“You see it? About ten-thirty, maybe four-fifty.”
Furr slowly raised a gloved hand and pointed for Barrkman. The sniper team had not been in position long enough to prepare a range card, and besides, the terrain was largely featureless.
Barrkman put his Leopold rifle scope on the area indicated to the left, raising his elevation setting to 450 yards. “Nothing.”
“Okay,” Furr whispered. “From the large, light-colored rock at about three hundred, look uphill and slightly left.”
After several seconds the shooter emitted a low whistle. “Moving shadow where there’s no trees.” He grinned without taking his master eye from the optic. “Damn, you’re good, Rob.”
“You’re just lucky it’s your turn on the trigger.”
“Well, you’ve done most of the shooting so far. Only fair that I get another shot.” Though not usually envious, Barrkman rued that so far the score stood at two-one, Furr.
“We can’t get overeager,” Furr cautioned. “Remember, Frank said the militia had seen movement out here this morning but that don’t mean it’s hostile.”
“What I remember is the way that other bastard’s shot came out of nowhere. This might be another setup.”
Furr shrugged beneath his ghillie. “If so, they’re in for a surprise. Captain Hamadeh confirmed his reaction force is in position, seventy meters back. I just got the word on Baker channel.” He double-checked the frequency on his tactical set and adjusted the earplug for more comfort.
“Okay, bwana. Now what?”
Furr returned to his spotting scope. “I make it a boiling mirage, midrange. Call it three minutes.”
Barrkman studied the visible air, moving slightly right to left. “Concur.” He rotated the windage knob four clicks right, then back one. He looked at his partner. “Now we wait.”
Furr continued watching the suspect area, letting the shooter rest his eyes. If nothing happened, they would trade off in twenty minutes.
At length Furr muttered one word. “Movement.”
Barrkman was back on the rifle, snuggled up to the SR-90. “I see grass moving but no target.”
“Wait a sec.” As the spotter stared through his optic, he caught an unnatural motion. “Rick, there’s something moving above the grass, like maybe an antenna. See it?”
The wind caught the long, thin object, causing a reflection. “Got it. I think you’re right. They must be recon rather than snipers.”
“But there’s nothing to see out here. The ville is hardly visible down the slope.”
Behind his veil, Barrkman chewed his lip in concentration. He turned to Furr again. “Give the Druze a call. See if they can send a couple guys up here.”
“You mean, like, to draw fire?”
“Yeah. But don’t let ‘em get within a hundred meters of us.”
Furr keyed his mike. “Delta, this is Sierra. Copy?”
Five seconds passed. “Sierra, Delta. Copy.” The Americans recognized Hamadeh’s voice.
“Ah, Delta, we have movement to our front. Recommend you send two men to scout about 150 meters to our east. And be careful. Over.”
“On the way. Out.”
Furr looked at his partner. “This better work or they’ll lynch us.”
Barrkman gave no reply. He adjusted his prone position behind the modified Remington 700, seeking his natural point of aim. By flexing his right toes and bringing his left leg forward, he got the most comfortable elevation on the bipoded rifle. Then he told himself:
“Friendlies, three o’clock.”
Barrkman accepted the spotter’s assessment while keeping his eye to the scope. The antenna was no longer visible.
Furr swung his gaze to the right. He saw one of the two militiamen stagger and fall as the man’s partner dived for cover.
“Where was that?” Barrkman swung his rifle side to side, desperately seeking a sign of the shooter.
“I think it’s from the right front. Maybe one o’clock.”
“Keep looking there. I’m staying on…”
Barrkman’s voice shut off like a switch. He snugged up the Robar rifle, muttered “Round out,” and fired. Immediately he cycled the bolt and fired again.
“Shit, Rick! What’re you shooting at?”
The sniper cycled the bolt once more and fired a third round. Then, leaving the action open, he inserted another cartridge into the box magazine and closed the bolt. Now he had three rounds loaded.
“Two tangos, both down at the first position. Call the Druze. Have ‘em sweep in that direction.”
“Hell no! Damn it, somebody else just popped one of the scouts.”
“They can flank the shooters from this side. Hurry!”
Without further delay, Furr was on the radio. “Delta, Sierra. Send your team out to the northwest. They should be able to flank the shooters.”
“On the way. What is your situation? Over.”
“Two tangos likely KIA. Out.”
Furr crawled alongside the shooter. “Damn it, I didn’t see a thing. What happened?”
“Just after the shot, I saw the head and shoulders of somebody in the grass. I realized we’re looking at the backup team, like the one that almost nailed us before. Hell, maybe the same ones. Before they could shoot, I sent one and his partner raised up to pull him aside. So I shot him, and put in an insurance round.”
Furr shook his head in wonder. “So you think you nailed Hazim?”
Barrkman grinned widely. “I sure nailed somebody, dude.”
Captain Rami Hamadeh was pleased with the SSI team. “We have one man wounded but he should live. Though we did not find the other snipers, you did well, gentlemen. One enemy sniper killed and one captured.”
Frank Leopole stood with arms folded. He suspected that Furr and Barrkman had hung out some Druze as live bait, but for the moment he was willing to cut them some slack.
Hamadeh sat down with the dead sniper’s tally book. “This appears to be Cyrillic but I think it is not. If I had to guess, I would say it is Chechen. I will ask the prisoner.”
Barrkman furrowed his brow. “Chechen? That’s possible. I mean, there’s reports that they send people to fight in Iraq.”
“This was a man who took much pride in his work. See, without knowing the words, it is possible to tell the meaning of most entries. Obviously there is the date, the time, and undoubtedly the distance. All those last entries are three digits. The other columns might be the location, type of rifle, hit or miss, and number of shots fired.”
Furr leaned over the Israeli’s shoulder. “How many did he hit?”
Hamadeh flipped the pages. “I cannot tell. But there are about two hundred entries, apparently dating from 1999.” He looked up at the American. “He was very good.”
Barrkman was still giddy.
Leopole interrupted the mutual admiration society. “Let me get this straight, Captain. You think that our guys hit their first team? The ones that got away were there to lure us out?”
Hamadeh nodded. “Yes, Colonel. That is how I see it. Of course, we will know more once I interrogate the survivor.” He turned to Barrkman. “You hit him high in the shoulder. He lost quite a bit of blood but he can talk.”
Barrkman absorbed that information. “I guess the third round went into the shooter.”
“Yes, I saw the body. Two hits through the torso.” He smiled broadly. “The sniper who outsnipes Hazim will be famous.”
Robbie Furr did a high five with his friend. “Three for three at 450 yards in — what? Maybe eight or nine seconds? Way to go, pard!”
“Nobody’s going to be famous,” Leopole interjected. “The last thing we need is for every Hezzie fanatic to
