Smith squinted uselessly, but came up just as empty. “The others must have pulled back to set up a defensive position closer to the flag.”
The young man nodded, his helmet floating on his head a bit. “What do we do?”
The sniper was technically within range of the M16s their training weapons were made to simulate, though only for a good shot lying on firm ground. But what the hell? They were out here to experiment, right?
“Shoot him.”
“What? I can’t hit him from here. He’s like a mile away, sir.”
“Then you’ll miss him. And if you do, we’re going to get the trunk of this tree between him and us, and we’re going to very carefully climb to the ground. Him scoring against you is less of a problem than you falling. Understood?”
Duane gave a short, frightened nod as Smith altered the way the young man’s Merge treated a hit — disabling the subroutine that would degraded his vision and balance for one that read out the damage percentage only.
“Find a solid position and lean your rifle on a branch. What’s your targeting system saying?”
Duane hugged the tree and pressed the side of the weapon against the trunk, which was thick enough to resist the light winds. “The crosshairs have come up and it says he’s four hundred and twelve meters away. It’s asking for wind direction.”
“What do you think? That’s because it’s such a long shot.”
“Pretty much left to right.”
“Okay. That’s due east. Enter it.”
“It’s asking for speed.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. Maybe five miles an hour?”
Smith had significantly more experience judging these kinds of things and decided to cheat a bit. “Why don’t you put in seven?”
“Done.”
“Okay, Duane. Your team needs to get across that clearing alive. And for them to do that, you need to shoot that son of a bitch. Or at the very least, put the fear of God into him.”
“Should I tell them what I’m going to do?” Corporal Grayson’s voice suddenly filled their heads. “We’re already listening on the open comm. We’re ready. Let us know how you do and if we should go.”
“Roger,” Duane said and then held his breath while he adjusted his aim. It was an odd thing to watch — there was no scope or sights on the weapon, and thus no need for him to look along the barrel.
“Don’t jerk the trigger,” Smith said. “It’s got a nice light pull. Just an easy squeeze when you’ve got your crosshairs on him.”
The artificial sound of the rifle sent the birds sharing the tree into the air and Smith watched the readout in his peripheral vision.
“Jesus…”
“It’s a hit!” Duane shouted. “Go. Go!”
The sound of the team sprinting across the riverbed drifted up to them as the Delta sniper’s combat effectiveness number rolled down to forty-five percent. He lurched from beneath the poncho and, respecting the rules of the game, stumbled along in an awkward retreat. Duane got off another shot, but with the addition of movement into the equation, there was no way he could finish the job. Smith, though, knew that he himself could have easily. Incredible.
As they started to the ground, he tried to concentrate on what he was doing but found himself distracted by the green dots representing two of his team dragging Carrie to the safety of the trees. There was no doubt that it was critical information, but maybe a little too much for his present situation.
On the other hand, the kids who had grown up on video games might be able to handle the varied input better. And every study the military had ever done on women suggested a significantly superior ability to multitask. Yet another thing to add to his endless list of things to explore.
When they hit the ground, they ran immediately to the riverbed and managed to cross with no resistance. With fifty-five percent degradation, their Delta opponent wouldn’t attempt a shot that difficult. He’d be retreating toward the flag and help.
When they rejoined their team, all were huddled around Carrie, with the exception of the Ranger, who was crouched behind a tree keeping lookout.
“What do we do with her, Colonel?” Stacy said. “She can’t walk.”
“This is war,” Smith said. “What would you do if we were in Afghanistan?”
They discussed it among themselves and decided one person should stay behind and wait with her for an evac.
“Which one of us?” Gregory Kent asked.
Smith shrugged. “Your call.”
Grayson returned to the group, looking impatient. “We’ve got these sons of bitches on the run and we need to press the advantage. Who here is the most cooked?”
“I feel good,” Duane said, still running on adrenaline.
“I’m tired, but okay,” Stacy chimed in, still looking game. Her file had said she was an avid swimmer and it seemed to be serving her well despite the extra pounds.
“Major?” Grayson said, turning his attention to the overweight man sitting in the mud.
He hesitated a moment before speaking. “I’m getting a little old for this kind of thing. I don’t know if I’m going to make it up that slope.”
Grayson gave a short nod. “No dishonor, sir. Someone needs to stay here and you’ve already made your kill for the day. Now let’s move out.”
“Okay, we’re here,” Grayson said, pointing to a laminated map that was still easier to use in a group than the Merge. They’d made it to the base of the eastern slope leading to the flag — not quickly by any stretch of the imagination, but with no injuries. The downside, though, was that the two non-combat soldiers were tired enough that they were stumbling every time they sped up to even a slow jog.
Grayson slid his finger across the wet map. “I’m saying that our injured sniper is here. The terrain above him is too steep to climb in his condition and coming around this way is too far. He’s going to dig in as a first line of defense.”
“So you think the others have pulled back to the flag?” Stacy said.
He nodded. “And that leaves their forces divided. I say we take advantage of that. I want you two to move directly up the ridge. Take it easy and stay low. I’m going to swing around behind him through the harder terrain and we’ll catch him in a crossfire.”
“What about the people above?” Duane asked.
“The rain’s coming in and that’s going to keep visibility down. I think we’ll be okay.”
“You think?”
“Combat’s like Vegas. There’s no sure thing. It’s about playing the percentages.”
Grayson took off up the steep slope and the other two started along the ridge at the best pace they could manage. The Ranger had been right about the rain: A few heavy drops quickly escalated into a roaring downpour.
Smith took a different route, switching his Merge’s frequency to the one being used by Delta.
“Lieutenant Raymond, this is Colonel Smith coming in on your position from the south.”
“Understood,” came the response.
Grayson had guessed right about his injured opponent but had taken a more cautious route that allowed Smith to beat him. When Smith arrived, he found the unhappy Delta man lying in a shallow depression that was quickly filling with water. Smith lay down next to him, feeling his fatigues finally soak completely through. Fortunately, the temperature was hanging on just north of eighty degrees.
“How’s it going?”
Raymond shook his head miserably. He’d been hit in the shoulder and had immobilized the arm by tying it to his torso.
“I figure I’m bleeding out, sir. Twenty-five-meter accuracy at best. Who the hell are these guys?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Raymond frowned, undoubtedly believing that he was up against some new black ops team carefully disguised to pass as a typical slice of Midwestern America. He slid forward out of the water a bit, sinking his elbow in the mud and scanning to the east through his scope.