One Shot Kill - Robert Muchamore Page 0,39

target through the crosshairs was the only thing in his world. He decided to trust his instincts on the wind and corrected a little less than Marc’s figure suggested.

At this range, moving the gun by a millimetre would move the spot where the bullet hit by half a metre. Even the trigger squeeze had to be smooth if you wanted to hit your target.

The instant the bullet cracked, Marc bobbed up from the undergrowth and checked with the binoculars. The target was intact, but a chunk of tree bark had been blown out of the trunk less than a hand’s width away.

‘Minor correction right,’ Marc said.

Paul swore under his breath: it was a decent first shot, but he’d not made enough of a correction for the lack of wind in the valley. A break would shatter his concentration, so he pulled back the bolt, lined up, held his breath and took the second shot three seconds after the first.

‘Nice one, mate,’ Marc said, as he viewed a huge hole punched in the left-hand side of the life preserver. ‘Let’s have two more of those.’

Scoring a first hit lowers a sniper’s stress level because it means you’ve mastered the wind and range. Paul’s third shot made a hole a few centimetres above the second, while his final shot was right on the edge.

‘You’ve done some damage, but I can’t tell if it was bark splinters or your bullet that hit the ring,’ Marc said.

‘Two and a half out of four,’ Paul said, as he stood up. ‘Could have been worse at that range.’

As Paul pulled a cloth from his jacket and began wiping smears of his sweat off the rifle, Marc glanced at a pocket watch, then at their map. The shooting had gone well, but they were still behind schedule.

‘Looks like the last aiming area’s less than a kilometre away,’ Marc said. ‘Mostly downhill, although we’ve got to cross a stream.’

‘How deep?’ Paul asked warily.

‘Wish I knew,’ Marc said, as he peeled the binocular strap from around his neck.

Marc would snipe at the final target, but as he took the rifle from Paul both lads were dazzled by yellow light.

‘Why can I see you?’ Sergeant Goldberg shouted, as he crawled out of the undergrowth with a powerful torch in one hand and a section of camouflage netting worn like a cape. ‘What are you playing at?’

‘We’re checking the map ready for our run to the final aiming point, sir,’ Marc said.

‘I’m not blind,’ Goldberg said, as he aimed the torch beam right into Marc’s eyes. ‘But what were you told about this terrain?’

Marc’s mind was a blur. He was dripping sweat, exhausted, hungry and his feet were so blistered that he was dreading the pain when he took his boots off.

‘Well?’ Goldberg shouted, as the beam made Marc’s eyes tear over.

‘We were told to treat the terrain like enemy territory at all times, sir,’ Paul said weakly.

‘Enemy territory,’ Goldberg repeated, as he rapped his knuckles against Marc’s skull. ‘That means you keep low at all times. That means you take cover. It certainly doesn’t mean that you stand still on open ground, staring at your map and talking in voices that I can hear from my hiding spot twenty-five yards away. Both of you, get down. I need to see thirty push-ups.’

Marc started pulling the strap of his equipment pack off his shoulder, which made Goldberg’s eyes bulge.

‘Did I tell you to take that off, lad?’ Goldberg roared.

Marc was strong. If he’d been fresh he’d have knocked out thirty push-ups in as many seconds. But his arms began shuddering at twenty-two.

‘Twenty-four,’ Goldberg shouted, when Marc collapsed. ‘Crack on! Did I say twenty-four?’

Paul had taken his pack off to shoot, but even without extra weight his gangly arms meant push-ups were always hard. He only got to thirteen before collapsing in the dirt.

‘I can’t,’ Paul gasped, as Goldberg moved close and blitzed him with the torch beam.

‘Can’t what?’ Goldberg demanded.

‘Do any more,’ Paul said.

If it hadn’t been dark, Paul would have seen Goldberg turning red.

‘What’s the last word out of your mouth every time you address me, boy?’

Everything clicked into place. ‘Sir,’ Paul said. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m just tired, sir.’

‘It’s warm and dry,’ Goldberg shouted. ‘This is nothing. Real sniper teams eat, piss and shit in freezing-cold rat-infested holes for days on end, waiting for one Nazi head to pop up. And you dare moan that you’re tired after a little overnighter in the forest?’

Goldberg switched off his torch and