failed him, but not long enough to order their execution for that failure. He may have even managed to curse before his ability to speak drifted away and he was left with a few seconds of consciousness before death became final. It wasn't much time to give a man who had been condemned to die, but if it was in him to do so, it was time enough to call on the name of the Lord and be saved.

The sniper was called back from the world that his reticule had become by the hoarse whisper of incredulity from his spotter. "Finn, for God's sake, the order was stand down! The call was don't shoot! Oh my God! What have you done? Have you lost your mind? You'll be court-martialed for this!"

Finn doubted that he would be court-martialed. He knew the army well enough to know that it hated having battle field decisions made by politicians who were more interested in public opinion than in what was right and wrong. He also knew that this mission was "black ops", and that it would not do to admit responsibility for having a man in the field with a sniper rifle trained on the head of the leader of another country. He knew that he might be given a dishonorable discharge, but he also knew that most soldiers, the men who fought to preserve freedom, would privately applaud his actions of that day. There would be no medal, but even if the order had been to shoot, he would have gotten no more than a "well done" and a pat on the back at a very private ceremony with very few in attendance.

As the two men quietly moved away from their shooting point so as to not be discovered, the spotter repeated for the fourth time, "The call was do not, I repeat do not shoot." Finally, after walking in silence for some time, Finn said simply, "I know what the order was. I heard it as well as you." As he looked directly at the incredulous man he repeated. "I know, and I did what needed to be done."

They two men walked the rest of the way to their pick-up point in silence, one wondering if he could be held responsible for his companion's actions, the other knowing that he had been responsible to complete what he had been sent to do.

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