One Shot, One Kill

[Cassie Granger 0]

~You’re the only one here who seems to be aiming at everyone through a scope.You’re the one who thinks this whole thing’s some kind of twisted up metaphor for counter-snipping.

-Gage Silver, Flip Side of the Coin

 

 

One Shot, One Kill

 

Dusk came early on the Alaveris Plateau, and with it unpredictable gusts from Kane Mountain. At this time of year wind and rain usually came at a premium, but the proximity of the salt lake and the fickle atmospheric currents formed on the polar ice cap made them always unpredictable.

 

Tall savannah grass seldom moved without a breeze. Cass caught the movement: a few isolated ripening grain heads that bobbed. Taking deep, slow, even breaths, Cass reduced her heartbeat to 40, took careful aim, and spoke quietly to the man at her side.

 

“Target. Mid-ledge.” Short. Precise. Low-pitched, but not a whisper. The hiss of a whisper made for unclear instructions and the sound carried all too easily. Not a good idea.

 

“Range... seven three zero. Elevation two one. Wind at zero from zero three zero on target. Temperature variant five, gradient... three at five three zero.” Spotter info verified and quantified her visual. Range to target, elevation, wind speed and direction at the target, atmospheric variants from position to target, gradient indicating a heat pocket at a particular range. It was all the information Cass would need to compensate to make one shot, one kill. A miss would give her position away and they were both dead meat.

 

Without responding to the even, quiet voice, Cass shifted one hand to adjust her scope, then ran through her mental checklist. Rifle position. Body position. Focus on target. She settled her body for the shot.

 

Dried leaves on a stunted tree rustled, followed by those of a nearby shrub. Finally, grass heads close-by quivered in a breath of wind that washed over them, taking with it some of the sweat that had been drawing biting, stinging insects for the last two hours.

 

Deep, slow, even breathing continued several minutes more, waiting for another breeze. When it didn’t come, Cass began to time her pulse. Focus on target. Pulse. Atmosphere. Movement.

 

“Send it.”

 

Her breath steady, Cass slipped her finger to the trigger, held her breath in mid-exhale, waited for the ‘rest’ in her pulse, then squeezed off a round.

 

Seven hundred thirty yards away, a bright red light flashed as one sharp ping split the air.

 

“On target,” said Frank, in the smooth even tone of a sniper’s spotter.

 

Her eye still on the scope, Cass grinned as she watched the figure of a tall, broad-chested man rise from the grass beneath the ledge and begin a slow, methodical walk in their general direction, his expression determined, his eyes sharp, sweeping evenly as he advanced.

 

Fourteen-year-old Cass and her dad planted their faces in the dirt, using their grass-covered Ghillies to mask their position.

 

The figure advanced to within ten yards then stopped. They waited... thirty seconds... sixty seconds. Five minutes.... ten. The sound began again, coming up on their right.

 

Baseball sized rocks began to hit close by in random order as footsteps swooshed through the grass. Cass heard one hit between them as they hid; neither moved, not even a twitch.

 

Then came the sound of some object - Cass figured it was the laser receiver - sweeping back and forth like a scythe. Footsteps passed within a yard. Paused. Turned.

 

Cass felt a boot press against her leg. She figured they were had, but a surprised shout preceded the full weight of a hard-toned 6’2” Marine body sprawling on top of her, smashing her chest into the sun-baked dirt.

 

“Damn, Frank!” Major Craig Tigard rolled off of Cass, scrambled to right himself and quickly turned to her. “Cass! Buddy! You okay?” A firm grip on her arm flipped her over.

 

A few raspy gasps later, she nodded. “I’m good, sir. I’m good,” she lied, not about to admit her ribs hurt like hell. She’d seen her dad take worse, brush if off, and walk away. He was like that; she would be, too.

 

=/\= =/\= =/\=

 

 

Docking at Starbase North Star hadn’t been all that relaxing for Warrant Officer Granger. Given the nature of the damage to the ship’s systems and the lack of knowledge of most of North Star’s engineers regarding the proprietary SPECOPS equipment for navigation, Cass had taken on most of that burden. Biggest problem she had? Strange communication with the navigation-fighter interface: what told her where each fighter was and calculated probable vectors in relation to the mission tasks assigned. She’d traced everything from navigation on the bridge down to the main engineering junction, and had ended up in the guts of several Tomcats and Hornets.

 

Defective isochips in hand, Cass paused to rest her forearms on the catwalk railing and watch the bay crews put the final touches on their charges before debarkation. Plane crews bonded with their planes and pilots. Cass understood that. Admired that. Why couldn’t she bond with this ship, this crew....?

 

“Got a good crew down there, Buddy.”

 

A glance aside found Brigadier General Tigard next to her, arms folded across his chest, eyes on the bay floor. “Good ship. Good crew. Can’t ask for more.”

 

“No, sir. Sure can’t.”

 

They continued to watch for several minutes. Tigard finally rested his arms on the railing as well, his eyes lifted from the bay floor to something beyond its boundaries.

 

“You dealing, Cass?”

 

She thought a minute before responding. “Aye, sir.”

 

He gave a slow nod, dropped his gaze and reached into his pocket. “Your dad said... if anything ever happened to him... I was to give you this.”

 

Cass turned to face him; her eyes darted from his to the outstretched hand as he handed her two pins, one worn with age, the other not so worn but definitely old. She’d seen them before.

 

“That one...” he pointed to the newest, “... his expert rifleman badge. First he ever got. He was so proud.” Tigard paused, lips pressed together. “That one... one-seven-one Guadalcanal. Passed down from your ancestor, Jonathan Wester Granger. Hell of a family you have, Cass. Your dad was so proud of you. Want you to know that. And if ever you need... anything. I’m here.”

 

Cass nodded, unable to respond. When she looked up he had gone. Tucking the pins into her pocket, she turned once more to stare at the teams, swarming over the fighters, bees to the honey.

Edited March 6, 2012 by STSF Jami
format correction at author request