The Complete Delta Force Shooters

by M. L. Buchman

  He rolled his eyes at her. He tapped her on the chest and held up a single finger again.

  “Because I’m the only woman on the team?”

  No. He tapped her chest—directly on the sniper rifle magazines that had just tangled them up. Then on the MK21 before he tried a double thumbs up. You best. Very sexy, he mouthed carefully. He ran his hand down her vest’s side plates, over her ribs, waist, and hips to make his point.

  “Because I shoot well? That’s exactly what every woman wants to be admired for,” despite her words it did mean a lot.

  In answer he ran a knuckle over her cheek so gently that she couldn’t help closing her eyes.

  “Okay, not just because I shoot well.”

  He nodded with a grin. Then he dug out his night-vision goggles and clipped them onto his helmet.

  “You are a mystery to me, Mr. Tomas Gallagher.”

  He gave her a thumbs up and another one of those killer smiles once she had her own NVGs in place and turned on.

  6

  Seven hours hard hiking to reach their target point and three more hours to investigate possible hides.

  Command had, of course, done their usual head game. That told them that the CIA was calling the shots on this one because they never did anything straightforward if they could do it bass-ackwards instead.

  Katrina decided that it was a good thing she’d been in the Army for long enough to know that they always did that. At least it made it so that she was only royally pissed rather than in a murderous rage when the truth came out.

  When Tomas reported that they were on site, Command informed them that it was the Moldovan general who was their target. He was the only person who’d been told about their mission at all. The fact that they’d been attacked by Russian Special Forces had served to confirm that he could be easily bought.

  The Moldovan prime minister himself had told his general that the secrecy of this operation was a matter of Moldovan National Security. Yet here that general was, meeting with a Russian general at a base just over the Moldovan border in Transnistria.

  Transnistria was a breakaway region of Moldova, aligned with the Russians rather than the US, NATO, and the EU. Only three other nations recognized it, though it had been a splinter nation since 1992. A splinter the Russians wanted to exploit. Re-annexing Moldova, just as they had the Crimea, would help secure the Russian frontier against an attack by land forces.

  Nobody in the West was in favor of that, except the purchased general. The prime minister of Moldova couldn’t be seen to act against his own military despite his general’s other war crimes, but it was time for a message to be sent.

  And apparently it was up to her and Tomas to send it.

  As part of the plan, she’d brought a second barrel and bolt for her rifle, and ammunition to match. In less than two minutes she’d changed from the far-reaching hammer of the .338 Lapua to an odd cartridge only ever used in Russia, a 5.45x39mm. It fired only half the distance forcing them to find a location that was both well hidden and close to the meeting site.

  Tiraspol airport was technically non-operational, despite being the only airport in the splinter country and housing all five planes of their air force. No one was sure if they could fly, or survive taking off on the aged runway even if they did work.

  But helicopters could land here just fine.

  It was finding suitable cover that was the issue. They had to get close, preferably well under five hundred meters with such small caliber ammunition, and yet not be found after she took the shot.

  Tomas led her in. The airport was unlit except for a single streetlight near the entrance. The runway itself was open to the surrounding farmland, making it easy to walk onto the airfield. They lay in the unmown grass at one end of the runway and inspected the structures carefully.

  He tapped his radio, then pointed at the only decent building left standing.

  “Command says that’s where the meeting will be?”

  Tomas nodded.

  She studied it through her rifle’s night scope and shook her head. Not a chance from here.

  Tomas grinned and tapped his temple.

  Katrina gestured for him to lead on.

  Sticking to a dry drainage ditch behind the buildings, they crossed behind the old terminal and slipped up to the remains of the Transnistrian Air Force. Five Antonov transport planes, all with flat tires—none operational. A dozen helicopters, only two of which looked serviceable, and a pair of Yak two-seat trainers that must date back to World War II. One was clearly being scrapped for parts, but the other one looked serviceable. It was long, an olive-drab green, and had one of those humped glass canopies.

  She shook her head.

  He tapped the side of the plane.

  She shook her head again.

  Tomas pointed at the office building.

  Three hundred meters away, an ideal shot.

  “This is your idea of an exfiltration plan after we’re done here? An ancient airplane that may not fly? I’d like to survive this mission.”

  In answer, he leaned in and kissed her lightly. Apparently he wanted to survive it as well. How was she supposed to argue with how his lightest touch could make her feel?

  7

  Katrina awaited her moment. She was slouched in the front seat of the Yak-18. It smelled of old pilot sweat, gasoline, and sausages. At the moment she was not appreciating her heightened awareness of her sense of smell since going deaf.

  Tomas—slouched in the pilot’s seat behind her—had inspected and prepped the plane, encouraged at finding the gas tanks full. Then they’d nudged the tail around until she had a perfect shot through the partially open canopy. There would be no sign of where the shot had come from. No one would look in the middle of the airfield. And if someone did, Tomas was confident he could get the plane moving quickly.

  The meeting happened as planned. At noon, a brand-new Kamov Ka-62 Executive transport helicopter flew in and landed exactly where expected. It was met within minutes by two cars that had swept in through the front gate.

  Tomas knew that if he needed her attention, he could thump a fist on the side of the airframe from his position in the rear pilot’s seat behind her. But for now, her attention was narrowing. It was Tomas’ job to make sure that she stayed safe. It was her job to erase the man who had set a trap for her, stolen her hearing, and betrayed his prime minister.

  She couldn’t kill the Moldovan general outright, or they’d know there was a sniper on the field, but she had a plan.

  First to emerge were a half-dozen guards from either side. Then the two generals climbed out of their respective craft at the same moment and approached each other. A Transnistrian official, also resplendent in his uniform, accompanied the Moldovan. It was too perfect.

  The guards formed a wide circle facing outwards, thankfully none quite facing their aircraft—even with the flash suppressor, her shot wouldn’t be invisible.

  The windsock was rippling hard, ten mile-an-hour crosswind, gusting to twenty. Thankfully, she had fired a few thousand rounds of the 5.45mm ammunition at the Fort Bragg firing range to familiarize herself with its flight characteristics—the wind was going to drag this round a long way sideways in three hundred meters. It would make her shot look as if it was coming from well to the west of their current position if someone noticed the angle of attack.

  The two generals approached one another, with the Moldovan facing her but not yet blocked by the Russian.

  Three shots at two targets. If she was shooting as a Delta, she’d use four, but the Russians fought differently.

  When the generals were two steps apart, she fired a single round into the Moldovan’s heart. Delta would have placed two there.

  On her next heartbeat—in his face. It caught him before he was over the surprise of the first shot.

  For the last shot, she picked a Russian guard standing behind the Russian general and put a round through the meat of his thigh.

  At his scream, the Russian
general yanked out his sidearm as he spun. He then shot the first Transnistrian guard he spotted. In moments, all of the Transnitrian locals were gunned down—including the high-ranking official.

  Someone must have forewarned the police—at least enough so as to make them station a team nearby. They swarmed out of the office building and had the Russian general, his troops, and the helicopter pilot under arrest within moments.

  Katrina eased her weapon back in through the plane’s canopy and waited, but no one so much as looked in their direction. Who would attack from the middle of their own airfield when the perpetrator was so obviously caught red-handed?

  The Russians were going to have very poor relations with Transnistria for some time to come.

  And Delta? They’d never been here at all.

  8

  “Can’t we just walk out?” Katrina waved past the canopy at the deserted airfield. Darkness had come and shrouded the only signs of what had happened today: bloodstains on the sun-bleached pavement and an abandoned Russian helicopter.

  It was awkward, twisting in her seat to see Tomas’ lips with her NVGs. He said something that she couldn’t follow.

  “What?”

  Trust me, accompanied by one of his smiles. She’d learned about them. They were full of promises—ones that she hoped, no, that she knew he would keep. It made him impossible to argue with. She just wished that she could imagine his voice as anything other than harsh and cold, but it was all she’d ever heard from him.

  She turned back in her seat and tightened the cross-shoulder harness.

  “Why walk when you can fly?” She finally worked out that was what he’d said.

  She’d had the mandatory basic training and could survive as pilot in a half-dozen different aircraft—survive. Her only hope was that his skills were far more practiced than her own. Thankfully, the Yak-18 was a trainer: pilot in the rear, student in the front. It meant she didn’t have to touch anything.

  No one bothered them as the engine caught and spun to life on the darkened airfield. It shook the plane, momentarily filling the cabin with the acrid bite of exhaust fumes but, at least to her, it was painfully silent.

  Tomas taxied them to the blacked-out runway. Then, unleashing a mighty vibration that she assumed was accompanied by a massive roar, the single engine awoke and pulled them down the abandoned runway. The plane jounced and wobbled, but they were aloft before it could shatter her spine.

  Once in the air, Tomas turned them south with a confidence she knew she lacked. Safe in his care. Safe in his arms.

  The irony wasn’t lost on her for a moment. Tomas’ very careful attempts to not treat her differently, to not show her his feelings, had only served to enhance them.

  She now understood his prior silences. And those in turn had made her more aware of him. It had made her notice what a standout soldier he was. And their distance had probably driven him even harder to excel, which had only made her notice him all the more.

  Yet she’d already been deaf the first time he demonstrated his feelings. Even if the damage was permanent, there was no questioning the truth of them—not of the man who had thrown himself over her so that the mortar might somehow kill him but spare her, and not of the man who now flew the old Yak from close behind her.

  A half hour later, they slid out of the sky and landed on a long sandy beach. The plane jolted, but not too badly. As always, Tomas knew exactly what he was doing.

  They sat together on the sandy shore of a Romanian park along the Black Sea. Small waves broke on the sand in clean white lines as they watched the night together. Tomas had radioed for a helicopter from an American helicopter carrier that was cruising offshore. It would pick them up soon—and drag the old plane out to sink in the depths of the Black Sea erasing the last evidence of anyone interfering at Tiraspol. Now it would just be a plane gone missing, perhaps stolen by an escaped Russian guard, on a much more newsworthy day.

  They sat close, hip to hip on the sand.

  “What if my hearing doesn’t come back?” Their NVGs were pushed back on their helmets, so she might as well have been talking to herself. She wouldn’t be able to read any reply on his lips.

  But she wasn’t alone. He pulled her tight against his side and kissed her on the temple.

  Not alone.

  She’d always been alone. The family’s black sheep, the first one ever to enter military service. One of the first women to qualify for front-line combat. Again one of the first into Delta Force. Delta had accepted her, even welcomed her, but she’d been the only woman on her team. It was a lonely existence.

  Tomas continued to hold her close. Rather than going for the kiss, that she would have gladly welcomed, he somehow knew she needed something else even more. Instead, he just held her.

  The fear began to slide away.

  The fear of the mission—always there during but already fading fast, as usual.

  The fear of not being good enough to be a woman in Delta. Even if it was her final mission today, she’d proven that she belonged.

  The unrealized terror that she’d always be an outsider, always alone. All she had to do was breathe in the warm, earthy, and slightly sweet smell of Tomas Gallagher that reminded her of lying in a vineyard beneath the ripening grapes.

  One fear remained. A fear worse than never hearing again. A fear that—

  Then she became aware of something. It was so foreign that she couldn’t make sense of it for a moment. It had been going on for a while.

  “Hey!”

  She could feel Tomas twist to look at where she lay tucked inside the curve of his arm.

  “I can hear the waves on the sand.” Whatever her body had done to protect her during the explosion had released its hold on her hearing.

  “Really?” Now she would forever know what his voice could sound like—soft, kind, and filled with wonder.

  “Really.” And then her last fear slid into the night. The fear that she’d never get to hear Tomas Gallagher say, “I love you.”

  For Her Dark Eyes Only

  Kurt fights as a sniper for Delta Force, the most skilled operators in any military. Out on the edge, the line often blurs. This time he sees the edge clearly, and must walk right past it.

  Mira has worked as Kurt’s spotter in Iraq, Yemen, and a dozen other places. This time they are taking on a “friendly” power, but no question exists—her place lies at his side.

  Beyond that line abides a truth that they must learn, a truth fit For Her Dark Eyes Only.

  Introduction

  This story was born of many elements.

  It was actually the first of the Shooter stories that I wrote. I wanted to plunge deep into how a sniper thinks. That made it one of the few stories written in the first person.

  Writing with “I” poses some interesting challenges.

  Many writing teachers say that it is terribly restrictive because you can only know what the main character knows. Only walk through their thoughts. No omniscient overview. No other character to see what the other can’t…including their own reactions.

  But it is also incredibly liberating, because we (both the reader and the writer) get to know exactly what that person is thinking, seeing, and feeling. There grows a very close bond between the reader and the point-of-view character that can’t be recreated in the third person by even the most skilled writer.

  One of the tricks around that restrictiveness is to alternate chapter by chapter whose first-person point-of-view we experience. I didn’t do that. I wanted to go all the way with Kurt. I wanted to see what could drive him, not merely to be a Delta sniper, but to go “off the reservation”—beyond the authorized rules of engagement.

  That was my second element.

  I’m a pacifist a heart, but there are some people who really should be exterminated.

  I remember a long discussion on a flight from India to Egypt with a Muslim missionary. This was long before 9/11 and the latest wars of Southwest Asia.

  He had be
en raised strictly in the tradition of Islam and had done no reading outside of his teachings. I’ve read widely from The Bible and the Book of Mormon to the teachings of Lao Tzu, Confucius, and Buddha.

  Our talk delved deeply into the messages that are common throughout all cultures. The language varies, but there are numerous common threads. For example, in the West we might say, “Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you.” In Arabic traditions, “Treat your guest as if it is their home.”

  My companion pointed out that it is not people of faith who also created the image of “The Koran in one hand and the sword in the other.” (Or the KKK’s version of “The Bible in one and the lynching rope in the other.”) This is done by jihadis, crusaders, or whoever with no respect for the underlying moral laws that are a part of life.

  A crime of passion I can almost understand. Sometimes. Rarely.

  A crime of pre-meditated death, destruction, or even abuse, I can’t understand at all.

  I gave that challenge to my Delta warrior, Kurt.

  Shortly before writing this story, I was reading of yet another round of Saudi state-sponsored terrorism when I realized that my hands were shaking with fury.

  This story is part of how I fight back.

  1

  “Sucks!” I called out to the watch officer as I strode into the command hangar at the ass-end of Riyadh airfield.

  Surprising a Delta Force operator with one of my sniper-silent approaches was never a good idea. Doing it to the six-foot-two of officer who stood four inches taller than me and had much broader shoulders was an even worse one.

  Part of our low profile stance in Saudi Arabia was that we ran our operation in the shadowy back corner of the most rundown hangar on the base. It was so beat-up that it captured more of the passing sandstorms than it kept out. Delta’s watch post was tucked behind a small flock of Night Stalkers’ helos and an Air Force four-prop C-130 cargo plane which served as our secure storage and could get us up and out in fifteen minutes if we had to jump in somewhere. At night, with only a single desk lamp on, it was a murky place of shadows and secrets.