Listen instead!
Scoped, I could reach out and touch the mark. His brown manicured hair blowing in the light summer evening breeze. My electronic media eye twitched and I was looking at him through a TV camera, then a view of the crowd. As his, “We have to spend more, to combat the evil of terrorism,” speech gathered momentum. I lay comfortable in my blind. The long deadly shape of the South African NTW-20, with its14.5mm barrel stretched out in front of me.
The mark had been advised to wear the latest liquid foam ‘Kevlar Vest.’ Fat chance of any survival when a round from the NTW-20 comes a calling. It was developed as a large-calibre sniper rifle. The rounds where also built to take out gun emplacements and ordnance disposal. I’d been impressed with the accuracy of the South African rifle. It had been used by a South African Special Forces sniper in the Congo. A ‘Mega Shot,’ of 2125meters, done in the name of yet another, ‘United Nations Stabilization mission.’ You shall have peace and stability. But first, let’s kill a few of the bad guys.
My back shot, on the day, was just a shade under 2,100m. The marks security cordon was setup to stop close frontal shots. And anyway, who would want to take out the leader of the New US Constitution party. The next possible gun loving President and saviour of thee ‘United States of America.’
I still marvelled at my left arm. Living plastic and near to perfection. It held the NTW like a lover. I stroked the barrel with fibre fingers. The cold metal touch traveling up through the intelligent fibre optics to my brain. It was part of me. My right hand trigger finger was old fashioned. Still capable of making the well trained moves, of bone and muscle. Now outdated, but still as sharp as the day I started in, ‘Camp Pendleton.’ My left leg ached of cramp. The fibre right leg adjusting itself, to allow for the circulation of blood around my stiff body. The implant was feeding me more wind stats and digital information than I could deal with. Enhancements were still a work in progress. I peered through the scope with my good eye. I could see the sweat on the faces of the adoring crowd. A young ponytailed blond in the front row, gazed in awe at her messiah. Her hair barely moving in the summer wind. She had her hand raised, as if waving, trying to catch his attention. I expanded the view so I could see the pores of her fresh vibrant face. I could get lost in a girl like that.
The handlers stood in sweaty blue suits looking worried. I had been plucked from a, “Hostel for Shattered Heroes.” Given a new arm, a new leg. An all seeing electronic media eye. And a promise that they were mine to keep. But first, I had to do a favor for my benefactors. This New Constitution guy was railing against the Government machine. He wanted to increase military spending. To combat the evil of the coming hordes. He was, against the pushy foreigner, against the new, the strange. Make America big and strong again, was his winning mantra. A classic, throwaway opposition candidate, I was told.
A well place 14.5mm NTW projectile, would ensure, all his policy statements would be enacted by Congress, in a heartbeat. I stood up shakily and walked over to the table to get a drink of water. I felt good. Months of hard training. Good food and zilch alcohol does that to a man. I felt more than good. I felt normal. From being nothing, half a man. An alcoholic, drug addicted ex-military zero. Now, I was part of something, again.
The handlers where getting edgy. Sweating hands on their guns. But I had bought into their dream. They need not fear me. I knew my place in the coming chaos.
The NTW was setup on a long solid oak dining table. I took up my position again. The mark was nearing the end of his long speech. I could hear and see him, as the various wind speed and media information came flooding in through my media eye. Constantly adjusting as the parameters changed.
The immediate thought of a head shot was dismissed as a vain glory. I switched back to my good eye and centred on his broad back. My breathing slowed way down, as I waited for the zone to arrive, that magical stillness in the midst of an oncoming storm. Slowly squeezing on the trigger. I took the shot. And immediately, felt the massive recoil building, then just as quickly absorbed by the muzzle brake. The buffer slide in the receiver, doing its job. The shock of the hit on the mark alone, would kill him.
My spotter at the window confirmed the hit, said, “Smack down.” The rest was just ketchup window dressing, for the media ghouls. I was up and moving fast, out of the room, as the handlers started stripping the NTW down into two packs. In the back of a Chrysler, I lay down, as they removed my arm, leg and bionic media eye. Then I was discreetly dropped off, at our, ‘Hostel for Shattered Heroes.’ Back again on the mean streets.
“Keep a very low profile, you’ll be hearing from us,” was the last words I heard as I left the Chrysler.
Back to reality with my shitty arm. Badly fitted metal leg. Long John Silver socket patch.
Thought, all I needed was the fucking parrot and I could go on the speaking circuit with, ‘Treasure Island, my part in its downfall.’
The Hero Hostel sitting room was full of broken Vets, watching the rolling 24hr News stations. CNN and Fox where full, of the latest bloody terrorist action. I just smiled and thought, I would take that shot again and again and again. I had been sent away to the wilderness. But I had been redeemed, I was alive, I was back where I belonged, and soon, I would be permanently whole. The politicians, who had remade me, had promised me that. I was no longer, half a man. A throwaway soldier. I was back where I started, a trained weapon, remade in the image of my new overlords. And I had no qualms with that.
by 
Frank Sonderborg
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