Focus, a Hit, and an Egress
Part 1: Focus, and the Hit
Somewhere in Southeast Asia, two weeks ago
Other than the occasional birdsong and the sounds of small animals moving through the brush, the silence was pervasive. The earthy scent of decay rose from the jungle floor on which I lay and the rotted log on which the forestock of my rifle rested.
Earlier, a drop of water from the foliage overhead fell to the web in front of my right thumb and trickled down over the back of my hand. My right index finger lay alongside the trigger well. The drop felt a little like a bug crawling on my skin.
My grey stocking cap was perfectly positioned. It pressed gently into my forehead a quarter-inch above my eyebrows. Around the sides it trapped the larger part of my ears against my temples. Sweat trickled from beneath it, tickling its way through the stubble on my cheeks.
The pointed tip of a broad green leaf encroached at the top of my field of vision. Occasionally it shifted slightly, but it never interrupted my view. The olive and black greasepaint on my eyelids and cheekbones stung a little but not enough to notice when I was focused.
In this job, it’s all about focus.
*
Brakes sounded. Six hundred yards away, bits and pieces of a stark black limo slowed dramatically. They sounded again a second later, and the bits stopped moving.
I released a breath, took another, released half, and lowered my head a fraction of an inch to align my right eye with the scope.
Not. Yet.
My right index finger remained alongside the trigger well, predicting the show.
The crosshair floated and steadied on the heat mirage rising above the limo. Through the mirage, the off-white plaster of the house and the tip of an elephant-ear leaf next to the entrance warped the slightest bit.
A thin cloud of dust from the limo wafted right to left, but it didn’t disturb the mirage.
And it wouldn’t conceal the target.
I released a breath, took another, released half, and counted down the target’s exit from the car. A thousand-one. A thousand-two. A thousand-thr—
A latch clicked and the top of the door swung out toward me, sunlight glinting sharply off the glass in an instant that arced into another instant.
Everything happens in instants.
The car springs compressed with the slightest squeak and the crosshair floated and a head and a face interrupted my view of the mirage.
Perfect.
I slipped my finger into the trigger well, focused on the face, and—
No. Not yet.
He wasn’t the target.
Sweat trickled through the stubble on my right cheek.
The springs compressed again and another squeak sounded.
The head, still facing left, nodded. The face smiled but said nothing.
The head and face moved left and forward, and the mirage was there again.
On the left, the head and face turned and reappeared, still not blocking the mirage. An arm in khaki cut below the crosshair and below the mirage and the lips moved.
In my ear, from the device I planted on the elephant ear tree the previous night: “Nguyen Tat Thanh, may I present General Tran Minh Long?”
That was the instant before the instant.
I released a breath, took another, released half, and slipped my finger into the trigger well.
A new head and a new face under a red-purple beret interrupted my view of the mirage.
Below the beret, the new face smiled and the right arm shifted and the right hand raised and the lips parted and—
I squeezed the trigger.
The rifle bucked and something angry slashed through the space above and below and between the leaves and—
The face warped and the head exploded.
Done.
But before I could get off the scope, blood flashed to the left left through the path of least resistance to splatter the host and the aide and flashed away through the mirage to angrily speckle the off-white plaster above the door and the elephant-ear leaf and— and sprayed away through the mirage to angrily speckle the off-white plaster and—
Part 2: The Stages of Egress
Stage 1
I was off the scope. I grabbed the expended cartridge casing in a fistful of dirt and rotted leaves, and some of that jammed under my fingernails. I rolled to the left and stopped behind a large bush and twisted around and crouched and sprang forward like a clock in March and—
Trotted silently into the jungle toward where my extraction team was waiting just under a half-kilometer away.
*
As I neared the smaller clearing that was just this side of the larger clearing that held the chopper I muttered “Go.”
Two people rose from their crossed ankles and sprang away hard like a pair of rheboks and I broke through the brush and I was right behind them.
Stage 2
Soon, one of those people, Jude Marshall, stopped next to the machine and slapped it with one hand and opened the smaller door and stepped up through it.
And the other of those people—Jade, a slender local female acquaintance of Jude of indeterminate age—and I dove through the cargo door and landed on all fours. I guess she knew as well as I remembered how fast Jude is. Well, she landed on all fours. I landed on three and the rifle.
Under the forestock of the rifle my fingers skinned on the black, gritty, non-slip deck of the chopper and the blades churned up and the chopper lifted off and Jude swung it in a wide arc and flew us south, staying just above the canopy because he’s really good at that and there’s no place better for a helicopter to hide.
In the loud, clattering cargo bay I got to my feet. I helped Jade to her feet with my free hand and her hand was soft and she was cute and maybe half my age but she smiled anyway and retained her grip on my hand as she dropped into the cargo net strung along the bulkhead behind the cargo door as if she belonged there. With one hand she gathered her long black hair against the wind whipping through the open door. With the other she clung to the wide seam of the net. A few strands of hair still slashed wildly at her forehead and cheeks. Her pretty smile remained.
With her safely stowed I nodded and gently extricated my hand. I sat in the other cargo net along the other bulkhead and lay the rifle across my lap and glanced at the back of those fingers. They weren’t skinned completely but only bruised and skinned a little. I laid that hand on the rifle again and busied myself listening to the rotor and looking at the deck.
Both Jade and I stayed where we were for the duration and that was good because moving around in a chopper with only two people in the back can be dangerous. Besides, it was a very short duration and Jude’s my friend.
About twenty minutes later Jude set the chopper down in a wide field.
Stage 3
I and then Jade hopped down and we strolled across the field almost nonchalantly except for the rifle in my left hand as Jude lifted off in the chopper again and veered away to the southwest, the grass whipping and tugging at our boots. Tall grass is a joyful, dancing thing, especially in a high wind. It has no patience for the faux gravitas of the human experience.
As we walked, Jade’s left hand and my right hand kept touching incidentally, so to avoid any confusion I finally shoved my right hand into my pocket and she smiled up at me and giggled and leaned slightly to the side, shoulder bumping me on my right elbow.
Then someone in a collection of huts to the right front barked an order in a language I don’t understand but I understood it probably came from a father.
Jade smiled shyly up at me and blushed and bowed her head, then tore away to the right front at a dead run and disappeared somewhere among the huts.
I regained my focus and continued toward a group of three things—two men straight ahead and, off to one side, a dark blue four-door sedan—and with Jude’s friend gone I walked a little faster.
As I approached the group, I tossed the rifle to a small, slender man in a flattened bullet-point straw hat and a loose black half-sleeved tunic and black pajama bottoms and bamboo flip-flop sandals.
He caught the rifle, smiled, and bowed his head slightly. Then he crouched next to a white enameled steel bucket with a plain wire bail and rusted places around the rim where the enamel had chipped away and he squeezed something, his little forearm going tense. As he straightened he tossed me a wet cloth in exchange for the rifle. Then with his free hand, he gestured toward his face with a vertical wiping motion.
As I nodded and said “Thanks” a mischievous look passed through his eyes and he grinned with red teeth and spat a long stream of betelnut juice to one side and chuckled.
The thick stream landed near the bamboo-sandaled feet of another little guy in the same garb. He flinched and scowled at the first man, then smiled at me and bowed his head slightly. He gestured to his right, then started in that direction himself, touching my right elbow twice with his left hand along the way as he guided me toward the back right passenger door of the car. At the last, he raced a few steps ahead and opened the door for me as if anxious for me to leave. After I hooked my fingers over the roof and slipped inside, he closed the door and bowed his head again and the car pulled away.
I started wiping the greasepaint from my face with the damp cloth. It took more than a few passes.
*
A little over two hours later the driver stopped the car in the loading-unloading zone of a major airport.
As I pulled on the door handle and swung my legs out, the driver’s seat complained quietly as he twisted around in his seat. He tapped me on the back with the edge of the rounded corner of something solid.
I looked over my left shoulder with my eyebrows arched.
“Don’ fo’ge’ these ones.” He handed me my wallet and my passport.
Other than the quick “Hey Sam, how’s tricks?” that accompanied a handshake from Jude two days earlier those were the first words I’d heard other than my own that I could understand.
"Thanks." I nodded and smiled and got out and closed the door and stepped up on the sidewalk and the car pulled away.
I strolled into the terminal.
Stage 4
People were everywhere at kiosks and in queues and on escalators moving up and down and on the floor in a chattering, noisy din, all milling about and doing their best to avoid running into each other. A few silent Caucasians and Blacks and several quiet, polite Chinese or Japanese or Korean people were scattered among the chatterers, a sea of what I’ve always recognized as Southeast Asians.
My head was on a swivel as I watched for my next contact. I only knew it would be a male or a female and human.
Out of the crowd a man in an official-looking belted khaki uniform with a billed cap made the briefest eye contact, then bumped into me, bowed his head, and handed me a light olive-green duffel bag. The fingers of his other hand flexed to ensure my fingers were wrapped around the grip and then he released it and disappeared into the outgoing crowd.
I turned around in time to watch the saucer of his cap float through the terminal door and out to the sidewalk. He didn’t look back as he stepped to the curb, hailed a cab, and slid in onto the back seat.
When the cab pulled away I carried the bag into the men’s room.
One other man, tall for the region at around 5’9” and in sandals, jeans, and a colorful Hawaiian shirt had just dried his hands. He scored 2 on a shot from about ten feet into the shiny rectangular trash receptacle, then turned, smiled, bowed his head, and sidestepped to avoid brushing against me as he passed.
As the door thudded shut behind him I went to a sink, set the bag on the next sink over, and scrubbed my hands and forearms for gunshot residue just in case. The skinned fingers weren’t as bad as I’d thought. I pried the remaining grit out from under my fingernails with my other fingernails and watched it all wash down the drain, then shut off the water and pulled off the stocking cap and checked my reflection.
No greasepaint remained, but the sweat was layered in a thick sheen.
I shoved the damp cloth into the pocket of my camouflage pants, pulled a paper towel from the dispenser, ran water on it from the tap, squeezed it out, and wiped my forehead, the bridge of my nose, my eyelids and my cheeks and throat and the back of my neck.
Then I shut off the tap again and carried the bag into a stall. I fished the spent .308 casing from my pocket, wrapped it in the soggy paper towel, and flushed the whole thing. I sat down, unlaced and took off my boots, then stood up and traded the stocking cap and the cammies for the jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt and a thin black leather jacket that were in the bag.
Everything fit as if I’d bought it for myself. I slipped my wallet into one hip pocket and my passport into the other. No belt, but you can’t have everything. I zipped the bag shut, wedged it between the toilet and the wall, put on my boots and laced them up again, and stepped out of the stall.
At the sink again I eyed the guy in the mirror. My scalp was a little sore from the watch cap, but I brushed a little of my hair to one side and called it good enough.
As I pulled open the door another man was reaching to push it open and he stopped and smiled and bowed his head and for once I had time to respond in kind and then I walked out of the men’s room.
I was almost late to the security checkpoint, but at least there was no queue. I was good with that.
I put my wallet into the little plastic box and opened my passport to the photo and held it up below my smile.
Instead of wanding me the guy met my gaze, then gestured to his right and averted his gaze to the floor. “You shou’ go, man. You mi’ miss you’ fli’.”
Another contact?
I did go, and I didn’t miss anything.
I still don’t.
Stage 5
An eighteen hour flight got me to Anchorage and a U. S. Customs officer to whom I had absolutely nothing to declare, least of all my undying devotion to or willingness to abide stupid questions like his muttered, “U. S. citizen?” while he was eyeing my actual passport, which had already declared on my behalf that yes, I was a U. S. citizen.
But then, I don’t have undying devotion to anything I can’t put up to my shoulder and shoot or slip into my bank account. So rather than averring anything aloud, in my derision I only rolled my eyes and nodded.
Various people including the Customs officer eyed me a little because they all knew how long the flight was for the plane I’d just left and unlike all the seabag-toting Marines and sailors and a few other civilians in the queue who had answered his question vocally I wasn’t carrying so much as a shaving kit. But I’m not the kind who’s bothered much by a look.
As the only blond boy in an all-male orphanage from the age of two I’d learned early to ignore looks even when ignoring them earned me a beating. I don’t answer questions that don’t deserve an answer. I’m stubborn that way. I’m nobody else’s business.
All the Customs guy could do was glance at my passport and ask me a few other questions, which he didn’t, and wonder what was really going on, which the look in his eyes told me he definitely did. Of course, he didn’t ask me that. Nobody ever asks any potential assailant what’s really going on until it’s too late. And Too Late wouldn’t come for him or any of them that day, at least not at my hand.
Oh, and I guess he might’ve wanded me too if he took a mind to do that, but if he did he would find nothing.
So I figured all of that was his problem and I got through Customs fine and he didn’t wand me anyway.
I found an uncomfortable chair at my next gate and waited a little over an hour, and less than seven hours after that my second flight put me down in Salt Lake City. A half-hour later I was in the shower in my apartment. The back of the fingers on my right hand stung a little but soon I was clean again.
*******
Author Note
“Focus, a Hit, and the Stages of Egress” is derived from the novel Blackwell Ops 42: Sam Granger.
About the Author
Harvey Stanbrough was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas and baked in Arizona. For a time, he wrote under five personas and several pseudonyms, but he takes a pill for that now and writes only under his own name. Mostly.
Harvey is an award-winning writer who has written and published over 110 novels, 10 novellas, and over 290 short stories. He has also written 19 nonfiction books on writing, 9 of which are free to other writers. And he’s compiled and published 5 omnibus novel collections, 29 collections of short fiction, and 5 critically acclaimed poetry collections.
These days, the vendors through which Harvey licenses his works do not allow URLs in the back matter. To see his other works, please key “StoneThread Publishing” or “Harvey Stanbrough” into your favorite search engine.
Finally, for his best advice on writing, look for “The New Daily Journal | Harvey Stanbrough | Substack.”