Free Kill Zone: A Sniper Novel by Jack Coughlin, Donald A. Davis Page B

moving closer by the minute. Dismounted Iraqi troops hustled around the vehicles, darting like a swarm of ants going after a picnic basket as they cleared the abandoned houses. The spotter called in radio reports while Swanson ran a final check of his rifle, ammo clips, the clackers for the Claymore mines, and grenades.
    To try to leave would be suicide; a tank and the supporting infantry would make quick work of anyone they saw. Swanson glassed potential targets with his scope, and his mouth watered with anticipation. Behind the troops coming into the town there were guys riding atop the vehicles, talking in groups and moving in the open, lacking discipline as they pressed forward, for they expected no opposition. Careless ants. He put the crosshairs on an officer wearing a red beret and standing in the turret of a tank, gripping a handle so he could get a better view of Khafji. He had a big thick mustache, a pressed uniform, and a pistol on a polished belt of brown leather. Kyle thought: He’s mine.
    “Mike Tango three niner, this is Hunter One. Fire mission. Over.” The spotter had headquarters on the net and was quietly lining up an artillery strike. He pinned his finger on an exact spot on the plastic-covered map folded before him. “Grid. Six two niner four. Niner eight seven six. Direction: five niner one one. Twenty to thirty Iraqi tanks and APCs in the open. Fire for effect.”
    Swanson tracked the officer, waiting for a sound louder than that of his rifle. The first 155 mm artillery rounds came in like loud zippers in the sky, and when they exploded, throwing dirt and debris into big mushrooms of destruction, he finished squeezing the trigger. His bullet took the Iraqi officer in the throat and knocked him from the tank. Soldiers were scrambling for cover and paid no attention to the fallen officer, thinking he had been hit by the artillery. Kyle fed a fresh round into his rifle and looked for a new target, found one, and waited for another big round to explode and mask his shot.
    The Iraqis opened up with everything they had, shooting wild. There was no enemy visible, but the artillery salvo had been so precise, it was obvious that someone was watching them. Their entire line surged forward, firing as they came, and violent explosions blew walls apart. The soldiers rushed to find shelter from the artillery, and Swanson and his spotter shrank back into the shadowy hide. A squad of Iraqi infantrymen ran into the main floor of the small building for cover. One came up to the second floor but could not see them between the floorboards, and stomped back downstairs to the rest of the squad, which moved on to clear another building. “Sloppy,” Kyle whispered.
    The Iraqi tanks and armored personnel carriers prowled the streets, unleashing cannon and machine-gun fire on anything suspicious, and small-arms fire rattled on both sides and to the rear of the observation team. The bad guys had the town, and Kyle, his spotter, and the other Marines were trapped inside it.
    The situation was beyond serious, and Swanson made the decision without conscious thought. If they were going to survive, they needed help in a hurry, because those enemy soldiers soon would be prowling about in a more thorough search for the observation teams. He grabbed his spotter by the shoulder. “Call Broken Arrow!”
    The emergency signal meant that U.S. forces were being overrun. Every warplane in the sky that morning diverted immediately from its mission and accelerated toward Khafji, afterburners thundering to pour on more speed. The spotter started guiding them in, while other OP lookouts adjusted the artillery strikes. Nearby buildings vaporized with concussion blasts that shook them like a couple of gerbils in a cage.
    Swanson cleared away debris that fell in the front of their hide and got back to work, taking targets of opportunity whenever an artillery round came in or a plane made a bombing run.
    It was all now in slow motion. The