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- Hillside Bosnia, 960925
- Early September frost covered the trees making them a shimmering white. High on a Southern facing hill a short stumpy man lay camoflaged in a ghille suit. White sprigs and long grass were worked into the flight suit the ghille were made out of, making him invisible to those at least five meters away, much less the 3500 meters his target would be at. Greerson was just getting comfortable, well into the seventy-second hour, when his sensors showed the trucks on the road. He had planned this hit for nearly three weeks; gathering info on the habits of his mark, then tapping into his cell phones to learn of this meeting. The Warlord had supposedly made a deal with some Shamans to boost the effectiveness of his warriors. Laying on the cold ground for this long was made bearable through the space insulation on his ground suit, the Gortex layers, light weight mono-crys, and the nomex protectant; all specially made to his specifications. He layed his guard shotgun aside and pulled up his drag bag. From the camoflaged bag he assembled the coil barrel, the reciever, inserted the power cable, and attached the 50x35 power sight with gyro stabalization. Time to kill some shit.
- Flipping out the bipod, and laying the barrel through the high grass, Greerson took careful aim on his kill zone. Flashing his laser ranger he confirmed the ranges for the tenth time. All seemed well. He rolled over and checked his evac. route. Clear. Scanning for counter-snipers behind him with thermal binoculars, and on the surrounding hill tops, just to be safe. Wiz. Finding none he returned his attention to the kill zone. The packed dirt road meandered through the low marsh below him, poking our through the light scrub that characterized the region. Sapplings and trees alike were turning color, brilliant reds and yellows. Greerson thought how much he loved the outdoors, but back to biz. The first Zil pulled up from the east and came to a stop. Then two more stopped behind it as escorts. Total of ten men, mostly muscle. Easy. The mark was there, in the back seat of a trashy Zil. Probably had armor windows, but they wouldn't stop 12mm Sabot penetrators or Flechette tight packs. From the west, a trio of (armored) Mercedes Benz pulled up and came to a stop. They disgorged a gaggle of eight guards in suits. Others, about six, stayed in the car, obviously to take advantage of the concealed firing ports, should things go bad. Armed with top of the line HK carbines, they definetly outmatched the slug militia with their AK-47's. Two men got out of the lead Benz, which the other two flanked in a echlon formation. There was his other mark. Tucking the buttplate to his shoulder, pressing his cheek to the guard, and peering down the large relief sight, his targets came into the picture. He squeezed the set trigger, then rest his finger against the 1.5 pound release trigger. Old McDonald had a farm. E-I-E-I-O He tracked back and forth the targets, and rest his finger on the feed switch. Targets Confirmed. And on this farm he shot some.... guys.
- He squeezed the second trigger, his body perfectly rigid, his breething stopped. Two soft 'whoops' followed by a third 'thook' were all any nearby woodland animals might have heard. Birds didn't even scatter. The saboted projectiles left his barrel going nearly 3000 meters per second, the third flechette round departed going a measly 2500 m/s. They gracefull arced, holding nearly a ton of energy. The first struck the Warlord in the near shoulder, tearing thorugh his body and snapping his neck. It bore through his lungs and heart before exiting his far rib-cage that was now pressed up against the opposite side of the car. He was reduced to hamburger. The Shaman in the suit got nearly the same. Suit's nearly six foot frame strode across the gravel, and his face might have even shown suprise as his counterpart's window was shatterd, but he never had time to react. The round struck him in the head, seperating him from his precious grey matter. Being a tall person, where the point of impact was far from his center of gravity he was lifted into the air and did a full flip. His now skullless body came to a rest in the run-off ditch on the far side of the road. The Flechettes had spread out over the trio of Zils. Hopefully they would have the desired effect of pissing off the militiamen.
- Greerson was already breaking down the rifle, having recorded the strikes. His hands worked methodically while he kept his eyes glued to the sight. Tee Hee This was the interesting part. The suits must have had a microwave sniper sensor, but it hadn't detected his composite bullets until they had shown up a fraction of a second away. Some suits tried to return fire to his location, but others were more concerned with the Militiamen. The Bosnians were whipped into a frenzy as they charged the HK toting suits. After about ten seconds of gunfire, fifteen men down, and two burning vevhicles, he heard the first report of their gunfire as a hush rumble. The suits put up a desperate fight, taking cover behind armored doors, but in the end the savage Bosnians killed them all. Rushing headlong into automatic weapons fire was suicicidal, and only three of them were still standing. All wounded, they executed the last of the suits. Check two. Now Greerson just had to wait for a day or two to extract.
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