Sniper (Women of the United Federation Marines Book 2)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  “What I do want is whatever you’ve got for me there. I’m parched.”

  “Oh, here,” Eli said, handing her a pouch.

  It was cool to the touch, which was always a good sign. Without reading the label, she popped up the straw and took a deep draft. It was Krystal Kola, which was not Gracie’s favorite. She was a Coke girl, through and through. But it was cold, possibly at the 17 she preferred, and that was what was important. She knew she owed Sergeant Winston now, but it was worth it.

  “Here, take the B,” she said. “You’ve got it for a while.”

  Unlike the Windmoellers and Kyoceras, each sniper did not have his or her own Barrett. With only four in the platoon, they had to share the weapons. Eli took the rifle and punched in his personal code. There was a slight whirring sound as the Barrett modified its configuration to match Eli’s preferences. The stock extended itself by close to three centimeters, and the scope rails raised, bringing the scope higher. The transfiguration took three or four seconds, and when Eli brought the weapon to his shoulder, it was basically fitted to his personal firing profile.

  Gracie leaned back and took another swallow of her drink. This was not a round-the-clock post. They would be relieved at curfew, so there wasn’t any reason to take a nap, but still, she had to blank out her mind for 15 or 20 minutes. Staying on the scope or binos too long at a time messed up the mind and could even lead to hallucinations.

  She let Eli remain on the Barrett for an hour before asking for it back. She could see Eli was disappointed. She knew he was very aware that he was still a PIG, and he wanted to prove himself. She almost let him stay on the gun, but the mission came first, and now rested, she knew, without hubris, that she was the better choice to be back as the designated shooter. Vehicle shots could be tricky, and she had spent far more time on the moving target ranges than Eli and was a far better shot.

  She settled in behind the Barrett in a relaxed position, not looking through the scope but over it. She knew she could lay there like this for hours unless she had to take a shit. Her piss-snake was connected, so that was not a problem, but unlike Marines in PICS or HEDs, the hazardous environmental suits, the Corps had not come up with an effective way for grunts to deal with the big Number 2 except in the same way as the Romans and soldiers before them did—simply dropping trou and having at it.

  The sun was getting low on the horizon when a glint of light caught Gracie’s eye.

  “What do you see over there, a finger to the right of Eveline’s Bed?” she asked Eli as she brought up the Barrett and looked through the scope.

  All of the major landmarks in view had been named for easy reference. She wasn’t sure who had named Eveline’s Bed (probably some love struck fan of the HollyBolly star), but it had a flat roof and a raised wall that could be a headboard, so it kind of fit.

  There was another flash, and Eli said, “Just looks like the sun hitting a broken window. Do you want me to call for a scan?”

  She looked a little closer. The flash had come from the window, and she could see inside the building. There didn’t look to be anything there. She could call for a scan, but she didn’t know how busy the ship was, and she didn’t want to call in too many false alerts.

  “No, I don’t think it’s anything,” she said, her momentary flash of excitement settling back into the routine boredom.

  The raucous blare of the alarms at the checkpoint made her jump. She swung around from Eveline’s Bed. Out at the leading edge of the sensor field, a beat-up hover was barreling down Wildebeest. Gracie took in the civilian at the scan station baling out and running, the hover sliding back and forth on its cushion of air as it tried to accelerate, and the scramble of cops and Marines at the checkpoint as they turned to face the oncoming vehicle.

  Gracie brought the crosshairs of her scope on the driver, a young man; she could see the determination on his face as he held the wheel in a death grip. There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt in her mind that he was a suicide.

  The hover was picking up speed as a burst of fire from at least one Marine below peppered it without effect. Gracie was tempted to snap off a shot, but the window of opportunity was short, and she knew she had to make good.

  She noted the pothole in the road, the one she’d ranged at 662 meters. Wind had been light at almost 90 degrees from her right, something she subconsciously considered as her brain went into overdrive. At 662 meters, the flight time of the round would be about half a second, during which time the hover would travel about five meters. She was 40 meters high, and that meant the angle of declination was about 3.5 degrees.

  All of this gelled in her mind within two seconds, and with the hover approaching the pothole, she didn’t have time to enter the data into the AI. She had to go with her gut.

  Aiming high and slightly to the right, she pulled the trigger as the hover was just short of the pothole. With the Barrett’s superb recoil system, she was able to adjust for the closing speed and send off another round before the first one hit.

  The windshield in front of the driver exploded into a mass of pulverized crystal-matrix. Gracie thought the first round hit dead center of the man’s upper chest. The second one hit the steering wheel, and probably continued on, so even if the first merely cleared out the windshield and was deflected away, it didn’t matter. The hover started to veer off the road when it exploded into a fireball. The concussion knocked the civilian scan tech to his feet, and a moment later, the much-dissipated wave hit Gracie and Eli.

  “Great Green Lizards, Corporal! Does that happen every time you shoot someone?”

  Gracie sat up and scanned the area. Insurgents often used a suicider or some sort of indirect-fire weapon to hit a target, then assault it with massed direct fire. Below her, the scanner tech was getting to his feet, and at the checkpoint, the Marines were alert and ready for anything. All four Marines had stepped up to the road, ready to shoot down the hover despite the danger that put them in. Five cops were still at the checkpoint, standing and looking around, weapons at the ready. Seven more cops were either on the ground and scrambling for cover or were just now stopping from running away.

  “Looks like whoever that suicider was, he didn’t tell the cops on his side,” Gracie noted. “Looks like two of one side and three of the other stood to fight.”

  “Not like the Marines. Look at them. All four ready to take down that fucker,” Eli said, a note of pride in his voice.

  Gracie felt the same way. She might have recorded the kill, but neither she nor Eli had been in any danger. Those four Marines down there had been, though, and with a suicide bomber like that, there wouldn’t have been enough left of any of them to fill a sandwich bag, much less enough for a resurrection.

  Gracie slowly stood up. One of the Marines turned around, spotted her, and raised a hand in a salute.

  Gracie came to attention and returned it.

  Chapter 20

  8

  “Well, here comes the Mad Bomber,” Zach said as Gracie and Eli walked into the cargo container that was serving as the platoon headquarters.

  “Mad Bomber?” Muad asked.

  “Yeah, like all her kills blow themselves up. Boom!” he said, making two fists, then expanding his hands to imitate a blast.

  “Not bad, but not good, either. Back to the drawing board,” Muad said.

  “I don’t know. How about it, Mad Bomber? Or maybe ‘MB.’ What do you think?”

  “Eat me, Sergeant,” Gracie replied.

  “Eat me she says? Eat me? I’m not the one blowing people up right and left. It’s ‘one round, one kill,’ not ‘one round and a freaking bomb!’”

  Gracie ignored him as she checked the board. She saw that she and Eli were going out again tonight, but their mission brief wouldn’t be for another two hours.

  “Let’s go,” she told Eli as she turned and walked out, but making sure her knee hit Zach’s legs as he sat on the chair, almost blocking the way.

  “Boom!” the sergeant said as she exited
the container.

  Gracie was steaming, but she was keeping it contained. She thought Sergeant Pure Presence was a flaming asshole; it was really starting to wear on her. As she and Eli made their way back to the company CP, she spotted Staff Sergeant Riopel heading their way.

  “Gittens, you go ahead. Draw me my chow, too, and then I’ll see you at the brief.”

  She waited alone until the staff sergeant reached her.

  “You got something for me, Crow?” he asked as he noticed her waiting.

  “Yeah, Staff Sergeant. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a sec.”

  “We can talk in the shack,” he said as he came abreast.

  “I’d really like this to be private, if I could.”

  The section leader stopped, waited a moment, then said “OK. Shoot.”

  “It’s about Sergeant Pure Pleasance,” she said, then hesitated.

  “OK,” he said after she didn’t go any further.

  She started having second thoughts. Marines didn’t go crying to teacher when they had a problem. A hard-charging Marine took care of her own issues. But she was still steaming, and if she tried to take care of things, she thought she would end up slugging the man.

  “It’s just that. . .he’s, you know, he’s been on my ass.” When the staff sergeant said nothing, she added, “Like all the time.”

  “And your point is?”

  She hadn’t expected that reaction.

  “I mean, I think he goes over the line. And I think my being the only woman in the platoon might have something to do with it. I think he resents that.”

  “You think that, do you?”

  “Well, yes. I don’t want to pull the woman’s card, but when his actions support it. . .”

  Staff Sergeant Riopel slowly shook his head, then said, “Let me tell you something, Crow. Yeah, some people don’t like others based on some sort of categorization. They probably have since we were still in the trees and looking down at the ground in fear of the leopard. Some people don’t like Earthers, some don’t like redheads, some don’t like Torritites—like Sergeant Pure Pleasance—some don’t like you-fill-in-the-blank. And yes, some don’t think women should be Marines. Women have only been in the Corps since the Evolution, and it’s still mostly a boy’s club. Our own CO is the first female battalion commanding officer the Corps’ ever had since women were allowed back into the ranks. And as you know, there are only a handful of female scout-snipers in the Corps right now. When we received your advanced orders, a few of the Marines expressed some reservations about you joining the platoon.”

  “And that’s my point. I think that Sergeant—”

  “Hold on, I’m not done. When that came up, it was Sergeant Pure Presence who was one of the guys who said your sex didn’t matter. He said snipers are like Wasp pilots; no one cares if pilots or snipers piss standing or sitting, but how many of the bad guys they can kill.”

  “Sergeant Pure Presence said that?”

  “Roger that. Crude, in his way, but he was sticking up for you even before you came. And after you zeroed that infiltrator, he was running around bragging that he’d called it, that he was right.”

  “But I don’t get it. He’s always on my ass. He doesn’t think I should get credit for my kills if the guy was going to be a suicide anyway. And today, he wants to call me the ‘Mad Bomber.’”

  The staff sergeant broke out into a smile. “‘Mad Bomber?’ Weak shit from him, but not bad. Do you know what he wanted to call Glastonary? He was trying to get all of us to call him ‘Gas-Ass.’”

  Despite herself, Gracie almost cracked a smile. Glastonary did have a problem with frequent and rather vile farts.

  “My point is that Zach gives everybody shit. That’s his style. I’m not downplaying sexual harassment or anything, so don’t go running to the gunny or the LT that I’m blowing you off. But with Zach, I’m positive that’s not the case. The fact that he’s giving you shit means he’s treating you like everyone else, male or female.”

  Gracie stood there, trying to process what he’d said. She wasn’t 100% convinced, but she had to accept that he could be right. Thinking back, it did seem as if Zach dished out a lot of shit. She remembered him riding Eli for supposedly being in love with her.

  “Look, Crow. You haven’t tried to get to know anyone else in the platoon. I know you’ve taken Gittens under your wing, but as far at the others, you keep them at arm’s length. But no one gives a shit about that. You’ve racked up eight kills, and you’re only a corporal. That is what the platoon cares about most, and you have mad respect aimed your way. If you don’t want to mix, then that’s your decision.

  “About Zach, maybe his including you in his smack talk is his way of trying to draw you closer into the platoon. I don’t know, but I kinda get that feeling. You know, the band of brothers thing.”

  “I. . .” she started, then stopped, trying to gather her thoughts.

  She’d left the shack angry, and when she’d seen the staff sergeant, it has seemed like a good opportunity to let it out. Now, her worldview had taken a hit, if what he’d said was true. She’d have to think about it.

  “Thank you for telling me that, Staff Sergeant. I need to process all of it. Sorry for bothering you.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, Crow. Look, I’ve got to run. The entire section’s going to be at the brief, and I’ve got shit to do before that, so I’ll see you then.”

  He turned and started to continue onto the shack while Gracie turned to go to the company CP.

  Zach stuck up for me?

  It was pretty difficult to believe.

  “Hey, Crow!” Staff Sergeant Riopel shouted from behind her.

  She turned to face him.

  “You might want to dish some shit back out to him. See how well he takes it!”

  “Roger that, Staff Sergeant,” she acknowledged.

  Gracie wasn’t the queen of repartee, she realized. But given some time, she imagined she could have a few one-liners ready in her magazine when a target of opportunity presented itself.

  She didn’t realize that she was smiling as she made her way to the company CP.

  Chapter 21

  8

  The peace, if it could even be called that, was rapidly breaking down. Fighting had become more intense, and the Marines had been drawn into several sustained firefights. In one firefight, ten Marines from Hotel had been WIA with four of them being casevac’d to the Josh. They were placed into stasis until they could be brought to an appropriate medical facility.

  It could have been worse for the platoon, but Hotel’s PICS platoon had come to the rescue, breaking the attack. The attackers had left eighteen bodies behind, bodies that were identified as being members of the Arm of the North, a newly-formed Svea militia.

  Since then, attacks on the Marines had been stepped up. Incoming fire became more frequent, and while not fully engaging the Marines, pot-shots and IEDs in their path occurred on almost every patrol.

  The fact that the bad guys hadn’t really engaged the Marines was probably explained by the six PICS Marines immediately in front of Gracie. The CO had made the decision to screw the “perception of aggression” that the Federation wanted to avoid and have PICS Marines with every patrol in force. No matter how much the bosses on high might gnash their teeth, the CO had the final call on the ground. She might never make full bird[23] if the civilian power brokers had anything to say about it, but that one move cemented the battalion’s rank-and-file’s opinion of her.

  Gracie had loved her time in a PICS. If she hadn’t become a sniper, she could have easily finished out her enlistment in them. The combat suits had a size limit, so more men than women were simply too big for the suit, and overall personal strength had no bearing on fighting ability in one. The same as with a sniper, fighting in a PICS equalized the difference between smaller and weaker Marines and those larger and stronger. Whether behind her Kyocera or in a PICS, it didn’t matter one whit that Gracie barely tipped
the scale at 40 kg.

  The patrol came to a halt. Whisper Creek Road was in the middle of where much of the recent fighting had been taking place. The road was surrounded by four to six story buildings; if there had ever actually been a Whisper Creek, it had long been paved over.

  One of the PICS Marines easily kicked in the door of the six-story building on the right side of the street. Other PICS Marines were doing the same to other buildings. Gracie and Eli, along with Kierk and Oesper, joined a squad of Golf Marines as streamed inside the building.

  The SOP[24] calls of “Clear,” “Coming in right,” and “Next man, stand fast” echoed as each room was cleared. There was no attempt at stealth, and there was no expectation of finding anyone. Between Marine Corps drones and the Josh’s powerful scanners, they knew that there hadn’t been anyone inside the building for at least two days. That was when the family of six, the last remaining inhabitants of the building, had left.

  While the patrol might find some weapons caches, the grunts were merely camouflage. The purpose of the patrol, and that of two others in different parts of the city, was to emplace scout-sniper teams where they could observe hotspots. All the activity was designed to let the teams get into their hides without anyone noticing. The hope was that they would get lost in the commotion to any observers.

  The increase in violence had another effect on the teams. The S3 had decided that two-man teams were getting to be too risky. So he decided to employ two teams together for better security. Gracie and Eli would set up their hide in one of two rooms on the north side of the building and Kierk and Oesper in one of three rooms on the south side. Besides providing mutual support should they become discovered, between them, this would give them much better coverage of the area.

  Gracie and Eli fell in with one of the fire teams as they cleared each room. This wasn’t merely putting up a good act. While they didn’t expect to find any people, each room was checked for booby-traps as well as scanning devices and detectors.