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Semper Malevolem

J.F. Holmes and Jason Cordova


Dragontooth Mountains, Grainne

December 4, 210


Ernesto Silang was not a man typically prone to hatred.

When the United Nations invaded his homeland and arrested the Citizens in the name of “freedom and equality,” he was more annoyed than anything else. With the ridiculous arms restrictions placed upon all residents of the Freehold by the UN occupiers, attaining enough meat for the coming winter became difficult. Not impossible, since he never reported the impressive Merrill M66 15mm precision shooting rifle he had “forgotten” about in the false panel above his headboard, but difficult nonetheless.

When the UN had scanned him for “pathogens and diseases,” he had been mildly perturbed. He valued his privacy as much as the next Freeholder. Ernesto figured they had been searching for anyone who was a veteran. He wasn’t surprised to discover that they were not worried about a veteran with more wrinkles on his face than hair on his head. Irritated perhaps, but that was all. Even when they accidentally knocked over his wife’s urn and scattered her cremated remains upon the stone mantle of the fireplace, he could not bring himself to hate these men and women. They were simply doing their job, albeit in the worst manner possible.

This was not because he was a calm and genial man. He had not grown out of his dislike for any enemy, no. It was for the simple fact that every single ounce of hate left in his body was reserved for Staff Sergeant David Archuleta, Freehold Military Forces (Ret.).

It had begun decades before, when then-Infantry Trooper Archuleta defeated then-Sniper Specialist Silang at the Interservice Sniper Challenge. It had been by half of a single millimeter that Ernesto lost by, and to say that he had been displeased was a vast understatement. However, Ernesto had been a good sport about it at the time and did not complain too loudly in public. Instead he trained harder for the coming year, where once again he lost to Archuleta, this time by one-tenth of a millimeter. The following year was the same result, as was the four straight years after. Ernesto began to detest the other man with a vengeance.

It only grew worse when Archuleta married Ernesto’s younger sister, Claudia. Ernesto had been forced to stand there while David and Claudia exchanged vows before the Goddess. As a devout Catholic, it had galled Ernesto to have the ceremony in such a pagan environment. There had been a second ceremony later, at a small cathedral near Delph’, but by then Ernesto’s grudge had become full-on hate.

Ernesto would bag a fifty-kilo ripper in the middle of winter, and David would manage to get one that was two kilos heavier. Catch an eight-kilo yellow striped snapper in Mirror Lake? David would inevitably catch a nine-kilo snapper in the same exact spot a few weeks later. It was a game of one-upmanship between the two that everyone else found amusing as the two grew older. Ernesto knew that his hatred was not healthy, but at the primal core of his being he could not allow David to beat him. That even meant not letting his brother-in-law outlive him.

So when Ernesto heard from his sister that David had bagged him an “aardvark” from over two kilometers away, the elderly retired sniper finally had enough. Pulling the hidden panel aside, he grabbed his “hunting” rifle and proceeded to go out into the Dragontooth Mountains to bag him one as well. Just to prove a point, he vowed to do it from further out. However, since his brother-in-law also happened to be his neighbor, David tagged along with Ernesto as he stomped out into the freezing cold and snow.

“You can take the green machine, you know,” David muttered, referring to the small six-wheeled vehicle they used primarily around the two farms for hauling chopped wood. Ernesto struggled to move through the deep, thick snow and tried to ignore his in-law. The previous day’s storm had ripped through the small valley, leaving massive drifts piled high against the walls of the small homes. The branches of the trees around the massive property bowed under the weight of the wet snow, which also made foot travel nearly impossible.

“The contraption would show up on thermals too easy,” Ernesto snapped as he shifted the heavy rifle’s sling and rubbed his aching shoulder. His heavy winter wear was warm but weighed him down. His green eyes scanned the path ahead and saw that the snow appeared to grow deeper up ahead. He withheld a miserable sigh.

“Actually, the engine has a dampening system that dissipates the heat,” David countered as he began to huff as they continued to struggle through the snow. He was no spring chicken either and David always believed that this sort of physical exertion was best left for much younger individuals. “Heat baffles recycle the energy into the engine, so conserves fuel and battery life. It’s small enough signature to make it look like a game animal. Also has a heated compartment in the back for sleeping. Enough food and water can be stored in it for up to a month. Two weeks for two people.”

Ernesto finally stopped and bent over at the waist. The walk was already kicking his ass and they had not even made it halfway down the rugged driveway yet. He shot a sideways look at David, who appeared to be doing about as well in the wet, heavy snow.

“Get the damn thing,” Ernesto told him through wheezing breaths. “I’m not about to haul your wrinkled ass across these mountains.”

“Wrinkled ass that was on your sister last night,” David retorted as he came to a halt. His hot breath left puffs of steam in the frigid air. “All. Night.”

“I hope you die of a pulmonary.”

“Almost did, last night. Goddess, my knees ache.”

“Screw you. Go get the green machine before we both freeze to death out here.”

* * *

Eight divs later Ernesto found himself in a comfortable position near a cluster of brush palms. A small boulder lay half-buried in the snow to his left, which gave him something to lean on. The rifle was supported by a small tripod gifted to him by his sister years ago. His mottled white hunting gear rendered him near-invisible to the naked eye while the brush palms obscured his heat signature, thanks to their own excess warmth which was dumped into the leaves. Many Grainne animals found refuge under brush palms during the harshest winter storms.

Iota Persei was beginning to set behind them, the jagged tips of the Dragontooth Mountains casting long shadows down upon the sloping plains below. The region had been hit particularly hard by the previous day’s storm, much like their own valley. Many animals had decided to hunker down and wait it out, but the two retired snipers were hunting a far more dangerous prey.

David lay next to him, rangefinder in hand. His brother-in-law had graciously offered to be his spotter for this hunt. Ernesto did not necessarily trust him to give the proper distance, but then again, they were out in the cold together, so any retribution from the UN Peacekeeping Forces was bound to affect them both. If David was going to screw him over, he’d at least offer a little lube first.

Probably.

“Range?” Ernesto asked in a calm manner as he steadied his breathing. His heartrate slowed as he peered through the scope. Far off in the distance was a UN FOB, complete with towers and artillery placements for counterbattery. All-terrain armored personnel carriers were neatly parked in rows near the motor pool, and he could faintly make out individuals standing around in what appeared to be a formation, though it wasn’t anywhere close to the exacting standards he dealt with while serving in the FMF. He could even see the shape of a few Guardians in the all-weather shelters. Things were still business as usual for the UN, however. The snowplows were out in force, clearing off the runways and piling the snow up along the outer fenceline in heaps. A predatory smile slowly spread on his face as he found a few tempting targets.

“Two-zero-one-six meters,” David replied. He paused before continuing. “That’s three meters shy of where I got mine.”

Ernesto shifted the barrel slightly and found a new target which was just a little further away. He could faintly make out something shiny on the target’s collar. “Is that guy doing all the gesturing with his hands an officer or one of their fancy privates? Nice headgear, nonmilitary issue. Ear flaps pinned up, some sort of religious or political icon in the center. I can’t tell.”

“Not sure,” David admitted after a moment. “Oh, hey. It’s a she. Sure looks excited, though. Real excited.”

“Range?”

“Two-zero-two-zero,” David replied. He paused and gave his brother-in-law a look. “Really? You’re going to be that petty?”

“Perfect target.”

“Don’t miss.”

“I won’t,” Ernesto declared. “I never miss.”

“Then why do I always win?”

Taking a deep breath, Ernesto focused on the target. He felt his heart rate slow even further and focused on it. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. He exhaled carefully through his nose and stopped midway. Lub-

He gently stroked the trigger of the M66. The muzzle brake redirected much of the recoil but not all, which was part of the reason he had set up beneath the brush palms. Their natural heat helped to mask the expended energy from the shot. With a muzzle velocity at just over nine hundred meters per second, it took the round just over two seconds to reach the target.


United Nations FOB Boutros, Dragontooth Mountains


“And that, people, is why we’re here! Freedom is a hard thing to define, and these ‘freeholders’ don’t understand the freedom from worry, from burden, that life under the United Nations brings.”

Weekly political bullshit meetings was what almost every officer—and enlisted too, truth be told—was thinking. Captain Sasha Zivcovic almost said it aloud but refrained. No need to get a bullet in the back of the head some night or assigned to some shithole. He watched her face and realized that she probably did believe it herself; she sounded like a true believer. In keeping with the modern way of things, one of the youngest enlisted had received the designation, for the week, and she was good at it, too. A smooth talker, the woman—girl really—was ridiculously beautiful, and had already been climbing the ranks the easy way. Her speech was directed at the base commander, her next target, and she aimed a flirtatious smile at him during pauses. Zivcovic grinned silently, thinking about how worthless she would be in the field.

“So, despite the tragic loss of Senior Private Imbuto last week to a cowardly sniper,” she paused and spit on the ground for emphasis, while Zivcovic snorted, “we will continue onward in our efforts to bring peace and security to the colony of Grainne. There is nothing they can do to us that can stop us, because the majority is always the side of right!”

Senior Private Calhoon had replaced her normal winter fatigue cap with the Morale Officer baseball cap and, ten minutes into it, she suddenly seemed to realize that it was frigging cold as shit, despite her incessant smiling. She turned her head slightly and looked to where the actual political officer stood, a taller woman. The height was enough to make Calhoon tilt her head up as she looked at the PO.

She would make a perfect target, thought the Serb, who was head of the UN sniper section.

That slight movement of Calhoon’s head to look up at the taller woman caused the round to enter the top of her neck just a tiny bit off target. The change didn’t matter, really, in the end. The cavitation of the round, and the kinetic shock it generated upon impact, pretty much caused the base of her skull to shatter. The small pop of her eyes being blown out of her head was covered by the whip crack of a sonic boom generated by the round. The force of it pushed her body several feet to one side. Her feet twisted around in a macabre dance of death, arterial spray splattering crimson blood across the assembled command staff, and she fell like a sack of potatoes into the snow of the parade ground.

Apparently, someone agreed with him about her target potential.

Pandemonium erupted as UN troops scattering all over place, running for cover. Two men, junior privates, ran towards Senior Private Calhoon, or what was left of her. The cap had flown a few meters to the north, and a red pool spread on the snow, decorated with little chunks of bone and meat. Before they reached her Zivcovic shoved them aside, kicking one of them on the ass to do so.

“Hey!” yelled the teenager, “I’m going to file a Dignity Report, and you’ll get written up, jackass!”

“Fuck your dignity,” answered the officer, punching the private in the face and pushing a medic away from the scene. Kneeling in the snow, the man ignored the blood and the still-twitching body that had not realized yet that it was dead. He stayed there for a full minute, ignoring the whump of the artillery shots going out and the spooling up of two Guardians, looking at footprints and directions. He picked up her head, one eye dangling by the optic nerve, and looked at the ragged neck, tendons and ligaments still dripping blood, sticking his finger in the bullet entry hole to figure the caliber of the round.

He tossed the head aside, then stood and looked south, up into the mountains. One of the officers, the base commander, came out from under a concrete shelter, waving his nonlethal beamer around him as he duckwalked, aiming at everything and nothing. Not getting close to the body, he said hysterically, “I want your team out there, Captain Zivcovic, and put a stop to this! I can’t have this in my command, it will look bad on my efficiency reports! TWO dead in a week!”

The Serb paid as little attention to the higher-ranking officer as he did the privates, who were now yelling at their leaders. It was a general clusterfuck, one that he had grown familiar with in his years with the UNPF. He stood, looking at the pattern of blood spray and measuring angles with his hands. Behind him, enlisted and officer started trading punches. Then he smiled a brutal grin. Game on, as the Americans said.

* * *

“Not sure . . . never mind,” David corrected as he peered into the rangefinder. “She’s headless now. Though that a strip of skin on the neck would hold the head on, but I was wrong. You were two millimeters high and four left. I blame that pocket of warm air that’s about a thousand meters out.”

“I hit her, she’s dead,” Ernesto proclaimed in a sulking voice. Truth be told, he was irritated that his shot had been slightly off on the impact point. He silently vowed to correct it for next time.

“So you warmed up now, you old coot?” David asked as the two began to slither backwards into the thick canopy provided by the brush palms.

“Warmed up?” Ernesto asked. “Old coot? You’re only three weeks younger than me! Surprised you still can see anything, what with that glaucoma and all . . . ”

“Then let’s make it more of a challenge,” David suggested as they quickly skedaddled, Ernesto in the front as David followed behind him, a fresh-cut bough dragging behind them to obscure any visible tracks. The walk back to the green machine was almost a kilometer away and the longer they lingered, the more likely it became that the UNPF would find the sniper nest. The hike back would also give them plenty of time to compare shooting notes. “I call a shot, you have to top it. Vice versa. Loser has to . . . admit publicly that the other is a better shot. Oh, and buy a growler of Old Grainne Stout. Not that weak stuff, but the dark dregs.”

“No cheating this time!” Ernesto declared in a hushed, angry tone. “I know that’s how you won the sniper challenge back in ’89!”

“Not my fault you fired when the breeze was kicking up.” David shrugged his narrow shoulders as he tossed aside the branch as the snow began to thin out in the protected vale. The heavy canopy of trees overhead both obscured the green machine from anyone looking down as well as provided a break from the thick snow. It made the going a little easier for the two men. “I waited until it died down.”

“You went over your allotted time!”

“Judges thought otherwise.”

“Probably bribed one of them . . . ”

“Firing from the prone position only,” David went on, ignoring Ernesto’s accusation. “I doubt your knees can take anything else.”

“You’re the one with lumbar problems,” Ernesto countered. “Maybe you’d like a pillow and a sleeping cap so you can be more comfortable while shooting?”

“Or fucking your sister.”

“Asshole.”


Dragontooth Mountains, Grainne

December 7, 210


Three days later found David with his own rifle, a slightly shorter but heavily customized M66, trained onto the long, winding road leading out of the UN FOB. Gnarled, arthritic hands gently traced the sleek rifle as he patiently waited for Ernesto to call the distance.

“Make up your damned mind already,” Ernesto grumbled quietly as he checked the range finder again, looking for any obvious targets. He squinted as the sun was in their face today, which meant that they had to be careful with any reflections off their gear. Fortunately, aerosol hair spray was perfect for dulling reflective qualities of glass without disturbing the view too much. One of the many tricks he had picked up over the years, though this one came courtesy of his late wife and her love of theater. “Pick one.”

The UN patrol had left the base thirty segs before, following the road as it skirted around the town of Rockcliff. The paved road eventually led out towards Mirror Lake, near the homesteads of the two men. Further out beyond that was the FMF Training facility, where all aspiring soldiers had once been sent. The rubbled area was now the location for the region’s primary UN base. While a tempting target itself, they decided to stick with the UN FOB. These were the more experienced troops anyway, and their goal was to destroy the morale of the lower enlisted personnel. Privates, to be precise.

The remote eyes that they had installed on many of the game trails over the years were now trained onto the road, giving them a wide variety of angles to observe the UN patrol from. What both Ernesto and David saw did not really concern them. The MK-17 Infantry Light Armored Wheel Assault Vehicle, or Eel, was the best that the UN had to offer when it came to transport infantry through dangerous environments safely. The armor was thick and able to deflect incoming rounds during an attack, and the massive tires were hardened to protect against shrapnel and defeat disabling shots. However, all this extra weight meant that the Eel was very, very slow. UN infantry oftentimes found that in order for the vehicle to make it to the destination within a reasonable time frame, they would have to get out and walk in order to lighten the load. In short, the Eel was worthless in mountainous terrain, or anything with a hill grade steeper than three degrees.

It was that which the two snipers could not see that gave them pause.

Both men knew that there were two ways to hunt snipers. The first, and easiest, was to simply paste an area with artillery until the target was confirmed dead or they ran out of shells. Costly, but it did not risk the lives of soldiers who would otherwise be forced to wander around in unfamiliar grounds hunting those who call the woods their home. The second way was to run the gambit of a countersniper team, which had its own ups and downs.

Artillery was scary but typically ineffective. Countersniper teams were annoying and dangerous.

There were signs that they were being stalked by a countersniper team. They had located what looked like a potential sniper’s nest while they searched for a new spot. They carefully avoided it after discovering that it was rigged to blow with an improvised explosive device. A clever ploy, and forty years ago might have gotten the duo while they were younger. Age and experience taught treachery and suspicion, however. Both men know that in war, if it appeared too good to be true, it was probably a trap.

“Does it matter which one I shoot?” David asked as he watched the feed of the remote eyes through his customized scope. The clarity was perfect and even came in color, and relay transmission was almost instantaneous. While they disagreed on almost everything else, both men could agree on one thing: AnthroLogic made fine trail cameras.

“Depends,” Ernesto stated as he cast a sideways look at his in-law. “Those old hands of yours going to be able to pull the trigger a second time if you miss?”

“You don’t hear your sister screaming for more, every night?” David snapped back.

“My walls are thick,” Ernesto said in a quiet voice. “And I know for a fact that your old wrinkled ass can only go once a night. You really should close your kitchen curtains.”

“Jackass.”

“Moron.”

“Range?”

“One-nine-three-six to the Eel,” Ernesto reported. David grunted, causing Ernesto to grin a little. “Too close for you? If you like, you can slide back further, or wait until one of them is walking away.”

“Fuck off.”

“How about you make the shot, but the helmet stays on?”

A quiet exhale. “Bet.”

“Range . . . one-nine-three-seven,” Ernesto whispered as he peered through the range finder. He made note of the direction the snow was blowing between them and the FOB, as well as the lack of movement on the clothing of the soldiers at the base. “Found you a private. Scrawny guy, red sash tied around his neck. Very fashionable. You’d probably approve. Oh, he moved a little backwards two steps. You might get another meter out of this. No wind at target. Send it.”

Crack!

“Target down,” Ernesto confirmed. “Helmet’s still on, head is . . . not. Well, shit. New target, range one-nine-three-three. Short soldier, big tits. Pointing a rifle directly at her CO. That poor bastard is oblivious. It’s like they don’t even teach basic firearm safety at the UN. Send it.”

Crack!

“I think you got her blood all over her CO’s face.” Ernesto continued to scan the patrol as the UN soldiers tried to find somewhere safe from their invisible enemy. “He looks upset. Okay, two more targets. One on top of the turret of the main gun of the Eel. Armor protecting the body mass. Range one-nine-three-four. Second target, right three meters and down, same distance, driver of the vehicle. He’s out in the open. What an idiot. Frozen like a lawyer caught by the headlights of a vehicle in the middle of the road. Make him croak.”

Crack! A pause, then crack!

“Oh, look, more privates,” Ernesto hissed. “Digging into positions on the side of the road. I think they figured out where they’re getting hit from. No worries. They can’t possibly imagine how far out we are. Three little ducklings, all lined up in a row. Range one-nine-two-eight. The lost looking ones?”

Crack! Crack! Crack!

“No more privates down there,” David growled after consulting the feed from the trail cams. Ernesto checked and agreed.

“Want to drop an officer, just because?”

“That wasn’t the plan, asshole. Junior enlisted only. Time to move,” David muttered as he slowly slid backwards from their prepared position. A few loose rocks tumbled off to the side as he moved.

“Quietly, jackoff,” Ernesto countered as he followed suit. This location had been one of his favorite hunting spots for years, though now he doubted anything other than a ripper would want to come through after the UN was through with it. He glanced skyward and frowned. “If they know we’re up here, this entire area is going to get hit with arty any seg now.”

“You’re just upset that your favorite hunting spot is about to get pasted,” David complained as they carefully began to pick their way back through the tall trees.

Ernesto grumbled. “Fine. Next time we use one of yours.”

“Goddess, no. I like my spots.”

“Pussy.”

“You are what you eat.”

* * *

Zivcovic lay at right angles to where the convoy proceeded up the road. He had left his team watching the rigged snipers’ blind but didn’t expect anything from that. This guy was too good of a shot to not be anything but a seasoned pro. Probably a retired instructor from the Grainne training facility who lived close to the base, for old times’ sake.

He’d set up two acoustic sensors, a mile apart from each other. They would give them an origin of the shot, a second or two after it came, but he was also depending more on his own physical senses. The forest and mountains around would confuse the hell out anything if more than one shot was fired, and the UN troops leaving the base had finally been given live ammo to protect themselves. This spot was ideal because they had IDed the transponders of several active trail sensors. There were many scattered about the mountain range by hunters, still active, but only these lay along a convoy route.

Another hit on the FOB was unlikely, but they would go for a bigger target this time, and that meant a concentration of troops, out in the open. Zivcovic knew the propensity for the infantry troops to dismount from the underpowered Eel. He had seen it during the China Insurrection, when he was a senior lieutenant, leading a Serbian sniper platoon attached to a UN “peacekeeping” force. This terrain reminded him of home, the rugged mountains of eastern Europe where he learned to hunt.

The first shot actually caught him unaware, thinking back to his teenaged years, when he was involved in an unsanctioned war with those bastard Bosnians, snipers going out each night in a deadly game of cat and mouse. He just caught the man’s helmet—no, head, he corrected—spinning through the air.

Zivcovic focused his binos on the next likely target, not far from the first. Less angle to move. The woman was knocked backwards, the spasm of the hit making her rifle fire, sparking off the APC next to her CO. The Serb grunted, seeing which way she fell. He kept watching as a gunner was hit, obviously they needed to knock out the heavy weapon. The driver in the open was just an easy shot.

“Going for the junior enlisted, not bad,” he said out loud, as the patrol officer stood in the open, yelling orders and wasn’t hit. The next three shots hit the troops trying to dig into the ditch, as he had shifted his scope upward. Shooting downhill was very difficult, but Zivociv had always admired the Grainne shooters when they came to matches. They were good and knew it and would use every advantage they had.

Got you! he almost spoke out loud, seeing movement more than two kilometers away, up the side of a hill. Several rooks tumbled downward, dislodging snow and causing a miniavalanche of snowballs to run down a slope.

He flipped the magnification and lased the area, waiting for more movement to give the insurgent sniper away. They would have to move, artillery was going to plaster the shit out of this place. He had already ticked the grid coordinate to the artillery battery on standby; in a minute a couple of volleys of variable time would shred the entire slope. But he wanted the kill himself.

There. Range was about two thousand meters, give or take a dozen. The figure was clad in white camo, fading in and out of the trees, but the long straight barrel of his rifle helped give him away. Or her maybe; women made good shots too.

He adjusted for distance, then took a long lead, to count for the steady movement of the man through the snow. Slowly taking up the slack of the trigger he exhaled gently, waiting for the kick. Then he stopped as more movement on the edge of his scope distracted him. He dialed down one click and saw another figure emerge, just behind the first.

It was a tough decision to make. Kill one, and then the Serb and the remaining man would play a dance all day. Zivcovic hadn’t lived as long as he did by taking chances. Besides, he was beginning to enjoy this game. He realigned his rifle, breathed out again, and squeezed. The 12mm bullet took several heartbeats to destroy the bole of a tree fifteen centimeters in front of the second man, and both disappeared from sight.

The Serb laughed to himself and slowly worked his way back to his alternate site. He had been in a similar situation when he was younger, playing “tag” with a Bosnian sniper, caught totally by surprise. It was thrilling.

Behind him, he heard shells whine and explode.

* * *

“I need new chonies,” Ernesto groused as the duo set up camp on the south face of Capstone, the second tallest peak in the entire Dragontooth Mountains range. He picked at his pork and beans, still steaming in the small cup, and looked upwards at the heat deflector which protected them from infrared scanners. The graphene material did an excellent job of absorbing the heat as well as any excess light that might have come from the tiny camp stove. He looked back at David, his mood foul. “Why’re you laughing? He almost shot me.”

“We knew they’d send countersnipers eventually,” David said as he scraped the last of his supper from his cup. “Just surprised at how quickly they figured out our position.”

“It was the most obvious position we could take,” Ernesto admitted in a quiet voice. He was silent for a moment as he considered the shot which had come so close to reuniting him with his wife. “But you know . . . I don’t think he was trying to kill me.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The shot was perfect,” Ernesto said as he thought about the angle more. “He had us dead to rights. You were in front, so he probably spotted you first, then me. Wanted to let us know that he knew where we were . . . I wonder why he didn’t just kill me then hunt you?”

“Because he’s competitive, like us,” David suggested, watching his breath steam into the crisp air. Ernesto nodded, seeing the logic in the argument. Invigorated, he quickly finished his dinner and tossed David his cup. A plan began to form in his mind.

“I got an idea for tomorrow,” the older sniper said as he blew on his hands. The night was turning frigid and it was almost time for the two to crawl back into the green machine. “Tomorrow, we both hunt.”

“You want to kill this sniper team, old man?”

“Hell no.” Ernesto’s grin was savage. “I want to torment them.”

“You’re getting more likeable.” David nodded. “I like this side of you.”

“Shut up. You’re still the small spoon.”

“We should flip that coin again.”

“No way, crusty. You chose, you lose.”

“Bastard. I know you used one of those double-eagle coins to cheat.”

“Prove it . . . and for the record, unlike you, I knew both my mom and dad.”

* * *

The next day Ernesto went to an old hunter perch he had used many years before while David moved up higher. As much as his brother-in-law bitched about it, Ernesto finally convinced David to let the older be the decoy. It was a ruse, one that might not work, but it should. Either way, they were sending a message back to the team that was hunting them.

The new patrol took a different path into the mountains. The two men moved out well in the predawn dark, using their familiarity of the area and their NVGs to make their way to their respective positions. Using the trail cams as guides they were able to find multiple receivers of their wifi setup. Determining which connectors were the UNPF and the countersniper team hunting them took a bit of detective work but finally they were able to narrow it down to the only signal that hadn’t moved in two divs.

Trap set, it was time to go to work.

Ernesto sat in the gulch, idly following the opposing sniper with his scope as he moved from the perch where he had spent the night to a more advantageous position along the ridgeline. Ernesto had to admit that whoever the sniper was, he was both ballsy and good. No UNPF soldier wanted to be in these mountains, especially after dark. Rippers were dangerous, but there were other hazards to the wilds of Grainne that most UN soldiers were ill-equipped to handle.

It felt odd that he was allowing David to make all the kills for the day. He hated his brother-in-law with a passion born of many years of spite and anger, but over the past week he found that David didn’t grate on him as much as before. Perhaps it was the mutual need for killing invaders which brought them together. Or it could be the fact that David understood not being able to sleep through the entire night without having to get up and piss at least three times. Whatever it was, for the first time ever Ernesto was glad for his company.

The opposing sniper finally settled into position and for a moment Ernesto thought that he had lost him. The sniper was better than good. It alarmed the elderly man that someone from the UN side could be so effective at hunting. As far as he understood it, the UN had neutered all their men long before in the name of equality and higher morals.

He focused his scope on the enemy sniper and saw precisely what he was going to shoot. Now all he needed to do was to wait for David to fire so he could use that to cover his own shot. That should throw off the sensors that the sniper was undoubtedly using.

Nice hat, asshole. A deep breath, exhale, relax the back. A second breath, shallower, even. Would be a shame if something happened to it . . . 

* * *

The shot, when it came, wasn’t what he expected. The “training manequin” he’d stolen from the medics lay prone in the snow, just behind some branches. Zivcovic expected the dummy’s head to be blown straight off as he watched for the flash of his opponent’s weapon. Instead, the hat, his favorite homemade Serbian army winter pattern camo cap, flew upwards, followed by the sound of the shot. The sniper himself lay two feet to the left, heavily camouflaged in a UN issue heat-dampening arctic suit. Occasionally, he had shoved on the stick that was duct taped to the dummy’s torso, to elicit some movement and draw his enemies’ attention.

He did see the flash, and a small bit of evaporation coming off the snow where the heat of the shot sublimated it. The hat actually spun up into the air and landed on the snow next to him, and he cursed as he lined up the shot. They had wrecked his hat on purpose, payback for scaring the shit out of them yesterday.

The rifle he used today was a Russian model, not UN issue, firing a sabot-jacketed 4mm tungsten bullet. Accuracy suffered past a thousand meters, but Zivcovic had worked his way inward toward where he thought they would be, favoring the lighter rifle over the ungainly 12mm. Going up against a skilled shooter, he knew that the time of flight of the thumb-sized rounds against an aware target actually gave a sniper, if he saw the shot, time to move. No, today would be close-in work, and he wanted to put an end to it. He could give a shit about the troopers who were killed by the enemy snipers, but he did have to go back to base eventually.

That second shooter might be a problem, but he was probably spotting through a broader angle scope and wouldn’t have time to use his own weapon before Zivcovic took him, too. The scope behind the small puff of vapor was masked with cloth, and the face behind it almost completely obscured, but the Serb took up the slack in the trigger and fired. He was rewarded by a small splash of red, before the other man’s face disappeared.

The return shot, coming from much higher up, shattered the Serb’s rifle, sending pieces of metal into his face. Instead of jumping, or rolling away, despite the enormous pain he felt, Zivcovic, with iron discipline, lay atop his broken weapon, knowing that he was perfectly visible to the second sniper. He let the blood run out onto the snow, and held his breath to short, invisible sighs, directed down into his shirt to avoid creating any mist. He waited for the second shot, to make sure he was dead, and cursed himself for making a mistake. Well, at least he had gotten one of the bastards. When it didn’t come, after more than an hour of bleeding onto the snow, he slowly slid himself backwards, deeper into the woods.

* * *

“Motherfucker!” David hissed as he moved quickly through the thickening trees of the forest. He dared not go back for his brother-in-law’s body. Both men had known the risks they were taking when they had set out from the homestead the previous week, and now the Reaper had come to collect the overdue bill.

He had no idea what he was going to tell his wife. It would have been easy to let Ernesto walk away into the snow, freeze his ass off and watch him sulk back to his home divs later. Instead he had helped facilitate it. There was no good reason for it. David had wanted to prove, once and for all, that he was better than Ernesto.

Now Ernesto lay dead somewhere, an enemy sniper was down but possibly not out, and he potentially was on the run. He expected the UN to flood the area with more infantry over the next few days as they looked for him. Worst of all, he knew that Claudia was probably going to kill him over this. Was it worth it, old man? he asked himself for the umpteenth time. Was it really worth it?

It wasn’t.

Reaching the green machine, he pushed the camouflage netting aside and tossed his rifle into the back. Angrily, David slammed shut the hatch. He moved around to the driver’s side and paused, hand trembling as he reached for the door handle. Trembles? Even at his age, his hand never trembled, his nerves were always calm. Three cups of coffee in the morning couldn’t even cause this sort of reaction. What was wrong with him?

“Son of a . . . ” his whisper trailed off. It shocked him to admit that he felt guilty about his brother-in-law’s death. They never liked each other, with David going so far as to think that Ernesto actively hated his guts. He had always enjoyed tweaking the old bastard’s nose, especially after he met and started dating Claudia. It had been the cherry on top when he had found out who she was related to. Damn. He actually liked Ernesto, in a strange and bizarre way.

Pulling his hand back from the door, he decided that he would continue the hunt. The sniper was definitely wounded—he had seen the blood, though he did not sit around to wait for confirmation—so he probably had a day or two before the next countersniper team was sent out. Or they quit screwing off and carpet bomb the entire range.

He checked the overhead cover and saw that it was still secure in place. Camo netting around the green machine in place, he opened the sleeping compartment and pushed his rifle aside. Knees aching, David grabbed the handle on the inside and pulled himself in before closing the hatch. He sighed and rolled onto his back, staring at the roof of the compartment in silent contemplation.

“There’s gonna be a reckoning,” he promised in a gentle yet firm tone as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

A time of reckoning would have to wait. David needed to piss, and bad.

It was late, but the overhead moon lit the surrounding area nicely. His bladder had woken him up three segs before, and he wandered outside of his white camo netting around the green machine to use the bathroom. Freezing, he tried to make it quick but either the cold or his arthritis prevented that from happening. Annoyed, he waited a few long and cold segs before things remembered how to work properly.

In the distance he heard a hunting howl of a wild animal. Despite the cold winter air, the forest seemed unnaturally alive around him. Bird analogues, normally hibernating at this time of the year, were still out and calling into the darkness. For what, he wasn’t sure. David had long experience hunting in these mountains and woods, but never in his life had he ever felt so alone. Perhaps the loss of Ernesto weighed more heavily on him than he realized?

Impossible, he thought as relief was finally had. The worst part was telling his wife that her brother was dead, not simpering over the loss of a rival like Ernesto.

Holding back a sigh of relief, David looked up at the clear sky above. Without cloud cover, the air was especially brisk, though he was thankful that there was no breeze. If there had been, it would have been a fifty/fifty chance of his piss freezing before it hit the ground. He had heard of soldiers on Earth suffering from this at some Goddess-forsaken place called Chosin.

Around him, the nighttime noises of the Grainne wilderness abruptly ceased as a thick tension filled the air. He had just a moment to wonder why before his noncaffeinated brain fully kicked in. There was a predator nearby and there was no way to know precisely what type until it wanted to be seen. The only weapon he had at his disposal was his junk in hand, and unfortunately—or fortunately for his wife—it did not spit lead out at fifteen hundred meters per seg.

A branch cracked somewhere behind him. David stilled his movements as his hands struggled to button his winter pants. Idiot, he cursed himself. He had stupidly left his compact subcarbine in the rear compartment, sleep and sadness causing him to make a sloppy mistake. He did have his Bowie knife on him. However, anything that hunted in these woods in the night would make short work of the foot-long blade. Besides, like many elderly men, he was not one for hand-to-hand combat.

“Hello.” A soft voice carried on the still air. There was a decided accent in the speaker’s voice which David recognized as one being from Earth. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Well, fuck.

* * *

“Put your dick away before it freezes off. Even at your age, I expect that you still value it.” Zivcovic smirked a bit at the look on the man’s face but held his pistol rock steady as the old man buttoned up his coveralls, alert to any sudden movements.

“Can I put my hands down?” the Freeholder asked, having resumed his position of surrender.

“In a minute, maybe. We shall talk first.” The Serb looked at the man closely, then said, “Yes, I know you! Archuleta!”

“What?” This revelation startled the retired FMF sniper.

“Yes! You are David Archuleta. I watched on holo as a boy, the matches. There is no such competition on Earth, and I wanted to come here to participate, eventually. Then I was too busy sniping those Muslim devils. Tell me, who was it that I killed?”

“My brother-in-law, Ernesto,” said David, miserably. He knew he was about to die and was still worried more about informing his wife that her brother was dead.

“Ernesto Silang? Him who was always second best to you in the matches?”

“Only second best because I let him win all the time,” a soft whisper floated across the frigid open space. The ripple down his spine to his fingertips was colder than the night air.

Zivcovic heard the flick of a safety being taken off, but didn’t take his gun off his prisoner, merely said quietly, “I guess that gust of wind was stronger than I thought, I couldn’t be sure. Always a problem with those light rounds, even with the sabot. How much did I miss by?”

“You took off my ear. I should shoot you just for that second-place comment, you son of a bitch. Never mind the ear.” The voice came from the trees just past the small vehicle. The speaker continued, “If you call me One-eared Ernie I will shoot your balls off, David.”

“You should shoot him now, Ernie,” David called out into the darkness, ignoring the not-so-veiled threat. His eyes never left Zivcovic. “You’ve got him dead to rights.”

“I should let him plug you once, just to even the score.”

“You’re the one who wanted to play bait. Well, guess what, old man? Sometimes the bait gets swallowed.”

Zivcovic interrupted their banter. “I could have shot you the first time, either of you. We have learned that there is a difference between the range and the field. Who now is the winner?” The pistol in his hand never wavered, even when David slowly lowered his tired arms. “You can shoot me, but I will kill him before I die. Then you have to go home and explain this to his wife. I think you will be the biggest loser out of all of us! There are some things worse than death.”

“What do you mean?” asked the voice.

“Hell is an angry woman. Ask me how I know.”

David actually laughed, and said, “He’s got you there, Ernesto. You know what Claudia is like. Go ahead, Captain . . . ”

“Zivcovic.”

“Captain Zivcovic. Shoot me, I’d rather die and watch him get a beatdown from the afterlife. That would just be me winning one more time.”

“Kiss my ass, David,” said the voice in the darkness.

Zivcovic actually smiled. He liked these two old bastards. It was going to be a pity to kill them both, though he doubted he would survive the shootout. Perhaps there was a better way. After all, what did he owe the UN? Nothing. Still holding the pistol at David’s face, he said, “I have a proposition for you Freeholders.”

“Put the gun down and we’ll talk,” said Ernesto from the woods.

“No, you come out and we will talk,” said Zivcovic. “Keep your gun on me, if you want, I will kill your friend though if you try anything.”

“Friend, my ass,” came the steady and measured reply, but then he stepped into view, carrying a Merrill assault rifle. A bandage was wrapped around his head, and blood stained the front of his winter coveralls. The barrel was pointed at Zivcovic but the Serb remained unperturbed. Everyone knew how the next few moments would play out if someone took a shot. It was amazing how the accepted fact did not change any of their attitudes. “Talk, aardvark. What do you want?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Zivcovic asked, and smirked. “I am claiming asylum from political persecution.”

“What?” David asked. There was confusion and disbelief in his tone. “Join . . . us?”

“That is what I said, no? You are both excellent snipers, even in your old age. I think, though, that I have a thing or two to teach you.”

“Why would you kill your own people?” Ernesto asked in a cautious voice. He had heard of men switching allegiances during war for various reasons, but he wondered what drove this killer to do so. It wasn’t remorse, that was for damn sure. One look into those cold eyes told him that regret and repentance was the last thing on this man’s mind.

“My people? Those are not my people, those socialist shitheads,” Zivcovic laughed and continued. “I am Serb, I am a free man, but that has caused me much trouble. I used to be lieutenant colonel, in charge of sniper school. I lost my rank beating shit out of a private for no respect.”

“So just like that?” said Ernesto.

The man shrugged, still not lowering his pistol, “Yes. As I said, I am a free man. Plus, there is good hunting here, no? I have always wanted to try my knife against your Ripper animal.”

David and Ernesto looked at each other, exchanging a silent message. In essence, this guy was a nut. And it was goddamned cold out, though that didn’t seem to affect their enemy. The icy chill of the nighttime air made the decision rather easy.

“Fuck it.” Ernesto shrugged after a pregnant pause. He lowered his rifle and gave his brother-in-law a look, nodding in acceptance.

Zivcovic holstered his pistol, then smiled in understanding when Ernesto raised the rifle again. “There’s lots of ways to be the best, Captain Zivcovic,” said the Freeholder. “Winner is always last man standing.”

“Of course,” the Serb agreed as he held up a flat palm, indicating for the man to not shoot him. He then slowly pulled a small device from his pocket. Both David and Ernesto could see the glowing red light on the top of it from where they each stood. Zivcovic waggled it in the air. “This is a remote detonator. It’s tied in to my heartbeat. You shoot me, and it blows up, and will kill whoever survives because your vehicle will be in pieces. You take me as prisoner, let me kill UN dogs with you, we all live.”

“Oh Goddess,” David grumbled. “Fucking aardvark.”

“Damn, you’re a clever man,” Ernesto allowed as he lowered his rifle slightly. “You brought a bomb to a gunfight.”

“I try.” Zivcovic shrugged.

“The only problem with your plan is we figured out you were a sneaky little fucker early on,” Ernesto continued as he tossed a small device, no bigger than a grenade, onto the ground at Zivcovic’s feet. “So of course, I checked the green machine over before I said anything.”

Jebote,” the Serb muttered under his breath. “I hid bomb well!”

“Not well enough.” David chuckled. “Good job, Ernesto.”

“What do we do with him now?” the old sniper asked his brother-in-law.

“No idea,” David admitted. “Can’t let him go. He’ll get lucky and snipe one of us eventually. I have no problem killing him.”

“Eh, what a waste of a good sniper though,” Ernesto pointed out to him. “He could have killed you but wanted to talk. I think he’s serious about joining our side.”

“I am,” Zivcovic proclaimed.

“Zip it, aardvark,” David said. He turned his attention back to Ernesto. “What’re you thinking? Three klicks?”

“Three and a half,” Ernesto stated after a moment’s contemplation. “That’ll prove his mettle.”

“What are you talking about?” Zivcovic asked as the two older men’s grins became feral.


United Nations FOB Boutros, Dragontooth Mountains


The two-man guard duty at the forward operating base’s front gate was something of a joke now, ever since the snipers stopped being a problem two days prior. It had taken almost an entire company of an armored convoy to put the sniper down but when the surviving officers returned, their operation was declared a success. Later scans had proven this claim, as reconnaissance drones flying overhead never picked up a sign of anything larger than small game animal heat signatures. It was mission accomplished for all involved.

Thus, it came as a bit of a surprise when the first guard’s head was removed at precisely 1759 hours, exactly a minute away from the scheduled shift change. There was a brief moment of panic from the surviving gate guard before he managed to slap the base’s general alarm, which stirred up the hornet’s nest and activated the entire base into emergency lockdown.

It was later determined the shot came from a presumed-lost 12mm UN-issued sniper rifle, which caused some discomfort amongst the senior officers of the base. The officer in charge of the hunt for the snipers had seen Captain Zivcovic die on his scanners when the insurgent sniper took him out. How, then, had his weapon ended up in enemy hands? And who had taken the shot, which was determined to have been from roughly 3.5 kilometers away?

It would go down as one of the more mysterious moments of the war.


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