The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) (9 page)

She pointed her fork at me threateningly. “You do
realize that that was a very risky question, especially for someone
like you?”

“Like me?” I joked. “Whatever do you mean?

She smirked at me. “You’re just lucky we’ve been
assigned as swim buddies or else I’d have to finish what I started
with your face.”

I shrugged. “I’m told my curiosity gets me into
trouble.”

“Well, you seem harmless enough. Fine. I was born
outside of Regensburg, in the Bavarian countryside, on some of the
most beautiful land I’ve ever seen. My father tells me we’re
descended from an old offshoot of the Habsburg family, but
obviously we are far from royalty. My ancestors were merchants who
dealt mostly in Eastern goods with Turkish traders, so much so that
some of them married their Turkish counterparts, which is probably
where I get some of my features.

“My family has been wealthy ever since, and the
first thing my father taught me to do by the time I could walk, as
his father did for him, was how to shoot a rifle. It was a
tradition so that I could accompany him on his many outlandish
hunting trips. And I loved it. I practiced with my father whenever
I could during school vacations, and qualified for the Olympics as
soon as I was eligible. I’ve even medaled in the Biathlon, a rather
difficult event.”

“The biathlon, huh?” I smirked, always considering
the event something of a joke. “Ever think of becoming a Bond
villain?”

“A Bond villain?”

“Never mind.”

She gave me a wry look. “I’d just graduated from
Oxford, leading our marksmanship team to an international
championship, when I decided to spend a year in America to further
my education – a very interesting country, by the way.”

I shrugged. “We try.”

“Well, when I returned to Germany after the fighting
had started, I debated joining the military, but it wasn’t until
just a year ago that I decided to finally do just that. Papa was
not happy, but I signed up despite his disapproval. He lives in a
fantasy world with no idea what is going on outside his estate. He
wasn’t even afraid for my life, just upset at my decision. I didn’t
care. My life was without direction and I wanted to do something
important. The war was only getting worse and worse and I knew I
had to join now before it was too late.

“When I did, my shooting scores in basic propelled
me into sniper school. I worked alone, never given a spotter,
probably because they wanted me to wash out. No girls allowed, and
all that, but I graduated at the top of my class. I’ve been a
trained sniper since, so your job should be pretty easy, but don’t
worry, I appreciate the company,” she finished rather slyly.

“Well, it’s my pleasure,” I said honestly, even if
her story wasn’t exactly convincing. “I’ve done plenty of shooting
over the years, and killed my fair share. I have no problems
spotting.”

“Perhaps we could arrange a little friendly
competition later?”

I held up a hand, “Yeah, I don’t think so. My
competitive streak ended a long time ago. I have no desire for
showmanship or impressing anyone. I’ll shoot with you, but I’d
rather not turn it into a competition.”

She gave me another odd look. “You are a curious
man, Lieutenant Hunter. You don’t meet very many men who aren’t
interested in seeing whose is bigger. And please, call me Helena.
Such formalities are unnecessary considering our partnership.”

I smiled, wondering at the ambiguity of her word
choice. “You know what? We’ve never been properly introduced.” I
held out a hand. “My name is Lieutenant Jacob Hunter, but my
friends call me Jacob.”

She smiled and lightly griped my hand, hers not
being nearly as soft as I thought it would be. It was heavily
callused from years of shooting, more so than even mine. “It’s nice
to meet you, Jacob.”

I smiled back, “It’s nice to meet you too,
Helena.”

As we sat there, smiling at one another, hand in
hand, Santino emerged from the barracks. He grabbed a cup of coffee
and came to sit at our table.

“So?” He pondered, as he glanced at our clasped
hands. “You two married yet?”

Just as he was about to take a seat next to me, I
responded by kicking his chair out from beneath him. He fell hard
on his ass with a loud thump and he glared up at me, rubbing his
rear.

I crammed an overloaded spoonful of fruit loops into
my mouth, and looked down at him.

“Nope.”

***

Helena and I were lounging on our stomachs, lying
very close, drenched in sweat, contemplating our next move. It was
an hour after our reconciliation, and we had decided to take our
relationship to the next level.

The obvious thing to do was to get out the rifles
and hit the range.

Helena lay to my left, rifle at the ready, while I
held a pair of high powered binoculars to my eyes, acting as her
spotter. I was situated just behind her, with the left side of my
body resting up against her right leg. Our close proximity allowed
for the perspectives seen through our individual scopes to sync up
more precisely than if I was resting beside her. I rested my
binoculars on my gear bag to stabilize my view while her rifle’s
bipod kept her aim steady.

“Wind... six clicks left,” I told her.

We were shooting at extreme ranges, so Helena had
traded in her standard rifle for a German version of the Barrett
M107 Special Application Scoped Rifle, the G82. The weapon was a
beast, sometimes referred to as an anti-material weapon, a name
that carried serious weight behind it. The “Light Fifty” fired a
.50 caliber round, the newest versions of which allowed the Barrett
to shoot farther than ever. Its unique design reduced the recoil of
such a powerful weapon to a manageable level, and I was about to
find out if my female friend could handle it.

Our target was approximately two miles down range,
basically the furthest distance a modern sniper could target. I had
no idea how the Vatican had dug out so much territory to create the
range, but the compass on my watch indicated we were facing
northeast. Ancient Rome hadn’t extended that far in that direction,
so I assumed the range was simply carved out of dirt. The flight
time of a bullet at this range was so long the shooter could
basically recite the alphabet before the round hit its target.

To make the simulation even more difficult, the
base’s ventilation system was set to imitate various weather
patterns and wind speeds. I had no idea what the system was set at,
relying on calculations I performed in my head based solely on
small plants fluttering in the distance. To further enhance the
simulation, we pumped up the heat on our end of the room to mimic
the harsh environments of the Middle Eastern region we would most
likely be operating in.

It was currently hotter than Hell, and I wondered if
Santino had messed with the temperature control just to screw with
us.

These variables were of utmost importance to a
sniper, as even something as minute as a slight shift in air
moisture could affect a bullet’s trajectory. Snipers have to take
every detail into account and excessive care went into preparing
for each pull of the trigger. These days, technology calculated
most of these variables for us, but any sniper worth his weight in
salt did it himself first.

Helena adjusted her scope appropriately while sweat
beaded its way down her brow, relying on her spotter, me, to relay
the relevant information needed to make the perfect shot.

Peering through my binoculars, I tapped a button on
the bottom of the optical device and the range finder function
displayed itself in the upper right hand corner of the view. With
the Earth’s natural curve and gravity’s pull on the bullet,
elevation adjustments were needed to ensure the most accurate shot.
Years ago, spotters would have to determine ranges with the naked
eye, but technology now calculated the distance for us. However,
every sniper was still trained to gauge ranges with their eyes only
as technology can’t always be relied on.

I predicted the range was just shy of two miles.

“Range… 1.89 miles. Elevation, seven clicks.”

Making matters worse, Helena was performing what was
known as a cold bore shot, meaning it was her first shot in a cold
barrel, with no set up shots to help guide her true shot. Firing
from a cold barrel not only affected the trajectory of a fired
round, but was also a psychological hurdle to overcome. This was
the hardest shot for a sniper to make and consisted of the exact
same shot used in the assassination missions snipers were used for.
Not that I’d ever “assassinated” anyone before. At least that’s
what the CIA kept telling me.

The rest of the team had assembled in the cafeteria,
paying close attention to the meticulous effort of the sniper pair,
binoculars at the ready. Just another distraction to deal with.

Snipers were the masters of self. Stamina.
Endurance. Patience. Precision. These were the tools of a sniper.
Tools we knew better than anyone else. Snipers took great pride in
simply being better than you. It was a job most could never dream
of doing. It separated the men from the rest of the mitochondrial
ectoplasm. It made us lords of the hunt. We were expected to stalk,
locate, and wait out a target for days and days before taking a
cold bore shot in one hundred degree weather during a hurricane
while you sat at home watching Animal Planet. It may very well be
the toughest job in the world and it makes us immensely proud that
you wouldn’t make it five minutes in our world.

While we didn’t need to seek out and wait for the
best shot on our current target, it still took us around twenty
minutes to prepare for the shot. Another few minutes and four
impatient operators later, we were ready to take the shot.

“Target established, fire for effect. Fire. Fire.
Fire.”

With my affirmation that our checklist was complete,
Helena had the go ahead to shoot. I heard her take three slow and
deep breaths, holding it on the third. A half second later, she
squeezed the trigger, handling the weapon masterfully. I had
wondered if the recoil of the shot would be too much for the thin
woman to handle, but it seemed as though she possessed a hidden
strength few could pull off.

It took a few seconds for the projectile to reach
its mark, which it finally did successfully in an explosion of
watermelon. Our audience cheered, thankful their sniper was more
than fully competent. I even saw Bordeaux wipe a hand across his
forehead in mock relief before he turned back to the others as
their conversations resumed.

I was impressed as well.

I’d taken that shot many times as a SEAL, but even
for the best snipers, it was never guaranteed one hundred percent
of the time.

I rolled off Helena’s leg and onto my back,
stretching as many muscles as I could. Doing so relieved the
stresses accumulated while lying completely immobile since we’d got
on the mat.

“A fine shot, Lieutenant,” I said. “You definitely
deserve to be here.”

“Thanks,” she replied as she rolled onto her back as
well. “To be honest, I haven’t made very many cold bore shots with
the fifty, but every successful one I perform makes me feel that
much better.”

She shifted onto her left side, and used her left
hand to kneed some feeling back into the shoulder that her rifle
had rested against for the past hour. “And I have to admit, having
you spot for me was refreshing.” She paused. “It also calmed my
nerves. Doing it in a controlled environment is one thing, but in
the field is totally different. If I have trouble here, what’s to
say things won’t be worse when it matters?”

I rubbed my eyes before I turned to look at her, for
once not finding anger and annoyance in her expression. Why was she
doubting herself? She may have been the least experienced operators
here, but her mere presence automatically made her one of the
best.

“Helena, you’re a fine sniper. You just proved that.
Trust me; you can handle anything out there. And don’t worry. I’ll
be by your side when you need me.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Jacob. I’m not used to
having someone to rely on, and frankly, it’s a bit overwhelming.
It’s almost like being in a...”

I frowned. I knew where she was going with that
thought as she trailed off. It’s exactly like being in a
relationship or a family. Most sniper pairs were men, and
therefore, brothers. Trust had to pass equally and unequivocally
between them, because each relied on the other for everything. A
business company may do team building exercises where individuals
fall backwards off a ladder in the blind hopes of being caught by
their peers. They did this to build trust and cooperation to create
a more efficient work environment. The equivalent exercise for a
sniper pair was to perform such an exercise while blindfolded in a
monsoon, during an artillery barrage, with a nuke going off in the
background and zombies closing in on all sides. You think Joe Blow
from human resources is going to stick around and catch you during
that?

I doubted it.

Helena and I needed to trust each other. She needed
to be my brother. My sister. I had to know she wasn’t going to buck
under pressure and run away when I needed her support, and I
couldn’t have her lying to me. I couldn’t trust her if she did.
Santino had said she’d just ended a relationship so serious she
threatened to kill the next guy who even looked like the shmuck,
yet here she was talking like she doesn’t even know what the word
relationship
even means.

“Helena, do you mind if I ask you a personal
question?”

She hesitated, but nodded. “We need to be honest
with each other, of course.”

My thoughts exactly.

“Your experience not having a spotter is
understandable, but the way you speak of not having someone to rely
on, well, sniper pairs utilizes the same kind of trust as
relationships do. You should know that. Yet, you say you’ve never
had anyone to rely on almost like you’ve never had anyone at all,
but that’s not the story I got from the guys...”