Last Light

by Andy McNab

  I looked for a small mound in the rough ground to double as a sandbag, and after a beastie check, lay down behind it in the prone position. The steel plate of the weapon butt was in the soft tissue of my right shoulder and my trigger finger ran over the trigger guard. My left forearm was resting against the mound and I let my hand find its natural position along the stock of the weapon, just forward of the rear sight. There were grooves cut into the furniture each side to give a better grip.

  Your bones are the foundation for holding a weapon; your muscles are the cushioning that holds it tightly in position. I had to make a tripod of my elbows and the left side of my ribcage. I had the added benefit of resting my forearm against the mound. I needed to ensure that the position and hold were firm enough to support the weapon, and that I was also comfortable.

  I looked through the sight, making sure there was no shadowing around the edges of the optic. There was no problem about closing my left eye: half the job had already been done for me yesterday. The biggest mistake made by novice firers using a post sight is that they think the point to aim at is where the horizontal line crosses the post. It's not, it's the top of the post, right where the point is. The horizontal line is so you can check there's no canting (weapon tilting).

  I took aim at the centre of the not-too-circular black circle then closed my eyes and stopped breathing. I relaxed my muscles slightly as I emptied my lungs.

  Three seconds later, I opened my eyes, started to breathe normally, and looked through the sight once more. I found that my point of aim had shifted to the left-hand edge of the sheet of paper, so I swivelled my body round to the right, then did the same thing twice more until I was naturally aligned to the target.

  It was pointless trying to force my body into a position that it didn't want to be in: that would affect the round when I fired. I was now ready to take the first shot.

  I took three deep breaths to oxygenate my body. If you're not oxygenated you can't see correctly; even if you're not firing a weapon, if you just stand and gaze at something in the far distance and stop breathing, you will see it go blurry very quickly.

  The weapon sight moved up and down with my body as I

  sucked in air, and settled to a gentler movement as I started to breathe normally. It was only then that I took off the safety, by pulling back and turning it to the right. Acquiring a good sight picture once more, I aimed before taking up the first pressure. At the same time I stopped breathing, in order to steady the weapon.

  One second, two seconds ... I gently squeezed the second pressure.

  I didn't even hear the crack, I was so busy maintaining concentration and non reaction while the weapon jumped up and back into my shoulder. All the time I kept my right eye open and followed through the shot, watching as the point of aim came back to settle on the centre of the target. That was good: it meant my body was correctly aligned. If not, the point of aim would have moved to where my body was naturally pointing.

  The round needed to be followed through because although there might only be less than a second between me taking the second pressure, sending the firing pin forward and striking the round, and the bullet heading up the barrel as the gases forced it out towards the target, the slightest movement would mean the point of aim not being the same at the instant the bullet exited the muzzle as when I fired. Not good news if you're trying to kill somebody with a single round.

  That was the end of the firing sequence. I became aware of the different colours and sizes of the flocks of birds lifting from the trees. The canopy rustled as they screamed and flapped their wings to make their getaway.

  In real time there are many occasions when these drills can't be used. But as long as you understand them, and have used them to zero the weapon, there's a good chance you can take on an opportunity target and drop it.

  I looked through the sight to check where my round had fallen. I'd hit the top of the main sheet of paper: about five inches high. That was OK, it should be high at this close range: the optic was set at 350. The main thing was that it wasn't higher than seven inches.

  The problem was that, although the round was at more or less the correct height for the range, it had gone to the left of the centre line by maybe as much as three inches. At 300 yards that would become nine inches. I would have missed the chest, and maybe hit an arm if he was static and I was lucky. That wasn't good enough.

  I lay back and watched the birds coming back to their nests. I waited maybe three minutes before reloading because I needed this to be a cold barrel zero:

  when I took the next shot, the barrel had to be as cold as the last. Variations in the barrel's temperature will warp the metal. Taking into account the inconsistency in the ammunition, it would be stupid to zero with a hot, or even warm barrel, since it would be cold when I took the shot.

  That got the little sniper in my head ticking away. It reminded me that damp, humid air is thicker than dry, causing the bullet to drop faster. Hot air has the reverse effect because it is thinner, so offers less resistance and sends the bullet higher. What was I supposed to do on a very hot day in a very humid jungle? Fuck it, I'd leave it alone, I'd only just got rid of my headache, I didn't want it back. Five inches should be OK. I'd be confirming back at 300 anyway.

  I took another shot and followed through, my point of aim staying on the circle.

  My round still cut paper to the left, less than a quarter of an inch in from the first. The shots were well grouped, so I knew that the first round wasn't just a wild crazy one; the sight did need adjusting.

  The birds were well pissed-off at being disturbed a second time, and I sat up and watched them as I waited for the barrel to cool. It was then that I saw Carrie making her way towards me from the rear of the house.

  TWENTY-THREE

  She was about 150 metres away, swinging a two-litre bottle of water in her right hand. I waved. As she looked at me and waved back, I got a flare of sunlight from her wraparounds. I sat back against the tree and watched her get nearer.

  She looked as if she was floating above the heat haze.

  When she got closer I could see her hair flick back and forth with each stride.

  "How's the zero going?"

  Tine, just off a bit to the left."

  She held out the bottle with a smile. The condensation glistened on the plastic:

  it had come straight out of the fridge. I nodded my thanks and stood up, catching my own reflection again in those fly's eye glasses of hers.

  I sat back down against the tree, unscrewing the top.

  She looked down, fingering her hair behind her ears.

  "It's a real hot one today."

  "Sure is." It was routine, the bullshit stuff that people exchange when they don't know each other, plus I was trying to keep her well away from any mention of last night. I got the bottle to my lips and took some long, hard swallows.

  The plastic started to collapse in my fingers; I wasn't letting any air past the tight seal of my lips.

  She stayed above me, hands on hips, in the same position as the Yes Man had taken a few days earlier, but without the attitude.

  The sight might've taken some knocks over the months. I use the iron sights, they're never off anyone out here in the open is within their range."

  I stopped drinking. There was a pop and a gurgle as air rushed into the vacuum and the plastic resumed its normal shape.

  "Ever had to?"

  Her glasses hid any clues her eyes might be giving away.

  "Once, a few years back. These things can happen out here, you know." She put out her hand for the water.

  I watched as she threw her head back and took five or six gulps above me, her throat moving with each swallow. I could hear the fluid going down, and see the muscles in her right arm tauten as she tilted the bottle. Her skin had a light sheen of moisture; on me it would just have looked like sweat.

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  "Question. If it's just for protection, how
come you're checking the scope?" She pointed into the jungle.

  "No good in there, is it?"

  I gave her my most disarming smile.

  "As I said, I just like to be prepared, that's all."

  "And is that down to your training, or down to you?" She hesitated. I wished I could see her eyes.

  "How do you get to do this sort of thing?"

  I wasn't sure I could explain.

  "Want to help me?"

  She caught my tone and went with it.

  "Sure."

  We took the few paces over to the grassy mound.

  "Is silence your way of dealing with it, Nick? I mean, is silence the way you protect yourself from the things you need to do for your work?"

  I saw my reflection as I tried to look through her lenses: she was smiling, almost taunting me.

  "All I want you to do is aim dead centre into the black circle. I just want to adjust the sights."

  "One shot zero, right?"

  "Right."

  "OK, tell you what you aim, you're stronger. I'll adjust."

  I opened the bolt, ejecting the empty case, reloaded and applied Safe as we reached the mound.

  "I want the same elevation."

  She raised her eyebrow.

  "Sure." I was telling her how to suck eggs Instead of supporting it with my left hand, I started to push the stock into the mud. Her sandals were inches from my face.

  "Tell me when."

  I looked up. Her sunglasses were now on the back of her neck with the arms facing forward and the black nylon retaining necklace dangling down on to her vest. Her huge green eyes were blinking to adjust to the light.

  I started to pack mud around the stock: the weapon needed to be locked tight into position for this to work. Once that was done, I checked that the score marks were still in line on the sight, and aimed dead centre of the black circle.

  "OK."

  There was an "Affirmative' from above as she pushed down on the mound with her sandal led foot, compacting the earth around the stock as I held it firmly in position. My arms strained as I tried to keep the weapon in a vice-like grip to ensure the post sight stayed dead centre. I could have done this on my own but it would have taken a whole lot longer.

  She had finished packing the soil over the weapon and I still had a good sight picture, so I told her this "On' and moved my head to the left so she could lean over and see the target through the sight. Our heads touched as her right hand moved on to the windage dial on the left side of the optic, and started to turn it. I heard a series of metallic clicks as she moved the post left until the point of aim was directly below the two rounds that I had fired, whilst remaining in line with the centre of the black circle.

  It only took her fifteen seconds, but it was time enough for me to smell the soap on her skin, and feel the gentle movement of air as she controlled her breathing.

  My breath stank after not brushing since Saturday, so I moved my lips to divert the smell away from us both as she clicked away. She moved her head back more quickly than I wanted her to and squatted on her knees.

  "OK, done." I could feel the warmth of her leg against me.

  I had to move my arm out of the way to drag my Leatherman out of my pocket and passed it up to her, glad that I'd cleaned it.

  "Score it for me, will you?"

  She opened out the knife blade and leant over to scrape a line from the dial on to the metal housing of the optic, so I'd be able to tell if the dial had been inadvertently moved, knocking the zero off.

  Her vest was gaping in front of me as she worked and I couldn't stop myself looking. She must have seen me: I couldn't move the focus of my gaze quickly enough as she returned to her kneeling position.

  "Who sprinkled you with horny dust?" There was a smile to go with her question, and she kept her big green eyes on mine, but her expression couldn't have given me a bigger no.

  "Are you going to confirm?"

  Pulling the weapon from the mud, I cleared my throat.

  "Yeah, I suppose I'll annoy the birds again."

  She stood up to get out of the way.

  "Ooookay ..."

  I recocked and went through the firing sequence, aiming at the centre of the circle and, sure enough, I pissed off the birds again big-time.

  The zero was good; the round went in directly above the point of aim, roughly in line with the other two rounds to the left. At 300 the round should cut paper slightly above the circle, but I'd soon find out.

  I was still looking through the sight when I felt Carrie's knees against my arm again.

  "Is it OK?" I kept my eye on my shot, still checking. Teah, it's fine.

  Dead on."

  I ejected the round and moved my head away from the sight as she leant over to pick up the empty cases.

  We stood up together and she walked back into the shade as I cleaned the mud off the rifle's furniture.

  "If that wasn't a window to your mind, I don't know what is."

  Maybe I should have worn her Jackie Os.

  Tour eyes aren't as silent as your mouth, are they?"

  I heard the metallic clink of the empty cases as she threw them into the ammo box. She sat down under a tree, crossing her legs.

  I worked hard to think of something to say as I walked over to her.

  "How did the house come to be here? I mean, it's a bit off the beaten track, isn't it?"

  She picked up the bottle and took a swig as I settled down a few feet away. We faced each other and I took the water when she offered it to me.

  "A rich hippie guy built it in the sixties. He came down here to escape the draft." The fly's eyes looked at me, and the smile stayed on her face as she fished out a tobacco tin and Zippo from her cargos.

  "He swapped the forests of Vietnam for the forests of Panama. Apparently he was a real character, kept the dealers and bars in Chepo in business for over twenty years. He died maybe eight or nine years ago."

  There was a pop as the tin opened, and she picked out one of the three or four ready-prepared roll-ups. She giggled to herself, showing a set of brilliant white teeth as she checked the cigarette was still intact. The lenses turned on me again and my reflection moved up and down with her shoulders as she started to laugh.

  "Got killed by a logger's truck after a night hitting the bars. He staggered out into the road, trying to stop the truck from leaving, claiming that the wood belonged to the forest and it had spirit. Strangely enough, the truck seemed not to hear him, and that was that. Sawdust."

  I laughed with her, seeing in my mind's eye the absurd contest of man versus truck. She flicked the Zippo deftly and lit up. The twisted end of the roll-up flared as she took a deep breath, held it, then slowly exhaled. An unmistakable smell filled the air between us. She chuckled to herself before finishing off the story.

  "He was the one who had spirit, but unfortunately for him that night it was all in his bloodstream."

  I took in more water as she turned her gaze once more to the building, picking bits of Rastafarian Old Holborn from her lips.

  "He'd left the house and the land to the university, for research. We've been here nearly six years now. Cleared the land out back for the helicopter. Even put up the extension ourselves."

  She turned back and offered me the joint.

  I shook my head. If other people wanted to, that was up to them, but it was something I'd never even thought of trying.

  She shrugged and took another drag. We can only do it out of the house so Luz doesn't catch us. She'd freak if she knew what Mommy was doing right now. Talk about role reversal." She inhaled deeply, her face screwing up as the smoke blew from her mouth.

  "I suppose someone like you wouldn't do this, would you? Maybe you're worried you'll drop that guard of yours. What do you think?"

  "Aaron told me you met at the university ..."

  She nodded as I started to fill the magazine with more rounds.

  "Eighty-six.

  Without him I'd never have had the sta
mina to get my Ph.D. I was one of his students."

  She looked at me and smiled expectantly, obviously well used to the reaction to her announcement. I probably fell in with the one she anticipated.

  Her tone challenged me.

  "Oh, come on, Nick, have you never been attracted to an older woman?"

  Teah, Wonder Woman, but that was when I was the same age as Luz."

  I'd made her laugh, though maybe the giggle weed had a little to do with it.

  "Half the university staff ended up marrying a student. Sometimes they had to divorce one student to set up with another but, hey, why should the course of true love run smoother in a faculty building than any other place?"

  I sensed it was a well-rehearsed explanation of their relationship.

  "Staying here to study while the folks went back up north and got divorced was great," she went on.

  "You know, straitlaced Catholic family gone wrong the rebellious teenage years, father not understanding that sort of stuff." Her glasses pointed my way and she smiled, maybe thinking about those good times as she took another drag. There's even a kind of convention about sleeping with your teacher, you know. Not exactly as a rite of passage, more a visa stamp, proof you've been there. Someone like you would understand that, no?"

  I shrugged, never having known anything about what went on at those places, but now wishing I did.

  She picked up the fully loaded rifle that lay between us. The bolt was back and she checked chamber before laying the weapon across her knees, then slowly moved the bolt forward to pick the top round out of the magazine, feeding it into the chamber. But instead of locking down the bolt as you would to fire, she pulled it back so the brass round was ejected from the chamber with a clink and into the grass. Then she pushed the bolt home again to repeat the action.

  "How does Luz fit in here?" Even as I started to speak I knew I'd fucked up, but it was too late to stop the flow.

  "She isn't your natural child, is she?"

  She might have been: she could have had her with somebody else. I was crashing and burning here. I tried to recover. I didn't mean that, what I mean is, she isn't-' She laughed and cut in to save me.

  "No, no, you're right, she isn't. She's kind of fostered."