Marine Gunnery Sergeant Charles Jackson waited for the signal to take his shot. Squatted with his rump nearly on the ground, his modified .308 rifle held steady in his hands, elbows firmly planted on his knees. GSGT Jackson held his position as he had for the past 7 hours.
Hearing the difference in sound in his Tac Comm device, he waited for the coordinates, and the okay.
The whispered voice of Staff Sergeant McEvoy sounded loud in his ears, “White Down one, White Down one, I have contact at … delta zulu one one four niner seven niner five one, target has ceased forward movement.”
“Confirm, delta zulu one one four niner seven niner five one.” Jackson ordered.
“Aye,” came the whispered response, “…confirm…. delta zulu one one four niner seven niner five one. Fire at will.”
GSGT Jackson put his eye to the long range scope, feeling the breeze on his neck, adjusting his sites for the 900 yard shot. ‘There you are, Osama…’ Jackson exhaled, and squeezed the trigger, noting with quiet satisfaction when his bullet hit the mark, just at the base of the cranium, exiting the top of the skull.
“Red Dog one, move into contact position and confirm hit.”
McEvoy quietly moved to the target’s location, and called back, “White Down one, confirmed, target down. Good shot.”
GSGT Jackson walked over to the target’s position.
McEvoy grinned at him, “I don’t think this dummy is going anywhere, but into a box.”
Jackson snickered, “Shut up, man. Load it up, let’s get back to base.”
Staff Sergeant McEvoy carried the target dummy back to the HMMWV.
They drove back to the Marine base in silence.