On Scope

2

Marine Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson burrowed deep into the muck of the Black Forest, covered head to boots in a ghillie suit layered with tangled twigs and brush. The Heckler & Koch MSG-90A1 sniper rifle was in a drag bag dummy-corded to his gear, and he was invisible in the gloom. This was only a war game, but he never mistook exercises for mere games when he had a chance to polish his deadly skills.

The woods were thick with big trees anchored in overgrowth, and although it was almost noon, it had an early morning feel. Fuzzy sunbeams filtered in columns through the low branches to stain the landscape with shadowed dullness. A stubborn mist still hung about, and a sporadic breeze was stirring every bush. It was prime stalking country.

He held his small Zeiss binos steady on a four-man team of German KSK Kommando Spezialkräfte that was moving as softly as a gaggle of ghosts; countersnipers, looking for him. Their backs were toward him, and he could take out all of them all right now, right-to-left, four-three-two-one, in a couple of seconds with the ten blank rounds in his box magazine. Swanson never entertained qualms about shooting the enemy in the back. That only made them easier targets. That wasn’t his job today, so they could live a while longer.

Germany was to host the vital G-20 summit this summer, when the leaders of the world’s most powerful economies would gather to attempt to resolve the stubborn global debt crisis. Security forces were in constant training to protect them, and the Black Forest was alive with war games testing their various abilities. The KSK special operations unit had specifically invited the Marines to send over Kyle Swanson to try an elite penetration; best against best.

Swanson had been running so many off-the-books missions that he welcomed the chance to slide back into his comfortable old skin as a scout/sniper for a while and recalibrate his basic skill set in some place out of a real danger zone.

His spotter was Corporal Harold Martin, a promising young scout/sniper from New Jersey who still had a lot to learn and was trying to pass a test of his own to qualify for future clandestine missions. Getting Swanson’s approval on this job would be a big step in the right direction. Martin had already made a mistake because he was so nervous about partnering with the no-nonsense gunny. He had not emptied his bladder before the mission began, and now it was about to burst.

The exercise was to determine if an intruder could get within 400 yards of the Blue Force command center, a cluster of light military vehicles strung out along a valley road. Security patrols could only extend out beyond 350 yards, which created a no-man’s land of 50 yards.

Swanson and Martin had helo-dropped in overnight three klicks away and spent the morning hours humping over the crest of a hill toward the grid coordinates of the target. Closer, and after freshening their ghillies with local vegetation, they began the low and slow work of moving without being seen. Poor visibility further hampered the hunters, and the sniper team easily oozed undetected to within 800 yards of the target. With Martin slithering alongside through the bountiful cover, they were at the 400-yard mark by the time dawn swam reluctantly through the trees. That meant that the exercise was technically over and Swanson had won. A shot from such a distance is nothing for a good sniper, so he could set up where he was and ruin the day of the generals in the command post below when one stepped outside the parked vans that bristled with radio antennae.

With that 50-yard cushion, the security patrol could not find them anyway. He had spotted two static observation posts supporting the four men on foot duty, and he admired the methodical KSK 5th Platoon troopers who were doing a solid job combing the countryside with a coordinated search. Blocked by the imaginary search boundary, it was nowhere near being an adequate test in such terrain. Too easy. The Germans were looking for X. He would give them Y. He never had much use for rules anyway, for reality always derailed plans made on paper. This was really unfair. He activated the small microphone at his throat and whispered, “We’re going closer.”

The response from Martin was the first unexpected thing Swanson had encountered all morning. “I have to pee.”

“Hold it a little bit longer and shut up.”

Swanson continued studying the area as well as the security patrol and soon found both things he needed for the next step. The patrol’s pattern had a break in it, and just beyond that break stretched a long shadow that was darker than the surrounding ground and a safe zone that was further obscured by high brush. He would have a better chance in there of finding a clear opening through the trees to the command post.

Then life, the unexpected event, came visiting. “I’ve been holding it for an hour, Gunny. Now I really got to let it go.”

There was nothing Swanson could do but deal with the situation. If Martin urinated, the smell could carry on the wind and might alert the patrol to their location. To lose this opportunity because of such a minor thing would be a crime. The kid has to learn such things, but let him do it on somebody else’s time. He ain’t ready for prime time. It was an even better reason to change their location.

“When I give the word, roll to your side and pee in the dirt, then be ready to move.”

“Ah, man. You’re going to mark me down for this when the exercise is over, aren’t you?”

Swanson did not respond, but patiently waited as the corporal tended to his business. The smell seemed overpowering before the kid could cover it with dirt. They immediately moved out. Martin was right behind him. Once in the depression, the higher bushes provided enough cover to allow a high-crawl, and they scooted along bent at the waist rather than digging with elbows and toes. He stopped when they were only 200 yards from the command post, far behind the snooper perimeter and with a clear view down the slope to the vehicles. The little valley would mask the echo of any kill shot and confuse the searchers, who would not know where it came from. It was a perfect conclusion. He removed the H&K from its bag and checked it out, then put his binos on the backs of the patrol.

The leader stopped abruptly and held up his right hand in a fist. The rest froze but kept their eyes busy.

“Dammit, Martin, they smelled your piss.” Swanson watched as the leader put his hand to his right ear, probably communicating with the command post. Then the German slung his rifle, removed his helmet, and put on the distinctive maroon beret with the wreathed-sword badge of the KSK. The other three followed his movement, dropping their wariness and standing in place.

“Gunny Swanson!” the team leader called out. “I am Oberfeldwebel Mausch. I have just been informed that this exercise is terminated and that you are needed immediately in our command post to answer an emergency call from Washington.”

“Right here, Oberfeldwebel. We’re coming in.”

Mausch wheeled in surprise. The voice was behind him. A clump of underbrush stirred, then grew into the shape of a man as Swanson stood, shook off the hood of his ghillie, and raised his hand.

Martin also struggled to his feet, wondering how to cover the dark stain at his crotch.

“I think we would have found you,” the German said with a reluctant smile as Kyle reached their group.

“But you didn’t,” the Marine replied. The two NCOs shook hands, then walked casually down to the command center, exchanging sniper shop talk.

“What’s that awful stench?” asked another of the German soldiers as the rest of the team followed.

“I think the young American has wet his pants,” mocked another one.

“My friends, that is the sweet smell of success,” said Martin.