The Making of Blackwater Jack

by Roy F. Chandler

  The unnamed man examined his watch. “It is almost twelve hundred hours.”

  Two good things. His new guide spoke excellent Government Issue English, and Jack had daylight to maneuver in.

  The Afghan again spoke. “Now, tell me where you wish to be placed. We expect it to be nearby. Flying through these mountains is dangerous. There are countless bandits living here.” His smile showed terrible teeth.

  “The bandits like to shoot their rifles at anything flying. Perhaps you will meet them, and we will save fuel when you do not appear.”

  Jack made his smile at least as nasty. “And, if I do not return in your helicopter as scheduled, you will not receive the large amount of money, in dollars, that you have been promised.”

  The Afghan snarled and impatiently pointed out the window. “We are climbing to clear those mountains. Give us directions, now!”

  Jack supposed his guess had been on the mark. If the promised money had already been paid, his safe return would have been of small importance.

  The mountains he needed were almost beneath his flying machine. Jack pointed at the mountain road and directed, “Follow this road, but do not fly above it. Keep the helicopter to the high side, toward the mountain, the right side of the road.”

  The translator passed Jack’s directions to the pilot in another language, and a new direction was chosen.

  Jack’s mind was beginning to catch up. There was the old road, and he could recall some of the major turns they had crept around. From above, the route looked easy and utterly deserted. He expected that he could be landed as close to his rifle’s cache as he desired.

  His guide spoke and there was anxiety in his voice. “A villa lies ahead. We must give it a wide berth. An important personage resides there, and he has powerful weapons to shoot at aircraft that pass too close.”

  Jack said, “I will get off before we reach any buildings.”

  He took a risk. “Who is the important person that we cannot even fly by? Should I avoid his entire area?”

  The Afghan’s lips barely moved. “We do not ask, but if I were requested to use this road, I would turn aside and challenge the mountains before nearing the Sheik’s villa.” The man squirmed in his bucket seat, knowing that he had revealed more than he had intended. His voice became dangerous. “Do not ask anything more!” His eyes glared strongly enough to etch the mountains.

  Jack wondered if the Afghan practiced his glare before a mirror. No westerner he had ever encountered could glare so antagonistically.

  Jack also wondered where the man had learned his obviously higher vocabulary English. He used American words most foreigners would never have chosen. Perhaps he had served as a New York cab driver. Jack smiled at the thought.

  Jack judged the chopper was nearing the summit of the pass where he and the Humvee had been blown up.

  He directed, “Drop down. Fly a hundred feet above the terrain.” There was muttering between his guide and the pilot, but the helicopter sank, and Jack gained a perspective more like the one had seen the first time.

  The pass summit was close, and Jack feared he had somehow missed his spot and would have to turn and try again.

  Then, he saw it, the break in the cliff that had allowed him to escape the road, and as he signaled the chopper to slow and further descend, Jack believed he could see the very stones disguising his hide.

  He studied the broken rock surface of the mountain and discovered exactly what he needed. Barely two hundred yards from the cliff break was an inviting spot that might imaginatively be described as flat. Nothing grew there, or anywhere else that he could see. There were no obstructions, and almost exultantly, Jack pointed out their landing spot.

  The pilot approached, flared, and settled the chopper with barely a scrunch of rock against landing skids. Good job.

  Jack had already grabbed his gear and waited only the outside door’s opening. His English-speaker obliged, and Jack stepped onto a skid and into the blast of the swift spinning blades.

  He shouted into the translator’s face, “This will probably be my pickup spot. Look at it closely so that you will have no hesitation in sitting down. I could be in a hurry.”

  Jack ducked and scurried away, but he saw the snarl on the Afghan’s features. Man must not like him much. Who cared, as long as he did his job.

  The helicopter was gone in an instant and only a diminishing thud of its blades lingered. Jack did not pause to watch or to listen. Even the barren mountain could have eyes. If the landing had been seen … ?

  That appeared unlikely on the bare mountainside, but there could be a wanderer where he should not have been, and … Jack scrambled for his hole. Detected or not, the quicker out of sight the better his chances.

  Of course, he immediately caught a foot, the missing foot, in a rock crack and measured his length with his wind half gone. Jack rolled onto his back and sucked air. His artificial foot looked undamaged. The prosthesis was as tough as titanium, and except for having the wind knocked out of him, his body lay almost comfortably on stones that could have busted him up.

  He got himself erect and worked across the rugged slope with more care. The unexpectedness of his fall brought added awareness. He had planned, and thought and looked forward to reaching this worthless mountain and his hide containing one of the world’s great sniper weapons—and the mysterious box—for so long that he was treating his situation almost as a game.

  God, if he broke a leg now or incapacitated himself in any way, his entire scheme was shot, and he probably would be as well. Jack resumed his scrabble across the shattered stone slope, but with far more caution and respect for what he was attempting.

  He reached the edge of the rock spill and began to edge toward the split in the cliff. His hollow was just above the split. If he dared to peek over the lip of the cliff, he would be looking down on the burned-earth smear where his blown up Humvee had lain.

  Now to find the right stones to move. During his hasty departure he had covered the entrance with more stones than necessary, making sure that no one discovered the rifle or the box.

  He saw no clues, but he knew where to begin his search, and the rocks he chose fell aside as if waiting to be moved.

  The hole was still there, as it almost had to be, and Jack had to slow his efforts and shift only the stones needing moving and only just enough to allow him to slip into the darkness of the hollow.

  Looking into the black of the pit, he thought of snakes. Could there be a better spot on the entire mountain to den a community of poisonous vipers?

  The classic movie scene where the intrepid archeologist is dropped into a massive den of squirming serpents tortured his mind, but he was going in, snakes or no snakes—damn, if only he could see even a little bit.

  Jack lowered himself inside. Listening intently, he heard no rattling or hissing. Hell, Afghanistan did not have rattlesnakes, or did they? More likely were cobras, much larger and far more deadly snakes, or maybe black mambas that would do him in even more quickly. Jack controlled his need to shudder.

  He crouched, unmoving, allowing his eyes to adjust to the little light available. He was again at home. He sat where he had previously rested. He could peer out the rock slit and look on the bombing site.

  Items remained as he had left them. The five-gallon water can shifted emptily when he toed it. The hemp-wrapped box lay where it had propped his smashed foot, and his space blanket and his opened pack lay where he had dropped them. The XM3 rifle leaned, barrel up, just as he had placed it. He saw no snakes, so, first came the rifle!

  Gripping the XM3 was an adrenaline rush. Armed, he could do things. Without the rifle, nothing he had planned was possible. Would it shoot?

  Of course it would. Colonel Rock built rifles so tough they had been known to function after falling from aircraft. After many months resting up in a dry cave? The XM3 would hunger to work.

  Jack hit the bolt release as he opened the action. He caught the ejected cartridge before it hit the
ground and set the bolt aside. The round that had been chambered for two years looked new—a very good sign indeed. He aimed the rifle toward the light sky and peered through the bore. Clean as a Nun’s habit.

  Wiping along the barrel and action, his palm came away virtually clean. Unless the late Sergeant First Class Swartz had soaked the action in heavy oil that might have dried and hardened, and Jack could not imagine why he would have, the rifle was ready to go.

  Jack returned the bolt to the rifle and jacked the four cartridges from the rifle’s magazine. Then he dry fired the piece a number of times. The firing pin struck swiftly and solidly

  He refilled the magazine, worked the bolt to chamber a round, snapped on the safety and believed the rifle set to perform.

  BUT, where would the rifle point? He had to wonder if the unmilitary Sergeant Swartz ever had zeroed the piece, and if so, for what range? Crap! He would have to shoot to find out. Crap again!

  Well, when he had fired the gun on Saltz’s first visit, the rifle appeared to be on the nose at one hundred yards. Probably, he would have to begin with that memory.

  So, he could most likely hit what he aimed at out to three or four hundred yards, but his intention was to shoot at far greater (and safer—for him) ranges.

  He would shoot now until he could trust his hitting. The XM3’s Sure Fire suppressor would help. At least the mountain would not vibrate and echo from rifle fire.

  It was more than time to take a cautious look around. By now, even a distant observer could be close and might be about to peer into the darkness of his hide.

  Jack did not pop into view like a startled animal might. Movement was always noticed, and swift movement caught eyes most easily.

  Jack’s hat was a desert camouflaged boonie-type cap, not a Marine Corps cover, which might have attracted attention anywhere in Afghanistan, but a knock off that would do as well.

  He eased his head slowly until he could see the mountain’s distant crest. Then he raised himself even slower. He allowed his head to slowly swivel, checking everything within view before inching a hair higher.

  Nothing. If someone watched, they were hunkered down and doing their own waiting.

  So, what to do next? Most important was properly zeroing his rifle. He needed to determine a perfect zero at three or four hundred yards. Then he should shoot at various longer distances until he could believe that he would hit what he aimed at out beyond eight hundred yards. Simple on a known distance range, but difficult when he had to be his own spotter.

  Later, he would fire at night. Preferably at some of the same targets he used in daylight. His night vision sight might or might not shoot to the same spots at varying distances.

  That meant that he would not be moving from where he now hid. He had daylight hours left, and they would be enough to determine his zero at useful ranges.

  After dark, he would again shoot before he settled into his hole and hoped to hell that the suppressor had disguised the shooting enough that no one heard.

  In movies, suppressors reduce rifle fire to tiny pops that even the audience barely hears. Real life is quite different. Bullets that exceed the speed of sound, which all high-powered rifles easily manage, create a sharp crack that occurs beyond the rifle’s muzzle and, therefore, cannot be contained. Suppressors are not silencers. Their abilities are more comparable to the quieting accomplished by automobile mufflers—a lot better, but not silent.

  Suppressors are also quite effective flash hiders. When firing at night, rifles create a bright and lengthy flash at the muzzle that can be seen from the sides as well as directly ahead.

  To shoot at night with a conventional rifle reveals the rifleman’s position. A good suppressor, like those found on the XM3 rifles, disguises most of the flash by containing it within the compressor tube’s length.

  Jack began daylight zeroing without further delay. To his gratification, he found the rifle dead on at three hundred yards, as measured by his seven-power, Leica range finding binoculars.

  He would shoot at greater ranges using holdover, not by adjusting his scope. He used the five rounds of old ammunition. Then he continued firing his new Black Hills ammo at rocks out to one thousand yards—recording estimated feet of holdover above the point he intended to hit.

  The technique was ancient, dating at least to World War One, when modern sniping was in its infancy. Snipers of all armies used holdover in WWII and wars thereafter. Although the sniper schools, including Blackwater, taught use of Mil-dot and other special reticles, in the field, many snipers still judged their holdover in feet.

  The reason was simple. In the heat and tension of battle, even the best riflemen could forget to return their range-adjusted scopes to their original zero before the next shot. The result could be shooters who had lost track of where their rifles would hit at any ranges.

  Blackwater Jack had taught marksmen to leave their scope adjustments alone, to judge their holdover, and to squeeze their triggers carefully. Jack now practiced what he had preached.

  Reasonably satisfied, Jack rested low in his hide, watching for even hint of movement on his mountainside. If there had been listeners, they would have, by now, become hunters, but none appeared.

  Jack removed the dead batteries from the UNS night sight and fitted new ones. When darkness was deep, he would test to see if his night vision sight in any way altered his bullet strikes. He did not expect any change, and he had never known of such changes, but it was said that such alterations were possible. Tonight might be his only chance to test, and he would use it.

  The night stayed bright with the moon high. Not a fair test of the night sight’s capabilities but enough to discover inaccuracies.

  No problems! When he did his part, the rifle smacked its bullets where he wanted them. Jack felt his confidence swell.

  Then, when he needed it least, and without hint of warning, doubts and uncertainties slugged him.

  He was suddenly acutely unsure and found himself not only doubting his abilities but even his desire to continue. Sweat broke across his forehead, and he felt trembling in his arms. Jack slumped deeper into his hole and fought to quell a suddenly over-wrought and fear-filled imagination.

  Where in hell had this come from?

  20

  Fear? Not that. Jack thanked all the gods. Rather a dead-deep sense of pointless loneliness. A “What in Hell am I doing here?” futility.

  Here he sat in a hole in a land no sensible person would even visit. In search of … ? A nameless local who chose to piss on a dead body? A foul deed, but one that no one else would care about for longer than a meaningless curse of frustration.

  What positive message could be wrung from shooting dead the one guy wearing a white robe? No one on his side would know or would care.

  Could he believe that hunting down and killing the Sheik was a matter of personal honor, something between him and the dead soldiers? Well, most would sneer at such a stretch, but believable or not, honor was part of it.

  On the dead guy’s side? A relative or two would be enraged, but those people were always suffering varying stages of hatred.

  Whatever lousy game the Sheik was in would go on, with some other half-animal wearing the white robe.

  The Sheik’s bodyguards? Perhaps he could nail more than one of them as well as the Sheik, but there was undoubtedly a line of practiced glarers waiting to step into any vacated positions.

  Jack wondered, more or less vaguely, what was a sheik, anyway? His mind’s eye saw a turbaned camel rider from a long forgotten desert movie. Saltz and the dead soldiers might have used the title as a nickname. The body-pisser might be anything from an academic to a prominent religious figure. Who knew or cared, beyond ex-Colonel Saltz, of course?

  So, why not recognize a waste of time, call it quits, and go home. Jack gave the option serious consideration.

  This had been his idea and his alone. Shooter Galloway had always believed the scheme was pointless as well as deadly dangerous. Again ther
e was a “but.” But, Jack suspected, if Galloway had been in his position, despite his announced disdain for Jack’s scheming, he, Galloway, would have gone ahead and gotten it done a long time ago.

  A second point to consider was that he was almost there! Tomorrow or the next night, he might get his long hungered-for shot at the Sheik. Then he could go home. Satisfied? Probably, and he did have the box!

  The damned box! Jack considered opening it and having a look. The contents might not be worth carrying away, or he might want to immediately burn everything he found.

  More likely, he would discover something valuable or deadly in its message. Maybe, the secret hiding place of Saddam Hussein’s weapons of mass destruction? Improbable, but the box had to be important.

  Important to whom? Retired Colonel Saltz, obviously, but to Blackwater Jack? Unlikely.

  Still, anything to upset Saltz would be worthwhile, and it seemed clear that there was something in the box that would do exactly that.

  Jack felt himself calming and steadying. His doubts fled. Renewed determination ballooned. He snarled at his unexpected uncertainties. He focused his resolve and buried, he hoped forever, the alibis and excuses that rose so easily when the going got tough.

  The night was moving on. The moon was down, and the sky had become darker than a cloudless night had a right to be. Jack adjusted his clumsy night vision head harness and organized his equipment.

  He would carry his pack, but he would take only what he might need for a day or a bit more before returning to his hollow for re-supply.

  His plan was basic. He would reconnoiter the Sheik’s domain. His XM3 rifle’s scope and its UNS night vision would allow him to see clearly much farther and with more detail than the outdated night vision device. He would poke around, always staying as far away as possible and trying to determine exactly what the Sheik’s setup amounted to.

  His imagination and the long-dead Lieutenant’s description had produced a small community. With its own mosque? Possible. He expected the Sheik’s home would be substantial and readily identifiable.