Our target was approximately two miles down range, basically the furthest distance a modern sniper could target. I had no idea how the Vatican had dug out so much territory to create the range, but the compass on my watch indicated we were facing northeast. Ancient Rome hadn’t extended that far in that direction, so I assumed the range was simply carved out of dirt. The flight time of a bullet at this range was so long the shooter could basically recite the alphabet before the round hit its target.
To make the simulation even more difficult, the base’s ventilation system was set to imitate various weather patterns and wind speeds. I had no idea what the system was set at, relying on calculations I performed in my head based solely on small plants fluttering in the distance. To further enhance the simulation, we pumped up the heat on our end of the room to mimic the harsh environments of the Middle Eastern region we would most likely be operating in.
It was currently hotter than Hell where we lay, and I wondered if Santino had messed with the temperature control just to screw with us.
These variables were of utmost importance to a sniper. Even something as minute as a slight shift in air moisture could affect a bullet’s trajectory. Snipers have to take every detail into account and excessive care went into preparing for each pull of the trigger. These days, technology calculated most of these variables for us, but any sniper worth his weight in salt did it himself first.
Helena adjusted her scope appropriately while sweat beaded its way down her brow, relying on her spotter, me, to relay the relevant information needed to make the perfect shot.
Peering through my binoculars, I tapped a button on the bottom of the optical device and the range finder function displayed itself in the upper right hand corner of the view. With the Earth’s natural curve and gravity’s pull on the bullet, elevation adjustments were needed to ensure the most accurate shot. Years ago, spotters would have to determine ranges with the naked eye, but technology now calculated the distance for us. However, every sniper was still trained to gauge ranges with their eyes only as technology can’t always be relied on.
I predicted the range was just shy of two miles.
“Range… 1.89 miles. Elevation, seven clicks.”
Making matters worse, Helena was performing what was known as a cold bore shot, meaning it was her first shot, in a cold barrel, with no set up shots to help guide her true shot. Firing from a cold barrel not only affected the trajectory of a fired round, but was also a psychological hurdle to overcome. This was the hardest shot for a sniper to make and consisted of the exact same shot used in the assassination missions snipers were used for. Not that I’d ever “assassinated” anyone before. At least that’s what the CIA kept telling me.
The rest of the team had assembled in the cafeteria, paying close attention to the meticulous effort of the sniper pair, binoculars at the ready. Just another distraction to deal with.
Snipers were the masters of self. Stamina. Endurance. Patience. Precision. These were the tools of a sniper. Tools we knew better than anyone else. Snipers took great pride in simply being better than you. It was a job most could never dream of doing. It separated the men from the rest of the mitochondrial ectoplasm. It made us lords of the hunt. We were expected to stalk, locate, and wait out a target for days and days before taking a cold bore shot in one hundred degree weather during a hurricane while you sat at home watching Animal Planet. It may very well be the toughest job in the world and it makes us immensely proud that you wouldn’t make it five minutes in our world.
While we didn’t need to seek out and wait for the best shot on our current target, it still took us around twenty minutes to prepare for the shot. Another few minutes and four impatient operators later, we were ready to take the shot.
“Target established, fire for effect. Fire. Fire. Fire.”
My affirmation that our checklist was complete, Helena had the go ahead to shoot. I heard her take three slow and deep breaths, holding it on the third. A half second later, she squeezed the trigger, handling the weapon masterfully. I had wondered if the recoil of the shot would be too much for the thin woman to handle, but it seemed as though she possessed a hidden strength few could pull off.
It took a while for the projectile to reach its mark, which it did successfully in an explosion of watermelon. Our audience cheered, thankful their sniper was more than fully competent. I even saw Bordeaux wipe a hand across his forehead in mock relief, before he turned back to the others as their conversations resumed.
I was impressed as well.
I’d taken that shot many times as a SEAL, but even for the best snipers, it was never guaranteed one hundred percent of the time.
I rolled off Helena’s leg onto my back, stretching as many muscles as I could. Doing so relieved the stresses accumulated while lying completely immobile since we got on the mat.
“A fine shot, Lieutenant, you definitely deserve to be here.”
“Thanks. To be honest, I haven’t made very many cold bore shots with the fifty, but every successful one I perform makes me feel that much better.”
She shifted onto her left side, to take the strain off of her right shoulder, which the rifle had rested against for the past hour. She used her left hand to kneed some feeling back into her shoulder. “And I have to admit, having you spot for me was refreshing.” She paused. “It also calmed my nerves. Doing it in a controlled environment is one thing, but in the field is totally different. If I have trouble here, what’s to say things won’t be worse when it matters?”
I rubbed my eyes before I turned to look at her, for once not finding anger and annoyance there. Why was she doubting herself? She may the least experienced operators here, but her mere presence automatically made her one of the best.
“Helena, you’re a fine sniper. You just proved that. Trust me, you can handle anything out there. And don’t worry. I’ll be by your side every single time.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Jacob. I’m not used to having someone to rely on, and frankly, it’s a bit overwhelming. It’s almost like being in a…”
I frowned. I knew where she was going with that thought as she trailed off. It’s exactly like being in a relationship or a family. Most sniper pairs were men, and therefore, brothers. Trust had to pass equally and unequivocally between them, because each relied on the other for everything. A business company may do team building exercises where individuals fall backwards off a ladder in the blind hopes of being caught by their peers. They did this to build trust and cooperation to create a more efficient work environment. The equivalent exercise for a sniper pair was to perform such an exercise while blindfolded in a monsoon, during an artillery barrage, with a nuke going off in the background and zombies closing in on all sides. You think Joe Blow from human resources is going to stick around and catch you during that?
It wasn’t likely.
Helena and I needed to trust each other. She needed to be my brother. My sister. I had to know she wasn’t going to buck under pressure and run away when I needed her support, and I couldn’t have her lying to me. I couldn’t trust her if she did. Santino had said she’d just ended a relationship so serious she threatened to kill the next guy who pissed her off, yet here she was talking like she doesn’t even know what the word relationship even means.