"The Sniper" by Adam Carlton

 

From ChatGPT

1: The Ghosts in the Canteen

“The canteen was always a place of chatter,” he said, “the voices of the squaddies bouncing off the cold, concrete walls. But there was one corner where no-one dared to sit. That was where the snipers hung out. They were apart, not just physically but in spirit, too. We troopers had been drafted into the war, acting under orders, just desperate to repel the enemy and to survive. But the snipers? They had chosen their path voluntarily, electing to murder with surgical precision.”

I remembered my grandfather’s words. 

“They volunteered,” my grandfather repeated, his eyes clouded by memories. “They saw themselves as something else.”

That was the first lesson. A sniper is never quite like other men.

2: Cairo

The rooftop is silent now, a few bodies strewn across the flat roof, motionless in the midday sun, already gathering flies. The Egyptian army guards stationed here are no longer a threat. We made sure of that. My commander, a hulking, casually-brutal presence, kneels beside me, scanning the horizon through his telescope. I lie prone behind the low edge-wall, my rifle resting on its bipod, the scope fixed on the balcony 700 metres away.

The American diplomat will be out any minute now, clutching his coffee and briefing papers. I recall the routine - down to the moment when he’ll gaze across the city, basking in the sun’s warmth. An easy shot.

Our fall guy, the senior guard, lies propped alongside me surrounded by jihadi leaflets, his weapon identical to mine. There have been so many rumours of ISIS penetration of the Egyptian military.

The Americans will come fast. We budget less than a minute to abseil from this roof - ropes already tied around the rebars jutting from the surface here - down to the street and away; jihadis would not be as efficient. Thirty minutes from now we'll be en route to our carrier waiting in the Med. My hands move instinctively, recalculating offsets for wind and distance, checking the calibration of the sight.

The balcony is still empty.

3: The Doctor and the Sniper

It was in training, during one of the psych evaluations, that they asked me the question. The psychologist - a thin man with nervous energy and a bow tie that seemed out of place in such grim surroundings - sat across from me. He leaned forward, adjusting his thick glasses, searching for something in my face.

“What do you think about when you centre the target in the crosshairs?” he asked, “What are your thoughts when you pull the trigger?”

I knew what he was looking for - some deep, dark, Freudian motivation. But for me it was simple. 

“They’re not a person,” I said. “Just a badly-functioning meat-bag, a defective system. I get to deliver the cure.”

The psychologist scribbled something in his notes.

“You’re like a doctor, then?”

I glanced at my own hands, rough and calloused - and thought of my sleek sniper rifle.

“No,” I said, my voice low, “I’m a warrior.”

The bow tie flicked slightly as he nodded, but his pen didn't stop.

4: Paris in the Spring

The things we think about as we wait… my mind turns to Paris, years ago. I was stationed as close protection for our delegation at some diplomatic event. We had finally retired to the hotel. It was the early hours of the morning and I found myself in the late-night bar, a few of my colleagues still lingering over their drinks, bleary-eyed, much the worse for wear. And there she was: long red hair, a white dress, heels - elegant and composed. Our eyes met across the room. One look - and a world changes.

The professors probably have it dialled: ‘love at first sight, the limbic system has its reasons, pair-bonding is not cognitive…’. All I know is that at that moment we knew each other completely, as if we had been together our entire lives. She approved of me without reservation. More than that she was driven: a compulsion to approach, touch and hold.

As was I.

I nodded towards the bar and she languidly rose from her seat and glided across to join me. Her companions, tired themselves, briefly glanced our way… and ignored us.

“Salut, - moi, c'est Martine,” she breathed, resting her hand on my arm. I knew some French and was able to reply. But she was not French.

I nodded towards the door, and she followed. Outside, Paris was asleep, the city bathed in the soft glow of street lamps. We crossed the road, hand in hand, to the park, a secluded glade; no words needed.

Our bodies engulfed each other - at that moment nothing else existed. Afterwards, we held each other in silence. And then, with a muffled, sad murmur, she walked away, back to the hotel, never to meet with me again. 

Time may heal the wounds of desolation; it can never obliterate the warmth.

5: Cairo

Wayward thoughts judder back to reality: the blazing sun of Cairo, flies buzzing around my face. My scope is still trained on the balcony, rock solid; I’m trained to hold this posture for many minutes. The American diplomat will emerge any second and I will take the shot.

A curtain pulls aside,a glass door slides open. At first I think it’s an assistant: hotel staff - or his PA. Slim figure, white dress, deep red hair.

I lock-up: my finger halts against the trigger, first pressure. My commander hisses, “We’re good. Go! Fire!”

She steps into the sunlight, beautiful, her face lifted towards the city. The years roll back. Through the scope I see her eyes: intense gaze locked to my own. I’m yours... whatever you want.

I am paralysed.

My commander’s voice again, louder this time, more urgent. The mission I’m here to execute.

I take the shot. The recoil kicks against my shoulder. Through the scope, her face transforms into that familiar red mist.

The silence that follows is deafening.

I am a sniper.

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You will find my collection of short stories, published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations: and other stories" (2019)

and my SF novel, also published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Donatien's Children" (2022).

Feel free to purchase both!

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