We creep up the side of a hill on our bellies, the grass waving restlessly in the ceaseless wind. Ulrich, our sniper, is in the middle with Rush on his left and me on the right. We've all got fancy bone-conduction comms keeping the four teams in contact. I know I shouldn't, but I feel…excited. I'm part of something. I'm finally using the training I worked so hard at my whole life—literally, all I've ever wanted since I was old enough to understand what it was Dad did is this. To do what he does. To be an operator. I've never really wanted anything else. Never thought about anything else. I don't have a mind for business like Corinna. Killian is always out with Dad, these days, learning the ropes of what it takes to administrate a company like A1S—and honestly, truly, that's great. I don't want to be in charge. I don't want the desk and the responsibility and the numbers—Killy is good at that shit. This is what I want. And my experiences so far, as scary as they've been, have shown me that I’m good at it.
Ulrich—a German national in his late thirties or early forties with salt liberally sprinkling his dark blond hair—creeps closer to the crest of the hill, and carefully creates a little nest in the grass, going so far as reaching out to break off individual stems of grass with his fingers in order to open his sight lines. Once his nest is arranged to his liking, he settles on his belly with his rifle, spending several minutes fine-tuning his position and weight distribution and grip until he's fully satisfied. Only then does he whisper, "U-Boat in position."
I glance at him. "U-boat?"
He shrugs. "I am German and my name begins with U. And also, before I became a sniper for the KSK, I was a submariner."
Rush eyes him. "KSK is army, I thought."
"Ja, it is. My path to KSK was not…direct."
"I'd say," Rush says, chuckling. "Submarines to spec ops—I don't think there is a direct route, ey?"
Ulrich sniffs a soft laugh. "Nein, there is not." He looks at me. "You are the Harris girl, ja?"
I nod. "Yes. I'm Bryn."
"I am told you prevented a kidnapping, and in the process killed a man with a pencil to the eyeballs."
I snort. "Close, but not quite. I tried to prevent a kidnapping and got myself taken with the girl I was trying to save, because when it came time to shoot a man for the first time, I froze. And then I killed a man with a pencil."
Ulrich laughs at this. "That is funny. You freeze with a gun and come through with a pencil." He must see something on my face, because he amends his reaction. "I froze, once. My second mission with the KSK. There was a hostage situation, and I was ordered to take a shot. But the person I was meant to shoot was a woman. She had a gun to a little girl's head, so she was a threat, but I still froze when the order came to shoot her. I could not do it. My spotter took the gun and made the shot, but it was messy. He did not kill her as he intended, and her gun went off. Innocent hostages were killed for my split second of indecision."
"Jesus, Ulrich," I say. "That's horrible. I'm sorry that happened."
"I only say it so you know everyone has a moment of hesitation when they must take a life. If you did not, I would worry for your mental health." He claps me on the shoulder. "You stepped up to stop a situation when most would not."
A moment later, another team gives the ready signal across the comms, and within a few minutes all the teams are in place.
"Shooters, on my signal," Chico says. There's a pause of five or so seconds, and then: "Three…two…one…fire."
Ulrich's rifle cracks, and from four cardinal directions come three more simultaneous reports. Rush, on his belly with a spotter's scope, gives a quiet scoff. "Well fuck me, that worked a treat. Tango down times four. Good shootin', everyone."
“Move to position two," Chico orders.
We crawl forward through the grass at an oblique angle, stopping every few feet to watch and listen. We can hear shouts in the distance coming from the estate. Creep and crawl, pause. Creep and crawl, pause. Rinse and repeat until we're a hundred and some yards closer—all four teams moved clockwise east to west so no one is in the same vector as their previous shot.
"Spotters, report," Chico orders.
"We poked the nest, boss," a deep, gravelly male voice says. "Lots of activity on the walls. They're looking for us."
"Pick a target and fire at will," Chico says. "And then move to position three."
Ulrich settles into position much faster this time, and now Rush and I are within reach with our carbines, so Rush puts away the spotter's scope and levels his carbine. I pick a target on the wall—a dark smudge at this distance, but I'm not really meant to hit anyone from this position, only to keep their heads down and cause chaos while our snipers do the real work.
"One away," Ulrich mutters, and squeezes the trigger.
His rifle bucks with the deafening crack; I put my crosshairs a good inch above my target and pop off a round, re-aim and fire again. I've no idea if I hit my target or not, but the smudge is gone.
"U-boat reporting," Ulrich says. "Three tangos confirmed down. Moving to position three." He glances at me. "Excellent shot, Miss Harris."
Rush snorts. "Oi, mate—what am I, chopped liver?"
"No, friend, you are a professional operator with years of experience whom I know could make the shot. She is a rookie. We must encourage her."
"Yeah, yeah," Rush drawls, sarcastic and snarky. "Be all right and whatever."
Ulrich snickers at this. "I'm sorry, friend. Good shot. I am proud of you."
