By Brian Sallee

It was a hot day. And though it wasn't any different from the usual in southeastern Iraq, it made a sniper's job tough to do. He remembered a briefing he had read earlier.

"Prolonged temperatures can affect the human body in ways that can cause paranoia, emotional outbursts, hallucinations, and trembling of appendages."

Not that he was experiencing those things right now, but he had been out there for the past three days. He and his spotter would remain - as always - silent, invisible, and lethal. This time, however, there was an ambush on an enemy caravan that would be passing through hopefully soon.

They had set out from a town nearby early in the morning that had other caravans passing through for the past 72 hours, which made it difficult for the assault teams to get into position. He looked off the ledge and saw the assault team below waiting for his signal. According to the plan, there were two assault teams waiting that were armed with RPGs and AK-47s (so that anyone coming across the scene would not think that it was an “allied effort" but rather a tribal ordeal) that would spring upon the approaching caravan after the first shot was fired from the sniper team. Fairly simple but still plenty of room for error.

The timing of it all counted on stopping the first vehicle in the caravan, which needed to stop within a 30 yard distance in the valley so that it would create the bottleneck necessary to carry out the operation. The shot itself was tougher than normal. The caravan was moving at about 40 miles an hour, which in the desert was fairly fast. Cars at that speed were very much liable to "spin out" which gave an indication that the caravan was carrying an important passenger. His spotter whispered to him, saying that the caravan would be in range in close to five minutes, information gathered from sensors that had been planted along the main route the caravans had been taking over the past three days. Hopefully this would all go according to plan. Though there had been a few a few snags over the past couple days, the assault team had narrowly escaped detection. Caravans had sometimes stopped and looked around the possible bottleneck, and the intended target had been lackadaisical about leaving its compound. But there were worse things that could have happened.

4:45 to go time. He looked down at his cigarettes, reached for one, and lit it. He took a drag and felt the nicotine in his veins. He felt the exhaustion leave his body, and his hands became still. He felt a pang of regret course through his mind. He told her he had stopped. He had said he'd try to quit.

Another drag.

He took the cigarette out of his mouth and snuffed it out while taking a look around both sides of the cliffs. Both teams were in position. He had the .50 cal rifle with the explosive round, an antipersonnel rifle, and an M4A1 should things get ugly.

2:13 to go time. He could see the dust from the vehicles from about two miles out. It would happen soon enough. He checked with the spotter to make sure that everyone was in place. The spotter told him everything was correct. The dust moved closer and closer as the mechanical beasts became larger and larger. A pang of nervousness shot through his body. His hands started shaking. He took three quick breaths to still his mind and body. His hands quit shaking and his mind returned to a state of tranquility.

0:39 seconds to go time. He grabbed the rifle and steadied it against his shoulder. They were almost in range; it wouldn't be much longer until he took the shot. 5 seconds...he drew in his breath and exhaled. His hands were steady like an oak tree; his mind was silent and sharp like a blade. He looked down the scope, aimed where the engine would be in that particular vehicle and squeezed the trigger.

Silence.

He heard the firing pin click and hit the detonator cap of the bullet as an explosion of sound pulsed against his shoulder. He looked down and saw that the slug had hit the engine and exploded exactly like it was supposed to. The echo came bouncing back off the cliff walls as the vehicle spun out in the sand and flipped. The other vehicles stopped and men started jumping out of the cars with guns ready, running back to protect the target. The two teams came out exactly as planned. He saw the trails from the RPGs streaking towards the vehicles and shattered remains. There was still automatic weapon fire being heard, but it would seem that the opposing force was already pacified. He grabbed his antipersonnel rifle and looked down the scope looking for any last targets that might have been untouched from the barrage of bullets and scathing rocket blasts. Then he saw him, their intended target, the man that this entire operation had been set up for.

There was music in the air. He was smoking a cigar, enjoying the protection that his convoy had provided. There was still another hour to go, but it would be a pleasant ride. All of the sudden, he heard the sound of a thousand jinn screaming in horror as his vehicle had stopped and started to spin out and roll. His cigar landed in the palm of his hand causing excruciating pain and torment. He heard the sounds of automatic weapon fire as hell unleashed about him. He crawled out of the vehicle only to see rocket propelled grenades obliterate his bodyguards.

So many children without a father.

He looked up to the top of the cliff where he saw a glare from a scope lens and stared his killer down. There would be no escape, no renegade general to help him make his exodus. He took a breath and screamed, "ALLAH U AKABAR!" And then there was darkness.

He looked down at the target, seeing him look fully at him. He saw him take a breath and scream his last words. He took a breath, steadily exhaled and squeezed the trigger once more. A vapor trail led straight to the man's chest.

He was done, tired of taking lives in the name of democracy, tired of what he had been sent to do. He waited for the chopper and lit another cigarette. He took another drag, contemplating all that had happened. His mind silenced as the nicotine invaded his being. The chopper had finally come down to them, and he got in. He looked down at the smoldering stick of tobacco, paper, and ash and threw it out of the chopper.

He told her he'd quit. He said that he hated them (and he truly did). He looked down at the cardstock pack; he held it remembering all he had said and all he had done. He accidentally dropped the pack, and as he stared at it, he remembered that he was going home.

This was the last time - Lord willing - that he would ever have to fire another shot at another human being. He could go back working for his dad at the shop. He looked down again at the pack, took a steady breath, exhaled and slid it out of the chopper with his foot. He was done killing himself and others. He was going home. There wouldn't be the invasion of faces, of smoke, or of war. The chopper landed at the base and he saw body bags of several men that had died in the operation.

So many children without a father.

He turned in his weapons and gathered his things. Home was just seventy-two hours away. He took a steady breath, exhaled and got onto another chopper that would be taking him and several other men away from the dire edges of human depravity. There was closure. Soon he would return to his comfortable life, telling his children and other's children about the horrors that had been committed in the preservation of freedom for not only them but others as well. He'd tell of the children's fathers who had given their lives selflessly in the name of human decency. There was a greater operation to undertake, one that he wholly intended on completing - not a war to end all wars, but a love to pacify war.

Brian Sallee is a 20-year-old business major at Dallas Baptist University. Aside from writing short stories, he enjoys talking about philosophy as well as theology, reading and hanging out with friends.