Sharpshooter by Chris Lynch Page A

over the side to the hull of our vessel, just about midship — just about directly south of my sleeping quarters. “We heard the clanging just in time. The sneaky devils attaching explosives to the side of the ship. We got ’em, though, I’m sure of that.”
    I am only partly reassured.
    â€œYou sure you got ’em?”
    â€œDidn’t I just say I’m sure? I think I just said I’m sure.” He raises his night-vision binoculars, kind of dismissing my rude questioning of his Navy competence. “Bodies’ll turn up, don’t worry. Why don’t you just go belowdecks and lay your sleepy Army head back down and we’ll protect you, all right? Have a nice sleep.”
    I’m sure all the enemy look dead through Navy-colored lenses. I go away, but I don’t plan on a nice sleep. Which is good, because I don’t sleep too well the rest of the night.
    Or the one after. I hear things under the deck, under the boat, under the water. And where did all these mosquitoes come from? Jeez, there are billions of them. Relentless little monsters.
    â€œSlap more quietly,” Kuns says from a few bunks away.
    â€œSorry,” I say.
    I hear something. No, I don’t. My hearing has become more acute since I have been in-country, I am certain of that. Maybe too acute.
    Clink, clank .
    I am not hearing things. I am hearing things.
    I can’t sleep, and anyway, I have to be up for patrol in another hour. I get up, dress, and head topside. There is a sentry with his rifle trained over the side when I get there midship, around the same spot as the other night. He is focused hard, like a hunting dog, on a spot near the bank.
    â€œSomething?” I whisper.
    â€œThink so,” he whispers. He takes binoculars from around his neck, hands them to me, and I scan the same area as him.
    â€œIs that … are those … oxygen tanks? I see a swimmer with tanks on his back swimming this way,” I say. The swimmer appears to have something missile-like, about a foot and a half long, in each hand as he kicks toward us.
    â€œThat’s what I thought,” he says, and opens fire.
    His first shot pops into the water with a big splash. Then a second, then a third. The swimmer goes under. Possibly. I don’t see him. Then I think I do. His hands are empty now, I think. Then I don’t see him again.
    Three more sentries come running up. Two break out grenade launchers and pepper the spot, big splashes geysering up with the explosions, but who knows what’s being achieved.
    The firing stops, the smoke and sounds again settle. The officer in charge wearily orders for divers to suit up and examine the hull. Again.
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    We are walking straight into it on a regular basis, engagement, and we know it. That is precisely what we are here to do, and the adrenaline level is so high I can hear the whistling and wailing from inside my ears almost as loud as the frequent artillery exchanges I hear all around me.
    The enemy has been making a pretty good living here out of locating and inhabiting all the best places for ambush. The Brown Water Navy vessels that now buzz up and down the river are constantly under attack from these outposts. Rockets and grenades, machine-gun and rifle fire rain down from elevated spots in the jungle, making life hell for everybody.
    Sniffing these guys out and snuffing them out — that’s our job now.
    Body count counts. I know I have killed men now. I don’t know it, but I know it. I keep going out on patrol, and I keep coming back, so I know I am winning. Sometimes we see bodies, or parts of bodies, after we have conducted an assault — sometimes when we haven’t conducted one yet. Lt. Systrom counts these bodies as ours. Even a part of a body is a body, four body parts counting as four bodies even if they may have belonged to the same body once. Disconnectivity is what he calls it, meaning if they ain’t touching, we get