They had been in a dilapidated Western-style mansion, and Kaspar was aiming at their target through a large hole in the wall. 1520 meters... That was the distance from the mansion on the hill—the closest place with an appropriate view—to the entrance to the city hotel where the target was staying. If they wanted to snipe him from outside the enemy’s region of control, it would have to be from here.
The target was a militia leader. His meeting would soon end, and he’d leave the hotel. He’d be in the open for only five seconds before disappearing into the bulletproof limousine waiting out front.
1520 meters. Even for a master sniper, in these conditions, it was like the other end of the universe. A completely other dimension. An area no one could reach.
Ridiculous. There’s no way he’ll hit him, Kurz had told himself. Out loud, he’d snarked, “Let’s just get back to camp and I’ll buy you a drink.”
Kaspar hadn’t responded. He didn’t even seem to have heard Kurz. Seemingly welded to his gun and wet from the rain, he was lying face-down on the floor with his right eye planted to his scope. His breath was exceedingly quiet. They weren’t far from the Mediterranean Sea, and the air was cold and humid. For some reason, the white of the man’s breath stood out in Kurz’s memory.
There was movement in the lobby, and Kurz let him know the target would be out soon. “The buck is on the way”—That’s what their squad had called their targets. Kaspar probably heard him, but didn’t respond. Answering would have forced him to move his jaw, and moving his jaw would throw off his aim.
The trees on the road were swaying as the hotel door opened. A bodyguard came out. Of course, he didn’t notice them, and the “buck”— a bearded man of just over fifty—followed soon after, with the collar on his thin coat raised.
The target walked out to his waiting car. There’s no way he’ll hit him, Kurz thought, even then.
Kaspar fired. It was hard to describe what happened in the instant in which he pulled the trigger; it would be no exaggeration to say that the air around him had seemed to warp, coalescing onto a single point. At least, that was how it seemed to Kurz. The act of acquiring infinite focus had called something invisible to him.
They referred to it as “the spirit,” although it wasn’t some kind of divine intervention. All of the parts involved—eyes, brain, finger, trigger, blaster, cartridge, barrel, rifling, muzzle, and bullet—remained subject to the laws of physics. There was no room for God or ghosts to interfere.
Throughout a sniper’s career of tens of thousands of shots, you took notes every time, learned from mistakes, packed the powder, added it to the cartridge, and shaved down the bullet yourself. Through failures in all kinds of weather, conditions, distances, and angles, you calculated and recalculated, tried again, calculated and recalculated. Through that repetition, one acquired skill. Mystical aid was irrelevant. Everything had to function like a well-oiled machine in order to send a bullet to the calculated destination.
But in that moment, something really had interfered, and Kurz didn’t know how to describe it as anything other than a spirit. In that instant, a spirit descended. He felt its presence arrive, then saw the spark at the end of the gun, and at last, heard the shot reach his ear.
1520 meters. It was unthinkable. But he’s going to make it—Kurz thought at last, in the wake of the spirit’s arrival. Of course, he hadn’t seen the bullet flying through the rain and wind. But two seconds after Kaspar fired, he saw blood misting out of the target’s head, droplets flying amidst the rain.
The shocked bodyguards screamed something, pushing the headless target’s body into the backseat before driving off.
Kaspar had patted the dumbstruck Kurz on the shoulder. “Let’s go,” he’d said plainly, with no sense of satisfaction or pride in his own skill.
They’d left the mansion and headed back to camp, and while they were walking through the rain, Kurz expressed breathless wonder about the accomplishment.
“Don’t try that one, boy,” Wilhelm Kaspar said as he stopped and turned back. There was something lonely in his eyes. “You couldn’t do it.”
And in fact, Kurz had never once tried to make that shot. A week later, certain events had caused Kurz to leave Kaspar’s squadron with bitter feelings.
“That was four years ago in Lebanon,” Kurz finished. He hadn’t told the pilots the details of the story; he’d just taken a few seconds to remember the scene for himself. “I couldn’t make a shot like that. Experience and instinct... it goes way beyond that. He’s got something... something decisive that I lack.”
“Will, determination, that kind of thing?” Salvio asked.
“I wish I knew,” Kurz answered. “I don’t understand it very well myself... Of course, it’s not like I don’t have natural talent. I only first picked up a rifle five or six years ago, see.”
“You never mentioned that before.”
“Not like I was hiding it. I started as a volunteer soldier in the Middle East, and after a few misadventures, I got recruited by Kaspar’s squad. That’s where I learned.”
“Wow,” Salvio remarked. “What was the squad?”
“It didn’t have a name. It was just ‘Kaspar’s Squad.’ We were a gang of snipers who went all around the world taking jobs, and... well, I guess it’s like a modern version of Bailey’s South African Sharpshooters,” Kurz mused.
“What’s that? Bailey’s...?”
“It was an old mercenary group. But never mind that. The point is... I don’t think I can beat that guy.”
Of course, there was more to battle than pure firing skill. If your viable range was a hundred meters less than the enemy’s, you got a hundred meters closer—simple as that. One could also employ bluffs, feints, tricks, flanking, and all kinds of tricks to land a killshot. Battle was complex. Yet even taking all that into account, Kurz was sure he couldn’t beat Kaspar.
“But we’ve left the colonel and Sousuke there,” Fischer protested. “We can’t just abandon them.”
“Yeah, I know...” Kurz was about to sigh, but stopped himself in time. It wasn’t good to sigh around allies who were already nervous. “Well, it’ll work out somehow,” he decided. “Let’s just wait for our chance.”
“What kind of chance?” Salvio asked.
“Either we re-establish contact, or we see signs they’re leaving,” Kurz explained. “Then we’ll set up a diversion and run to their rescue.”
Standing up, he returned to his M9, where he opened a small impact-resistant container for small arms under the cockpit hatch and pulled out a carefully wrapped rifle. Returning to the ground, he opened the bundle and gazed silently at the rifle within.
The AS battle will just be a prelude. Your turn might be coming soon, he thought. It was a bolt action rifle with a dull luster, old and unrefined, with wooden portions that had blackened from frequent handling. The thick barrel was blue-black, with granular white flecks from the Teflon enhancement. Attached to the top, the rifle’s 36x scope was long and thick enough to resemble a second barrel. These simple qualities gave it the beauty of a work of art.
The rifle had been made by Winchester about fifty years ago, and boasted precision equal to that of most cutting-edge sniper rifles. It had clearly been loved and cared for by every past owner. This “rifle to end all rifles” felt like too much for a young man with less than five years of experience; Wilhelm Kaspar was more worthy of a gun like this.
1520 meters, Kurz thought. With this gun, I might just be able to do it.
It was clear that the man whom Kaname had pulled from danger was injured, and badly so; this was a black man in his 30s, well-muscled, if not exceptionally tall. Had he been in perfect health, this soldier would have easily been able to restrain both Kaname and Lemon without much effort.
“His right leg is broken, and there’s a gash down his right side,” said Lemon, after a quick examination of the man’s wounds. “Also, I think he hit his head... though I don’t know how bad it is.”
“Will he pull through?” Kaname questioned.
“I’m not sure. He might, if he gets treatment right away, but... I’m afraid I don’t have a first aid kit,” Lemon said regretfully. “Probably best if we don’t move him.”
“I see...”
The man, who seemed to have regained consciousness, let out a low, hazy moan.
“Hey, talk to us,” Kaname said. “What’s your name?”
“Brown.”
“Brown-san,” she continued, “the helicopter crashed, but we saved you before it exploded. Sorry to say, the others in there are probably all dead. We want to give you first aid, but we don’t have any tools or medicine. Are you with me?”
The man nodded weakly, and breathed an affirmative.
“I think your people should be coming soon,” Kaname told him. “You understand our position, right? We’re gonna have to run away and leave you here. I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t... leave...” The injuries must have made Brown timid, as he shakily tried to grab her arm.
Enemy or not, Kaname felt guilty for having to refuse him. She gently took the man’s hand and wiped his face with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry. Here, take this and try to stay warm,” she said, removing her red down jacket to lay it across the man’s shoulders. “Good luck.” Then turning away from him, she asked, “Lemon-san, can you walk? I’ll lend you my shoulder.”
“Yeah, I’ll try... ow, ow...”
“Let’s go.”
The two of them began to stagger off, leaving the man behind. They walked straight down the passage until they hit a dead end, caused by a ceiling that had collapsed with the passage of time. They retraced their steps for a while and took a different path at a fork.
“Are you cold?” Kaname asked.
“I’m okay,” Lemon told her. “You’re the one who gave your coat to that man...”
“I’m just being self-righteous, is that it?” she said with a scowl.