A breath later, Swanson’s M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, or SAW, rattled off short bursts after short high-volume bursts of deadly fire, stitching the alley with suppressive fire.
Jerry bolted, boots pounding the dry earth.With practiced ease, despite the sixty pounds of gear weighing him down, he grabbed the lowest branch and swung up into the tree.Bark and spiny thorns bit his palms as he scrambled higher, making him regret not taking a second to pull on his gloves.Once high enough, he pulled Cassie around, checking the optics, zeroing in on the target.“Bravo Four.On objective,” he confirmed into the microphone.
Commands barked in his ear as the team stormed the thatch-roofed adobe building.He scanned the building by peering down Cassie’s left side.Normally, his spotter, Osbourne or Swanson, would handle calling out targets for him.However, Phil had stayed with Peña’s group, and Gill’s additional bulk would have proven problematic had he tried to perch alongside Jerry in this tree.Not for the first time, that left Jerry alone in his current perch.He saw a flicker of movement and instantly acquired the target through the powerful optics atop his rifle.
Years ago, Jerry had reconciled the lethal facts and results of his occupation with his Christian faith.Throughout the Bible, scripture makes many references to Godly men who take the lives of their enemies in combat, ranging from Gideon to Joshua to Samson to King David.God created all men with an intended purpose.Sometimes, God’s intended purpose meant he created warriors.Like his father and his grandfather before him, Gerald Adam McBride knew beyond any doubt that God had always intended him to lead the life of a warrior.Keeping the men of his team alive was his mission, and he felt assured that one day he could hold himself blameless before the God of the universe.
That certainty did not stop occasional nightmares from visiting him.He would have worried much more about his spiritual and mental health if he never experienced a drop of remorse over the lives he took in battle.But the math worked in his favor.He could remove one evil life from this world and directly safeguard the lives of his team members.And perhaps that act would also save a dozen, or a hundred, or a thousand innocent lives.
Through the powerful scope, he caught an insurgent popping up from behind a rusted Toyota Hilux, deadly AKMS rifle poised to fire on his team.Jerry calmly squeezed the trigger—smooth, precise, like making a slow fist—and the man dropped before he could fire his first shot.“Strike times one,” Jerry announced over comms, a bowling analogy meaning he had not left any pins standing.
Norton responded with two clicks, meaning “good work.”
Another hostile leaned out a window, but Swanson’s burst cut him down before Jerry could fully line up the shot.“I had him, Pie,” Jerry broadcast.
“Too slow,” Swanson replied.
“Lentus est teres,” Jerry said, Latin meaning slow is smooth.
As the team claimed the building, a Humvee crested the hill.Irritation crawled up Jerry’s neck.DHS had pitched this op as a quick snatch-and-grab.Nab a known Al-Shabaab informant, get in and out.No muss.No fuss.At no time did they suggest a firefight in a nowhere village miles from Djibouti.At least his team had come prepared and knew how to respond.
Norton broadcast, “Bandit.Rooftop.My two o’clock.Over.”
Jerry pivoted and scanned the building facing their objective until he detected movement on the rooftop.He captured the movement in his crosshairs, seeing only a red-checked headpiece flapping in the wind.His finger tightened on the target, but he did not fire.Then his scope filled with the sight of a child, perhaps eight or nine years old, a boy, peering over the escarpment with eyes full of fear and curiosity.
“Six.Bravo Four.Bandit is a non-combatant.Not an aggressor.Maintaining overwatch.Over.”
Jerry kept the child trained in his crosshairs.The bad guys had used all kinds of dirty tricks in the past, and he knew if the situation changed, he would do what needed to be done, much as he did not desire that outcome.Duty always trumped personal preference.
The team cleared the building.As they moved through the structure, the men below began to yell, “Clear!”Finally, Norton broadcast, “All clear.But stay frosty.”
The boy in his crosshairs dashed away, presumably back inside his own building now that there remained little “excitement” to see across the street.With a sigh of relief, Jerry carefully laid Cassie on her side, mindful of the optics, and visually scanned the entire area, hypervigilant against any unforeseen opposition.He would not put it past these terrorists to use women and children as human shields or walking IEDs.
“Pie, Maguire, Daddy requests the pleasure of your company.Over,” Sanders drawled over the radio.
“Roger,” Jerry said.He picked Cassie up and tucked her into the pit of his shoulder.One last sweep through the scope—clear—then he shifted, slung Cassie, pulled his gloves on this time, and started climbing down.
Suddenly, shocking pain tore through his left biceps, a searing punch that stole his grip.He heard the echo of the shot only after the bullet tore through his flesh.Had that kid come back and shot him?
He crashed to the ground, dust exploding around him.Blood soaked his sleeve fast—too fast.The bullet must have hit the brachial artery.“Man down.I’m hit!”he barked, clamping his right hand over the wound as bullets shredded the tree trunk above him.
“Identify hostile!Identify hostile!”Norton ordered over their comms, the sound very loud in Jerry’s ear.The reports from the semi-automatic fire sounded wrong.They were not the now familiar thundercrack of Kalashnikov 7.62 supersonic rounds.They sounded much more familiar, like 5.56 NATO rounds.
“Probing fire,” Swanson broadcast, then his M249 roared, but he had no target, and no enemy appeared.Blood oozed between Jerry’s fingers, more with each heartbeat, as Osbourne slid in beside him, ripping open his kit.“Not like you to go running into bullets,” Osbourne quipped, a wry grin flashing.
“You know me.Attention seeker,” Jerry muttered, but his voice sounded weak, strange to his ears.
“Always that one diva in every crowd,” Osbourne shot back, gray-green eyes focused, hands steady.He tore open Jerry’s sleeve and observed the wound.“Jerry, you might be in the hurt locker, buddy.”
Jerry nodded.“Calamitas virtutis occasio est.”Calamity is virtue’s opportunity.
The incoming fire ceased.Jerry estimated at least 30 rounds had come in his direction.Then more fire came in, shredding the tree above where Jerry had formerly perched.
Norton’s voice came over the comms.“Hobbes.Shut that idiot down.Now!”
Osbourne raised an eyebrow.“Artery’s nicked—I need to clamp it.”He paused.“It’s gonna hurt.”
“Expect so,” Jerry said, spots dancing in his vision, nausea churning his gut.
