"...And the Heavens come crashing around me!"

Note: This a story I started on Pandy. I decided to post it here as well. Enjoy.


Start of I.

I sat perfectly motionless in the gritty sands of the Afghan desert, covered by my ghillie suit which was covered in some shrubery and foliage I managed to gather upon our insertion. I had been laying in this same position for 78 hours, like a Cobra waiting for its next victim. Looking down the scope on my AW Super Magnum, I spotted my intended target; a local Taliban warlord. "Now is not the time to strike," my Spotter reminded me. His voice made me jump, as he had said nothing for the entire stint we had been laying here.

The sun was begining to rise overhead; a glare of hope in such a foreboding enviroment. I worked the bolt on the AW and removed the solitary round I had in the chamber; a .338 Lapua, more than enough to ensure that my target would be little more than a splatter of crimson on the scorching sands. Inserting the round back into the weapon, I motioned to my Spotter. "You should probally check the northwest sector, it might cause us some trouble," and the trouble came in the form of an MG mounted pickup truck. We had neither the ammo nor the proper equipment to attack the Technical, we just prayed that it wouldn't discover us when we extract from the operations area.

Already high overhead, we were feeling the full extent of the sun, almost an scorching 110 degrees. I slung our canteen off of the pouch of supplies we were sent with, which contained things such as a map, extra ammo, flares, and the like. Returning my focus to the canteen, I took a long, hearty swig and then offered some to my Spotter. He declined, and I re-attatched it to the supply pouch.

This really was one hell of a place. No trees, no shade, very little inhabited areas...
I must've been glancing around or moving, for my Spotter struck me sharply across the back and hissed, "Focus! Do not let it get to you, nap if you must, I'll keep watch."
A nap sounded good, and God knows I would need it. I always got nervous before "taking the shot". I've shot at least 35 people in my career, and each one sends me over the edge even more so than the last. Perhaps somewhere in my subconcious I didn't really want to do this, or something like that. My Spotter explained it as such; I consulted him about it recently. Finally done contemplating, I drifted into a light slumber.

When I arose, the sun had gone down and it was considerably cooler. "Just over 15 minutes until our target is supposed to arrive. Be ready." Heh, if he only knew, I thought. "Target will be a Afghan. 6'3, wearing a red beret and avaitor glasses. Terminate with extreme prejudice." I read from the operation instructions, hoping to gather some final strength. "Target Spotted."

The internal saftey-cache spun, making a slight "ping" sound. My rifle would seal the fate of this man. The thermal-imaging scope slid on and produced a low, calming, humming noise. The night was now day. The bullet fit snugly into the chamber, a perfect pair. All of this happened in a matter of seconds before I head "Target Spotted".

My heart skipped a few beats. I zoomed downrange to see our target arrive in a lavish BMW sport utility vehicle. I felt rage against him for having a single posession that costs more than what a single Afghan village earns in their lifetime. "Such a waste that it will soon have no owner..." "What the hell are you talking about?" muttered my Spotter. "Oh, nothing..."

The man stepped out and was greeted by fellow warlords. They proceded to a small tent that was lit by a single lantern; whose flame flickered with every gust of wind.
All of the men stepped inside, now hidden by their silhouettes. I was able to keep the target in sight however, only due to his beret. "Thank God for his sense of fashion."

"You have permission to fire when ready." my Spotter whispered. My heart was beating in my chest like a caged animal, frantic to escape. I do a final check of my rifle, and begin to pull the trigger, anticipating the resounding report of my weapon, but a distant "crack" interrupts me. At first, I ignore it, but then a strange sensation from my shoulder causes me to pause. I see a growing puddle of scarlet around my shoulder and neck, and for the final 15 seconds of my conciousness, I can only gather this; Oh my God, I've been shot....

End of I.

Start of II.

I awoke in a small and filthy room. At first, I didn't feel the pain in my shoulder, then it came to me all at once. I attempted to stand up, but the pain consumed me and I staggered and fell to the cold flooring. I blacked out again, unable to fight the pain.

The second time I regained conciousness, a figure was standing over me, it's features shielded by the darkness. Then suddenly, blinding fluorescent lights came on from all sides of the room. I was in the process of standing up, and the sudden flash sent me reeling to the floor yet again.

"Would you like to explain what happened out there?", said the figure in near-perfect English. Not quite what you'd expect in some Afghan prison. The first thing I noticed about the man was his red beret. "It's....you." I gasped. I was at the mercy of my target. "The hunter has become the prey, so it seems." he responded. If I wasn't afraid of being killed, this man seemed quite interesting. "Oh where to start! You were a Marine sniper, but you sustained an injury that cost you your career- you lost your right hand, your sniping hand." That was the one thing I didn't bring up often; my hand. Actually, I was left-handed, but the Medical Assesment team didn't care. At that time, prostetic hands were in short supply, and the ones that they had we reserved for more "Important" soldiers. I was honorably discharged from service.

Once I returned home, I got a prostetic. I continued sniping, entering and winning many Marksmanship competitions. I was contacted by the CIA and US SOCOM, and the rest has led me here.

"Seems as if you were an expendable asset.." he growled. "I...am the....best sniper they have." "Ah, you mean "was" and "had.". He made it sound like he had already killed me.

"You will not leave here alive, American." I was determined otherwise. "I don't think so!" I lunged forward and tackled him, sending him crashing into a nearby table. The table burst into tiny fragments after taking the weight of both of us. "Bad...MOVE!", he howled, and with one move, he threw me off and away from me. I was stunned for a few seconds, but it was soon gone, most likely because he was beating me to a pulp. Each fist that connected with flesh brought the fog back into my mind. I'm dying... I realized. His final punch knocked me out, and I'm glad it did.

Awakening for the third time in this hellish room, I was getting tired of history repeating itself. Soon, I noticed the leather straps binding me to the table. I struggled in them, but that only caused them to become tighter. "They're very strong, unlike you." I hated this man with passion that no words could describe well enough.

"You WILL NOT leave here alive, AMERICAN!" he screamed, spraying a combination of blood and saliva into my face. "Niether will you, AFGHAN!" I returned the banter. He started beating me again, and I accepted the pain. I had no reason left to fight. I was going to die at the hands of this Afghan man, thousands of miles away from home.

I had no plans of it ending this way, but it appeared it was going to. "What is yout name?" I asked. "What? Why would it concern you now? Fine, it's Ajeem Ahzmivar, happy?" Oh God...I am so dead. "Ajeem 'Baby-Bomber' Ahzmivar?" I asked. "Yes, if you belive the Comminust media of the Americans, which you would, considering you are one!" he spat. "So, you're dening the bombings of the three child care centers in America?!" I sounded half-crazed. I was talking to a baby-murderer who denied all accusations of the event, when he himself made it public recently that he "claimed full and total responsibility". Hell, some people are insane.

At that moment, a searing pain went through my shoulder, then I realised what it was. Ahzmivar was sticking a bullet into my wound. He had removed the bandaging. The stinging sensation left me in agony, screaming like a madman. "YES, FEEL THE PAIN! SCREAM! FEEL THE PAIN!" Somehow, my writhering had been loosening the bonds that held me. A little me and I would be free.

He removed the bullet, and produced a small handgun, which he loaded the blood-covered bullet into. "Now, you will die!". He cocked the hammer and raised the pistol. He backed up about three or four feet, saying he "Shouldn't bother getting himself any messier." His finger was right on the trigger when a resounding clap went off behind him, causing his aim to falter and dropping the gun, and firing it in the process.

I could only stare in awe in who was in the doorway. It was my Spotter.

End of II.

Start of III.

My spotter lashed out, grappling with Ahzmivar. I took the chance to grab Ahzmivar from behind, which I did, and after a short struggle, snapped his neck. "Target neutralized." was all I could mutter. I collapsed again, the pain to immense. "Can you fight?" My Spotter asked me. "Yeah, but how in the Hell are we going to get through this compound if I can hardly stand?" "Leave that to me." My partners were different each mission, it was to "keep a bond from forming". This man just saved my life, and I'm not supposed to make any connection to him? I wish the paper-shufflers who make these rules up were in my position right about now. My Spotter left the room, returning shortly. "I've got a disguise here. I'll don it, load you onto a cart as if you were killed in interrogation, and we'll get to the exit of the compound, making a few stops along the way, if you catch my drift..." "Sounds good to me." I replied.

Soon thereafter, I was loaded onto a cart and given a special pill. It released a toxin into the body that stops all internal organ functions. There was also a revival pill, which would restart my organs, provided it was taken within an hour of the original pill. It would leave me feeling quite ill, but concious, just..."dead". Science is a funny business.

"So far so good, none of the guards have taken any notice." "Good, let's keep it that way." I murmered out of the side of my mouth. We stopped at the armory, where things began to go wrong. Stepping inside to grab our confiscated weapons, along with some others, my Spotter left me outside the doorway. My cart was blocking the hallway, which caused problems for a guard trying to get down said hallway. I heard him yell in Arabic to another guard just down the hallway "Hey, they missed this corpse. take care of it, will you?" The sound of footfalls soon reached me, and I was being wheeled away by someone definitly NOT my Spotter, little did I know. I figured that he'd heard to commotion and came rusing from the armory.

The man smelt of chewing Tobacco, and was whistling, but it sounded quite hollow, as if he was missing multiple teeth.I began to suspect that it wasn't my Spotter, but it could just be part of the ruse. The mechanical woosh of a keypad door opened greeted me, along with the sickly-sweet smell of disenfectant. I realized I was in the mourge. Hearing the man walk over and close the door behind us, I sat up, confident that my Spotter had a disguise for me. I fumbled with the second half of the pill

When the man turned around, he was shocked to notice that the "corpse" he had been attending to was now standing upright. He stood petrified, uttering not a single cry before his death. I lunged forward and gaulged his eyes out with my thumbs. I groped for a nearby sheet, covering the man with it. I wiped my fingers off on my uniform, just adding more blood to them. Observing the room I was in, I suddenly realized I was infact locked in. I'd have to find some way out, and fast.

The keypad code was the only thing stopping me from getting out of here. I looked around, searching for something to measure temperature. Luckily, this was a mourge, so they usually need some form of tool to project temperatures. It just so happened that the tool came in the embodiment of Heat Vision Goggles. "Ok, lets see. Coldest number is the first digit and so forth..." I figured out the code, which was 14598.

The door slid back into the wall, the mechanical woosh following it again. I rounded the corner heading back toward the armory, but I soon scampered back around it. My Spotter was playing "Twenty Questions" with some guards, who didn't look too particular happy about him walking off with some weapons.

I re-entered the door code yet again, walked back into the mourge, and feeling weak again, found some muscle stimulants. I stuck the syringes into my arm, the strength coming back to me slowly. I snatched a pistol from the guard I mauled and returned to the corner of the hallway. The guards were turned away, so I positioned myself about fifteen feet away from them. My Spotter glanced at me and I motioned to the guard on his left, signaling him to take him out. He slashed out at the throught with a concealed knife, while I shot the other in the back of the head. The both drop to the floor, blood gushing from their wounds.

I walk toward him, casually stepping over the bodies. "I think its time we make ourselves scarce, don't you agree?" He handed me my AWSM and Px4 and we proceded down the corridor.

Start of IV.



We continued down the hallway, still undetected. We came to a keycard door, which we assumed that the guards we just mopped up had the card. "I'll go back and get it." I said, trotting back to the armory. I groped around on the corpses until I found the card, along with what looked like vehicle keys. I also noticed some C4 and RPG's sitting just inside the armory, apparantly my Spotter missed them. I heave the items over my shoulder and return to him. We were still disguised, so resistance should be light. As much as I wanted to clean up this whole complex, our orders were to kill as few people as possible, save for the target.

We got back to the door, swiped the card, and walked right through. A little farther down the hallway, we heard alot of commotion, it sounded like a whole convention of Taliban in here. Sneaking a glance through the crack of the open door, we saw that they were in a briefing; unaware of their leader's demise a short time ago. I set a motion sensor on the door, alerting me once they start leaving. I noticed a airvent nearby, and I found my way of eliminating all of the hostiles in this complex.

I motioned to my Spotter. "Hey, check it. An airvent." "Yeah, so?" "So? We can go drop a knockout gas grenade in the ventalation system." "Which will kill them, as KO gas in large levels causes organ failure, am I correct?" he added. "Precisely!" I said with vigor. "Lets get moving then."

There was a whole mess of rooms down here, or up here, or wherever the hell we were, I hadn't seen a window this whole time. Code doors were everywhere, along with card doors, so we didn't have time to stray from our objective. Luckily, the signs on the door were in a dialect of Arabic that both of us could understand, so we didn't have to force every door. We found the door labled "Circulatory Systems Control" and entered. Apparantly, it wasn't considered a threat, so there was no Keypad, not even a lock. Stepping inside, it was little more than a closet-sized room, a breaker-box on the wall, and the vents themselves. I stepped over to the vent, pulled the pin on a Fentynel CO2 grenade, and popped it into the fans. You could smell it instantly, it smelt like rotten eggs. We slid re-breathers over our faces and continued on our way.


Soon thereafter, we reached a set of double-doors, both of which had a retinal scanner attatched to it. Two guards in heavy armor stood there blocking the way. They mumbled something about how we looked suspicious, and next thing I knew, there was an alarm blaring. I whipped out my Px4 and opened fire, dropping one of them with a volley of nine-millimeter fire. My spotter shot the other with his M4 SOPMOD, sending him flying against the wall with a thud. He attempted to get back up, still clinging to life, but I stabbed him with my bayonet as I dashed by. "Ok, everything's going to hell in a handba-" Before I could finish my metaphor, a squad of Taliban busted through another set of doors ahead. I dived behind a table and lobbed a grenade over it, hoping that it would scare the **** out of the Taliban long enough for me to get to better cover, and for them to realise I didn't pull the pin. They scattered, bashing through doors and each other to dive away from the inactive grenade. The ones that were brave enough to stay were peppered by a combination of SMG and rifle fire.

After clearing the rest of the troops, we busted out the front doors, only to be greeted with a nasty suprise. Fifteen tons of steel and ammo; a Apache Gunship.
The last thing I remeber my Spotter saying was "HOW THE **** DID THEY GET A GOD**** GUNSHIP?" before we went scrambling for cover, minigun rounds kicking up the dirt.

I'd probably be more sound if you gave people time in between chapters to respond.

He already wrote this story. He is just posting all of it here. And I'd rather have more chapters than more time for people to post.