The Stakeout
We had waited patiently for several days on the top floor of an abandoned office building for our target to show up. Our undercover operatives reported that sometime this week, Victor Karloff, an international terrorist, had arranged a weapons deal with the Russian Mafia. More recently, they discovered valuable intel that revealed he would be on-site for the transaction.
Captain Price shook me from my musing with a rough shove. "They're here," he whispered. "About time," I muttered, rubbing my face to awaken myself. I checked a photo of our target one last time before looking down the scope of my R700 custom-made, long-range sniper rifle that I had mounted on a stand immediately upon our arrival. Zooming in on the convoy of military vehicles pulling in to the designated meeting point 1.5 miles North of our location, I observed them coming to a halt and discharging several thugs to survey the area. When the immediate area surrounding the parking lot was deemed secure by the grunts, the big wigs swaggered out of their SUVs to begin the trade-off as quickly as possible.
"There's our man," the captain said evenly, but with a faint element of…something (could it be excitement?) from behind his high-powered binoculars. Dismissing the idle thought of my fellow marine being anything but 'nerves of steel,' I glanced down at the glossy, black-and-white likeness. Then I quickly shifted my gaze towards the convoy. I needed to check for myself if our mark was really there.
Balding, white hair, thin mustache, scruffy beard and side burns, completed by a large nose, the man in the thick wool coat on the left was definitely Victor Karloff: wanted for murder, illegal weapons trafficking and production, multiple terrorist attacks, and numerous other charges in over 30 countries. He looked casual, carrying his dull metal briefcase and smoking a cigarette, but he was a threat to peace on a global scale and had to be taken out before he could supply anymore arms to terrorist cells located in a dozen third-world countries.
"No time for reminiscing," I told myself. "This is an extremely important mission issued by the top brass at the Pentagon."
"Pay attention," scolded Price, "and remember to factor in the trajectory of the bullet as well as wind acceleration." Even though his officer insignia on the black & white urban camo was a glaringly visible reminder that I owed him a prompt "yes, sir," my mind was already too firmly focused on the objective to reply. "OK, take the shot while he's in the open, but wait for the wind to die down," he intoned.
With cool confidence, I gazed upon my target and flipped the safety off. Resting my index finger on the cold, steel trigger, I patiently waited for the wind to die down. Suddenly, the flags on the SUV's stopped flapping and drooped lifelessly. Time slowed to a crawl, and my world shrank down to just my target, the black-as-night cross-hairs resting squarely above Victor's head, and the chill of the cold menacing steel in my well-trained hands. My lungs briefly expanded as fresh air rushed in, replacing the old, used-up oxygen I'd held inside for who knows how long.
Dead silence ensued for an extremely brief moment. My heart contracted loudly in that instant. "Th-thump…th-thump…th-BOOM!" My rifle roared as it spat lightning from its muzzle. My grip never loosened. My muscles never twitched. My resolve never wavered, and my eyes never blinked as a thin trail of smoke raced towards and exploded through the head of the late Victor Karloff.
"Nice shot, private!" crowed my superior officer. "Nailed him right through his dome-piece." "Thanks, sir," I nodded, as he continued, "Alright, mission accomplished--but it ain't time to celebrate yet. There's about a mile or so of ground between us and the extraction point. Let's get out of here."
Suddenly, before I could agree, a military helicopter silently rose to our level and hovered about 50 yards in front of us. "Shoot the pilot!" yelled Price. His voice was loud, but had a forced calm learned from years of battle field experience and covert operations: situations where not controlling your emotions would get you sent home in a body bag. I fought to keep my initial surprise from turning into panic, but my months of field training and disciplined target practice instantly kicked in and kept my mind, my body and my aim steady. Without missing a beat, I squeezed the trigger and put a bloody hole right between the man's eyes, breaking apart his flight goggles in the same instant.
The pilot slumped forward in his seat, leaning against the steering controls. The unmanned chopper lurched into a tailspin and out of control, swinging in an ever-widening arc which would obviously reach us in a few seconds. Without hesitation, we attached ourselves to the escape line in the open window and repelled down the side of the building. Not a moment too soon either, for we hadn't descended quite twenty feet when our previously calm and serene sniper nest was transformed into a raging inferno of molten glass and steel. Chunks of concrete and broken glass rained around us, and to our utter dismay, we began to freefall. The charred and smoking-hot rotor blade had sliced through our repel cables, sending us hurtling downward into what we were certain would be death's cold embrace.
"Is this how it ends, is this what I've waited for, is this my reward for faithfully serving my county, is this the last chapter of my life's story?" Flashed through my mind as I began to grab and claw for a hand or foothold on the sheer face of the building. Body weight and the accursed gravity became my mortal enemies at that moment, pulling me down while I desperately hoped for a window ledge, a fire escape, something!
A jolt of pain shot through me as I snagged a drain pipe with my right arm, the sickening crunch slowing but not stopping my fall. It only re-oriented me upside down, so I could watch the street rushing up to meet me. My world became tinged with red, and my heart began pounding anew in my head. "Th-thump…th-thump…th-thump…" In those brief moments of my descent, time slowed to a crawl and my world narrowed again. All I could see through the red mist was my captain's body lying still in a small pool of blood. Grief and guilt struck me at the same time, answering my previous question: "This isn't what I waited for….it's what I trained for." Accomplish the mission and go home alive---at least that was what was supposed to happen. Then everything went black.
A frustrating "Game Over" flashed across the screen for what seemed to me the millionth time today. I angrily threw down my controller and stormed off to get a drink of water with that annoyingly smug message staring out of the glowing portal behind me. I could feel its spectral gaze piercing reality and branding my conscience with guilt over the torn-up, unrecognizable corpses of the two Marines in the street. I shook my head as I downed a full bottle of Ozarka, the refreshment calming my anger and allowing me to think clearly about what I had done wrong, where I had messed up, and why I had failed. After a littler contemplation on the matter, I finally came to the startling realization of exactly what my mishap had been. I had simply not applied my prior gaming experiences to this one. And the only true mistakes are ones that you don't learn from. With those wise words drifting about my head, my feet marched me to my room as I contemplated my new battle plan.
With renewed energy and the determination that comes from an in-born competitive streak, I quickly returned to pick up my game controller and pressed the start button, my jaw set. Positioned with Captain Price by his side on the top floor of the deserted office building, the sniper was ready for me to begin the stakeout. The corners of my mouth curved into a slightly predatory smile. I was ready to wait for my target once again.