Whisper to the Soul

By Clint Browning

For years Jake Brogan has succeeded in a world where survival no longer depends on the unique instincts and skills needed to hunt people as a sniper. When asked for help by a man who saved his life during that earlier time, Brogan’s refusal to his estranged friend is immediate. Following the execution style killing of the man, Brogan questions his decision. Does he ignore the intrusion into his life or reenter a world requiring the lethal skills previously abandoned?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483548340

Book preview

9781483548340

Prologue

September 1969

A seven-hour ballet of undetected motion, climaxing in a secure position downwind and within one hundred fifty yards of the camp. Too close according to training. Never closer than three hundred yards. Any nearer and the chances of survival were unlikely.

Moving behind a mound of grass, he slowly rotated, confirming there were no unfriendlies nearby. Confident in his hidden state, he focused on breathing and heart rate, calming each to an abnormally slow pace. Eyes closed, he probed the surroundings with his other senses, moving into the zone where nothing living or dead escaped detection.

This part of the hunt was foreplay. As happened just prior to all engagements, he would recall the two scents that always aroused him, those of sex and death. His first sexual conquest: the strong, heady mixture of Marie’s musty smell and his. He smiled, teeth bright amid the painted face. The smile remained as he remembered an early kill—a close-quarters encounter executed with a knife. Not his usual style but still the pungent, coppery smell of blood had struck his senses with the same force as the bouquet of sex.

These thoughts always replayed as he positioned for a kill. Preparing to move in, he knew no one was as fortunate as he. The dilemma was deciding which he liked best: screwing or killing. It didn’t mattered because he wasn’t giving up either one.

Time to move closer.

* * *

Observation from less than a hundred yards afforded detailed insight into the camp’s rhythm. Less than a hundred yards also guaranteed no escape if detected. Such methods of operation had eliminated those willing to serve as his spotter, which explained why the past four months in the field had been solo, and another factor not conducive to survival. If not for his success rate, command would have forbidden such recklessness. Still, he preferred being alone, which worked well considering how those in his occupation were typically treated. The job carried a stigma. Few understood or cared to explore the emotions accompanying such endeavors. Others who had been in combat often harbored misgivings about those who hunted humans as animals: tracking them for days, and then without the pomp and glory of battle, killed with a single shot from several hundred yards.

Others considered killing from a distance not as courageous as the close-up, hand-to-hand dealing with the enemy. Even though he destroyed from a distance, the intimate knowledge of the target—when he ate, slept, or crapped—turned the subject into a person, much more so than a complete stranger running directly at you with a single purpose. What knowledge did one have of this other man? None, other than he was the enemy. He, on the other hand, knew each target personally.

As was his practice, he withdrew after a couple of hours of close-up observation using the same precision exercised on the approach, taking a final position slightly over three hundred yards from the camp.

He added two more notes to the small pad: the higher humidity in the depression approximately seventy yards out and the unusual crosswind at one hundred thirty yards. There were a couple of other problems with the position he had selected, but this shooting solution offered few alternatives. The crosscurrents, humidity variation, irregular terrain all collectively created a challenge, which was the reason he would take the shot from three hundred and change. Too close, but the options were few. With all the unique issues, he felt as though a sniper had selected the campsite. A disturbing thought. Maybe someone was in the trees observing him. No matter how good his camo skills and technique, anyone perched in a tree looking down on the valley floor, which in this situation afforded little cover compared to most of his previous operational areas, would miss nothing. But since he was still alive, the tree-dwelling sniper theory felt less plausible.

Two more stops, a few more notes, and his studies were complete. He had no reason to review the commentaries. Writing observations imprinted them in his mind. As was his habit on all missions, he opened the notebook cover and stared at the picture of his target. Being captured this far in-country was bad enough, but having a picture of an officer or some government official on your person was a guarantee the suffering would only be worse, assuming you survived that long. For the thirty-seventh time, he repeated the ritual. Removing the picture and tearing the notes from the pad, he folded the papers. Next he placed the contents in a tobacco tin, pushing the top in place. Digging a hole, he placed the tin inside, filling the spot with dirt and carefully removing any sign of his work. A memorial for the soon to be deceased.

A final adjustment to his cover assured protection. With deliberate movements, he withdrew his spotting scope and focused on the sight. Based on intelligence and personal observations, his target appeared in this camp location several times a day, but an early morning shot provided the best solution. A final mental review of the escape route and all was ready.

Replacing the spotting scope, he took the M40, pulled the bolt back and pushed it forward and down, chambering the .308 168-grain shell. The satisfaction of feeling the bullet move into place was pure. Everything was perfect and ready, awaiting his action.

Aligning the gun with the target area, he positioned the bipod, the rifle butt against the shoulder, securing the hold. As he lowered the rifle, a movement caught his eye. The target had presented itself.

The urge to immediately take the shot was strong, but to do so meant a probable miss. He refocused on readying everything for mission success. Prepared for a dawn event, any alteration would produce a totally different targeting profile. The ground had been heated throughout the day and there would be a mixture of wind eddies, which would drive the bullet in different directions. The high humidity would slow and drop the bullet. Although nothing about this shot was easy, taking it now meant success unlikely.

All was ready. Now came waiting through the night. The final endurance of insect bites, the occasional snake slithering over his body, and the possibility of a surprise patrol.

His thoughts began to wander allowing an intrusion, which had increased over the last two months while waiting to complete a mission. A total of seven months in the jungle: sometimes filled with paranoia; other times immersed in the feeling of immortality. Missions punctuated with small interruptions of civilization where a cold beer and a real bed in a hotel room—regardless of the heat, noise, and filth—still translated into luxury. Seven months also meant the odds were turning against survival.

Didn’t matter what form combat took, the longer one remained engaged with the enemy, the less the chance of walking away from the battlefield. After the first few times and overcoming the terror of the jungle, his mental state had moved to a higher level of adaptation where killing was turned from an event into a science, or maybe art was a better description. Definitely art because, even with the specifics in the implementation of a shooting strategy, there was always the creative aspect imbedded in any kill. With the sophistication of understanding also came an unexpected acceptance as to his eventual fate. He would die in the jungle. One day on that predestined mission, all things would change. He would no longer hunt. He would be hunted.

He had not adopted a fatalistic view of life. Just a more realistic one. At his core, he knew this outlook was the only one enabling him to continue. Viewing the killing as endless would eventually place him in the psyche ward, and if not a manmade structure confining him, then one created by the jungle.

During the darker moments, a fear moved behind his consciousness, one more disturbing than death—the thought of surviving. The world in which he had lived for the last several months was one without rules. Granted, there were skills—the necessities of the hunt—by which one survived such as never work the same trail twice, always plan two paths of escape. But other than skill and instinct, there were no rules. This became the way of life if one hoped to live. How would he or could he survive being transported back into a world regimented every day by a set of expectations? Pushing those thoughts aside, he refocused on the mission.

* * *

Dawn. A final position adjustment. The whisper to his target.

The moment he pulled the trigger, two realizations struck him. First, the target would be hit, maybe not killed outright but messed up for life, and secondly, they had been waiting.

The sound would have just caught up with the impact when he heard the mortar fire. Holding his position was a big gamble but running would produce only one unfavorable outcome. The first rounds hit one hundred yards behind him and to the right, extremely close to where he had set the second shooting solution. After a few more rounds, there was adequate smoke and dust to cover his escape. Running in a low crouch, he moved to a growth of elephant grass and diagonally to the line of fire. Suddenly the shelling stopped. The enemy was either adjusting fire or the soldiers had reached the area. When the distinctive sound began again, he knew they had adjusted. He heard the incoming rounds moments before the explosion threw him across the grass into a tree. Taking some quick breaths to override the pain from the shrapnel and wood fragments embedded in his shoulder and chest, he stood and ran through the grass.

Another pause in the firing as the enemy redirected. He knew what would happen next. The third series represented the final attempt to direct his movements. Following that, the shelling would cease and the foot soldiers released. They would encircle the area, closing down the perimeter, until he was trapped. The only escape was speed. Judging by the targeted areas, he had a reasonable idea of where the troops were positioned. He stood and began running; grateful his legs had not been hit.

The deadly game of his running and the enemy closing continued for two hours. Finally, he dropped to the ground. Weariness penetrated his soul. Pain engulfed his body. The enemy had achieved its goal, pushing him to the limit of endurance. He could go no further. This marked his place of death: the jungle, and except for the enemy, alone.

Although the metal vial was small, he was aware of its presence in his pocket. It contained one cyanide capsule, standard issue for such events. He knew what this enemy did to captured soldiers. He had no desire to contemplate what torture they would perform on a man taken in the jungle, especially one carrying a sniper rifle and wearing a uniform bearing no patches.

Armed with his rifle, a forty-five-caliber sidearm, and the Randall, limited the options to avoid being taken alive. Shooting oneself in the heat of battle with a rifle possessing a twenty-four inch barrel would be a challenge. In the chaos of combat, it would be too easy to expend all the ammunition in the forty-five, and he was not well practiced in the art of Seppuku. He unbuttoned the pocket on his trousers and loosened the cap on the metal vial so a quick twist would permit access to the capsule.

He thought of his parents, recalling the promise to his mother he would return. He had lied telling them he would be working in Thailand handling shipments for a military contractor. Now he would be listed MIA. There would be no return. No living soul. No body bag. His parents would receive the sorry-to-inform-you letter and live