some of the most beautiful land I’ve ever seen. My father tells me we’re descended from an old offshoot of the Habsburg family, but obviously we are far from royalty. My ancestors were merchants who dealt mostly in Eastern goods with Turkish traders, so much so that some of them married their Turkish counterparts, which is probably where I get some of my features from.
“Since then, my family has always been wealthy, so the first thing my father taught me to do after I could walk was to shoot a rifle so that I could accompany him on his many outlandish hunting trips. I loved it. I practiced with my father whenever I could during school vacations, and began shooting for the Olympics as soon as I was eligible. I’ve even medaled in the Biathlon, a rather difficult event.”
“The biathlon, huh?” I smirked. “Ever think of becoming a Bond villain?”
“A Bond villain?”
“Never mind.”
She gave me a wry look. “I’d just graduated from Oxford, leading our marksmanship team to an international championship when I decided to spend a year in America to further my education, a very interesting country, by the way.”
I shrugged. “We try.”
“Well, when I returned to Germany, I decided to join the military, but it wasn’t until just a year ago that I decided to finally did. Papa was not happy, but I signed up despite his disapproval. He lives in a fantasy world with no idea what is going on outside his estate. He wasn’t even afraid for my life, just upset at my decision. I didn’t care. My life was without direction and I wanted to do something important. The war was only getting worse and worse and I knew I had to join now before it was too late.
“When I did, my shooting scores in basic propelled me into sniper school. I worked alone, never given a spotter, probably because they wanted me to wash out. No girls allowed, and all that, but I graduated at the top of my class. I’ve been a trained sniper since, so your job should be pretty easy, but don’t worry, I appreciate the company,” she finished rather slyly.
“Well, it’s my pleasure,” I said honestly, even if her story wasn’t exactly convincing. “I’ve done plenty of shooting over the years, and killed my fair share. I have no problems spotting.”
“Perhaps we could arrange a little friendly competition later?”
I held up a hand, “Yeah, I don’t think so. My competitive streak ended a while ago. I have no desire for showmanship or impressing anyone. I’ll shoot with you, but I’d rather not turn it into a competition.”
She gave me another odd look. “You are a curious man, Lieutenant Hunter. You don’t meet very many men who aren’t interested in seeing whose is bigger. And please, call me Helena. Such formalities are unnecessary considering our status.”
Remember what I said about mixed signals, Jacob?
“You know what? We’ve never been properly introduced.” I held out a hand. “My name is Lieutenant Jacob Hunter, but my friends call me Jacob.”
She smiled and lightly griped my hand. Her hand wasn’t as soft as I thought it would be. It was heavily callused from years of shooting. “It’s nice to meet you, Jacob. I’m Lieutenant Helena Van Strauss, but you can call me Helena.”
I smiled back, “It’s nice to meet you too, Helena.”
As we sat there, smiling at one another, hand in hand, Santino emerged from the barracks. He grabbed a cup of coffee and came to sit at our table.
“So?” He pondered, as he glanced at our clasped hands. “You two married yet?”
Just as he was about to take a seat next to me, I responded by kicking his chair out from beneath him. He fell hard on his ass with a loud thump and he glared up at me, rubbing his rear.
I crammed an overloaded spoonful of fruit loops into my mouth, and looked down at him. “Nope.”
***
Helena and I were lounging on our stomachs, lying very close, drenched in sweat, contemplating our next move. It was an hour after our reconciliation, and we had decided to take our relationship to the next level.
The obvious thing to do was to get out the rifles and hit the range.
Helena lay to my left, rifle at the ready, while I held a pair of high powered binoculars to my eyes, acting as her spotter. I was situated just behind her, with the left side of my body resting up against her right leg. Our close proximity allowed for the perspectives seen through our individual scopes to sync up as precisely as possible. I rested my binoculars on my gear bag to stabilize my view, while her rifle’s bipod kept her aim steady.
“Windage… six clicks left,” I told her.
We were shooting at extreme ranges, so Helena had traded in her standard rifle for a German version of the Barrett M107 Special Application Scoped Rifle, the G82. The weapon was a beast, sometimes referred to as an anti-material weapon, a name that carried serious weight behind it. The “Light Fifty” fired a. 50 caliber round, the newest versions of which allowed the Barrett to shoot them farther than ever before. Its unique design reduced the recoil of such a powerful weapon to a manageable level, and I was about to find out if my female friend could handle it.
Our target was approximately two miles down range, basically the furthest distance a modern sniper could target. I had no idea how the Vatican had dug out so much territory to create the range, but the compass on my watch indicated we were facing northeast. Ancient Rome hadn’t extended that far in that direction, so I assumed the range was simply carved out of dirt. The flight time of a bullet at this range was so long the shooter could basically recite the alphabet before the round hit its target.
To make the simulation even more difficult, the base’s ventilation system was set to imitate various weather patterns and wind speeds. I had no idea what the system was set at, relying on calculations I performed in my head based solely on small plants fluttering in the distance. To further enhance the simulation, we pumped up the heat on our end of the room to mimic the harsh environments of the Middle Eastern region we would most likely be operating in.
It was currently hotter than Hell where we lay, and I wondered if Santino had messed with the temperature control just to screw with us.
These variables were of utmost importance to a sniper. Even something as minute as a slight shift in air moisture could affect a bullet’s trajectory. Snipers have to take every detail into account and excessive care went into preparing for each pull of the trigger. These days, technology calculated most of these variables for us, but any sniper worth his weight in salt did it himself first.
Helena adjusted her scope appropriately while sweat beaded its way down her brow, relying on her spotter, me, to relay the relevant information needed to make the perfect shot.
Peering through my binoculars, I tapped a button on the bottom of the optical device and the range finder function displayed itself in the upper right hand corner of the view. With the Earth’s natural curve and gravity’s pull on the bullet, elevation adjustments were needed to ensure the most accurate shot. Years ago, spotters would have to determine ranges with the naked eye, but technology now calculated the distance for us. However, every sniper was still trained to gauge ranges with their eyes only as technology can’t always be relied on.
I predicted the range was just shy of two miles.
“Range… 1.89 miles. Elevation, seven clicks.”
Making matters worse, Helena was performing what was known as a cold bore shot, meaning it was her first shot, in a cold barrel, with no set up shots to help guide her true shot. Firing from a cold barrel not only affected the trajectory of a fired round, but was also a psychological hurdle to overcome. This was the hardest shot for a sniper to make and consisted of the exact same shot used in the assassination missions snipers were used for. Not that I’d ever “assassinated” anyone before. At least that’s what the CIA kept telling me.
The rest of the team had assembled in the cafeteria, paying close attention to the meticulous effort of the sniper pair, binoculars at the ready. Just another distraction to deal with.
Snipers were the masters of self. Stamina. Endurance. Patience. Precision. These were the tools of a sniper. Tools we knew better than anyone else. Snipers took great pride in simply being better than you. It was a job most could never dream of doing. It separated the men from the rest of the mitochondrial ectoplasm. It made us lords of the hunt. We were expected to stalk, locate, and wait out a target for days and days before taking a cold bore shot in one hundred degree weather during a hurricane while you sat at home watching Animal Planet. It
