One Less - Part 46

by joykatleen

At the base of the ladder to the flight deck, Gibbs abandoned the crutches. He reached up the rails and pulled. Using his hands and his good leg, he climbed the ladder as quickly as he could and balanced against the top rail. The hatchway onto the flight deck was half a dozen steps ahead. This was going to hurt.

Gibbs put only the minimum weight necessary on his bad leg, but he still felt a jarring pain with every step. He reached the hatchway and paused to catch his breath. He hoped that this was worth whatever additional damage he was doing to his knee. Not to mention the rant he was going to have to suffer through when Ducky found out.

Once through the hatchway, Gibbs could see Fredrick lying flat on one of the outcroppings sheltering the walkway below. He headed that way with a series of jerky motions and sub-vocal curses. He made it to within ten feet of Fredrick's position and dropped himself forward, landing hard on his palms. He drew his Sig before settling down onto his belly and shimmying forward toward the edge of the deck.

"Go downstairs, back up DiNozzo," Gibbs told Fredrick. Fredrick shoved his gun into its holster and squirmed backwards until he knew he couldn't be seen from below. Then he stood and ran for the hatchway. Gibbs slid into his place. He took and released several deep breaths, trying to shunt away the pain in his leg.

The flight deck had no safety rails, only 'fences:' Metal frames covered with steel cabling welded into a net pattern, mounted to the edges of the flight deck. When the ship was in port and the air wing gone, or if they held a steel beach picnic or other event on the deck, the fences were raised into safety rail position. Otherwise, they rested at a 60 degree upward angle under the edge of the deck. They were designed to catch personnel who took a misstep or were swept or blown off the deck. The cable net hurt like hell if you landed on it. But it was far better than a drop to the ocean of 80 feet or more. The fencing had the added benefit of keeping you where medevac could find you. Unlike floating on the open ocean in the wake of a carrier. Even if you did survive the fall.

The fences were up today. Gibbs looked over the edge of the deck, his eyes automatically adjusting through the cables. Gibbs could see Thayer and his hostage about 20 feet below him and down range maybe 75 feet. Math first learned in middle school, then relearned in sniper school, told him he was about 78 feet away as the bullet flew. About 26 yards. A shot he could almost make in his sleep, given the right rifle. It wouldn't be that much more difficult with his sidearm.

Gibbs pulled his credentials out of his back pocket. He stretched his arms out in front of himself and unfolded the wallet. Placing it badge up on the deckplate, he flipped the ID card holder over the badge and placed the butt of his Sig in the fold of the wallet. The side of his fist and his knuckles on both sides of the butt of the gun rested against leather. Gibbs spread his legs slightly, rolled his left foot out so the inside was resting on the deck, tried – and failed – to do the same with his right foot, and sighted down his arms. This would do. He'd certainly shot from worse platforms in his career.

Below him, Gibbs could hear Thayer's panicked voice and DiNozzo's answering calm. He could see Fredrick, behind a pallet closer to the deck rail, waiting. Gibbs took another deep breath, let it out slowly, and shunted the sounds away. He adjusted his arms slightly until he had Thayer's head squarely in his site. The sailor in Thayer's grip was all wide eyes and straining muscles. Gibbs said a silent prayer that the kid would stay still when the time came.

Thayer had pulled the sailor to his left, exposing all of his head and most of the right side of his body. Assuming their theory was correct and Thayer was trying to get them to kill him, it was pretty clear he was hoping for a clean shot. Gibbs would try to oblige him. But not the way the priest hoped, he was sure. The kill shot would be easy. Wounding him enough to put him down without risking his death; that was the trick.

It would have to be extremities, Gibbs thought as he felt himself beginning to relax and settle in. Even an otherwise benign shoulder shot could hit an artery and Thayer could bleed out before the medics got it stopped. Gibbs knew: It had almost happened to him when Ari hit him in autopsy years ago. He took another breath, clearing that thought away. So, arms or legs? Thayer's left arm was across the kid's chest. The bullets in Gibbs' gun would only stop in an arm if they hit bone, and even Gibbs wasn't that confident against a moving target. Thayer's right arm was flying all over the place as he gesticulated with the gun in his hand. No good.

Legs then. Gibbs tipped his gun sight lower. Again, Thayer's left leg was partially hidden by the sailor he held. His right was fully exposed and mostly still, bearing the majority of Thayer's weight as he braced the sailor. A downward angled shot just above his knee would blow out through the back of his calf and drop him like a deer. If Thayer didn't want to kill the sailor – Gibbs was confident he didn't – that would work. And the irony of it was pleasing, too. He found himself almost smiling at that and schooled his thoughts.

It was amazing, really, how easily he fell back into old routines. He'd been a sniper for a long time, but it had been a long time ago. He took several more deep, even breaths. Gibbs felt the pain in his knee ease and his heart rate begin to fall. Fifty-eight to sixty beats a minute was the goal. At this distance, with this gun, he would probably be fine with 70 or even 75. But on a true sniper shot – using a rifle over long distances – the muscle tremble created by a heart beating at 70 would throw off aim enough to miss a human target. At 85 beats, he wouldn't be able to hit the broad side of a barn anything more than a quarter mile away. Over 100, and his hands would actually begin to shake, making it difficult to create the concentrated force necessary to pull the trigger at all.

This shot would be considerably easier. But he still needed to focus. A few more breaths and the pain in his leg virtually disappeared. The churning in his gut settled. The muscles in his hands, his arms, his shoulders, his neck and chest, all slowly became steady and stable. He considered environmental factors: there was a slight breeze, no more than two knots, blowing fairly steadily onto the ship from the shore. A slight recalculation in his trajectory would cover that. The humidity was low. Higher humidity tended to push a bullet down, lower make it rise. He would account for that. The ship was rising and falling gently with the tide and the wake of the Coast Guard patrol boats keeping sightseers away. But he was rising and falling a the same pace, and so was Thayer. Nothing to worry about there. Relative to one another, they were all still. He narrowed his vision, his world shrinking to only what he could see past his gun site, through the four-inch square of cable netting, down 26 yards to Thayer's leg.

Rumor had it that Gibbs had retired as a sniper when his eyesight started to fail. Truth was the only thing wrong with his vision was the farsightedness that inevitably came with age. His sight over distance was fine. He'd quit sniper work because he'd grown tired of killing, pure and simple. Not that there weren't people out there who needed killing. There absolutely were. And Gibbs had never regretted a single shot he'd taken with his rifle. But it had worn on him.

It hadn't started to bother him until well after he left the Marine Corps. After retraining as a federal agent, Gibbs had been assigned to NCIS's sniper teams for awhile. He'd been as good there as he'd been in the Corps, but he hadn't been as comfortable with it. Somehow something had changed. It might have had to do with the fact that he was now killing American civilians instead of foreign combatants. Maybe it was just because he was doing it on home turf. Or maybe it was that solo mission to Mexico, when he'd gotten his justice. Maybe he just didn't have the heart for killing anymore.

In the years since, he'd killed plenty of people who needed killing. Most with a sidearm. A few with his rifle. But each one had weighed on him in ways they never had before. He'd given it up not because he couldn't do it anymore, but because he just couldn't do it anymore.

On the deck below, Thayer was growing more agitated. He undoubtedly couldn't understand why DiNozzo wasn't shooting him. It had been several minutes since Thayer had fired his own gun. Probably running low on ammo. Nonetheless, Gibbs knew he didn't have much longer. Eventually, Thayer would take the next step to force the issue and someone would get hurt. Gibbs continued to focus his breathing, slow and steady. Heart rate down to the high 60s now.

Gibbs well knew the capabilities of his weapon, a Sig Sauer P228. He knew exactly how accurate its sights were, knew the slight downward angle bullets took when they left the barrel regardless of environmental factors. He knew that after a certain distance, the twist in the barrel rifling would begin to pull the bullet off centerline. Given all that, he knew how to calculate the exact position in which to place his sites in order to hit his target. The shot was nearly a sure thing. The only wild card was the movement Thayer could make in the split second between Gibbs pulling the trigger and the bullet hitting home. It wouldn't be far, but it could be enough. Gibbs would be prepared for a follow-up shot, just in case.

Another check of his heart: 64. Good enough.

"DiNozzo," he said calmly into his radio.

"Yeah," DiNozzo came back.

"Above you to your left. I'm going to put him down. Stand by to secure him."

"Copy that," DiNozzo said. He wouldn't stray into the line of fire, and wouldn't react badly to an unexpected shot. When Thayer fell – and he would fall, even if it took two shots – DiNozzo would move in fast and neutralize any further threat Thayer might be to them or the hostage. DiNozzo's voice came again: "You see Fredrick?"

"Affirmative. Fredrick, stay where you are."

"Copy." Fredrick's reply.

Gibbs took a breath, let it out. Took another, let it out, and gently squeezed the trigger.

The bullet's flight was true. There was the sound of a shot, followed almost immediately by a cry of pain from Thayer as a blossom of blood appeared at his right knee. He fell sideways, grabbing at his leg, taking the hostage down as he hit the deck. The young sailor jerked out of his grasp just as DiNozzo arrived to kick Thayer's gun away. The priest curled up on himself, hugging his bleeding leg and screaming in pain. DiNozzo holstered his own pistol and grabbed Thayer's arms, pulling them behind his body and cuffing his wrists together. The priest continued to scream and writhe on the deckplates.

Members of the security force came flooding out onto the deck. They grabbed Thayer and pulled him to his feet, then dragged him back into the hangar bay. DiNozzo gave the hostage a hand up, made sure he was alright, then turned to look up at Gibbs. A thumbs up from DiNozzo, a nod from Gibbs.

DiNozzo appeared on the flight deck a few minutes later, holding the crutches. Gibbs was sitting up, both legs stretched out in front of himself. The pain he'd managed to suppress had come slamming back when Thayer fell. He was breathing in short gasps, trying unsuccessfully to lock it away again.

"That was some shootin', Boss," DiNozzo said, looking down at him.

"It worked," Gibbs said between breaths. His gut was finally quiet. They'd done it.

"You blew out his knee," DiNozzo said.

"I know," Gibbs said.

"They say turnabout is fair play," DiNozzo said.

"They do," Gibbs said. DiNozzo examined his boss for a second.

"You alright?" he asked. His voice was intentionally casual.

"Will be," Gibbs said. "Might take awhile."

"Need a hand?"

"Yes," Gibbs admitted. DiNozzo set the crutches on the deck and moved behind Gibbs. He crouched down and grabbed his boss around the middle, hoisting him up. Gibbs sagged back against Tony until he found his balance on his good leg. With the level of pain shooting from his knee, he didn't even try to put any weight on it. DiNozzo made sure he was stable, then grabbed the crutches and held them out.

Gibbs took them and swung forward a step. He grunted as his right foot brushed the deck and pain echoed up. Another step, another pain, and he stopped.

"Better get me a corpsman," Gibbs said, and DiNozzo's eyes widened. He moved closer to Gibbs even as he called into the radio he was still wearing and got a medic on the way.

"You gonna get that fixed sometime soon?" DiNozzo asked while he hovered beside Gibbs, watching for the slightest hint that the older man was about to fall.

"Soon as we're done with this," Gibbs said sourly.

"You already make the appointment?"

"Someone did." DiNozzo hid a smile.

to be continued... right now