Terminal Impact

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Eight, seven, six. The second hand on Jack Valentine’s watch ticked.

Five… “Snuggle into the rifle, Jack. Like she’s the woman you love. Yeah, baby. Breathe. Relax.”

Four… “Close your eyes, bro. That’s it. Go inside the bubble.”

Three… “Now open up. Natural point of aim. Solid. Center mass.”

Two… “Focus. Crosshairs sharp, clear. Target fuzzy.”

One… “Hold that half breath. Ease the trigger roll. Squeeze.”

Burlap fringe from his Ghillie-suit bonnet tickled Jack Valentine’s face as a dry January breeze rustled the fuzzy strips of light green, dark green, and various shades of brown camouflage tied on netting that hid his face. Slowly, careful to not rustle the growth of dry dead foliage that hid him, he eased his fingers up and gave his itching cheek a rub.

The newly promoted Marine corporal and his spotter partner, Staff Sergeant Walter Gillespie, affectionately known as Hacksaw, likewise Ghillied up, lay tucked beneath a weed crop on the raised border of a set of long and narrow farm fields. From this hide, they watched the main entrance of what appeared to be a Republican Guard command center, across a highway, nearly a thousand yards ahead of them.

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