Covert Kill: A David Rivers Thriller

Cancer arrived at the space between the thorn bushes, a smile spreading across his lips.

He shifted the rifle to his front, ensuring the netting was in place over the weapon with the slit in alignment with the objective lens of his scope. Then, and only then, did he lower the bipod legs and bring the G28 to a firing position, aligning his right eye behind the optic as he scanned the terrain ahead.

The visual angle extended down what appeared to be the center of the enemy camp. He shifted left, then right, taking in the benefit of this vantage point with the knowledge that it would serve him well in the coming reconnaissance. Then he instinctively began breathing using the Buteyko method, a technique to slow his oxygen intake with long exhales and control pauses to calm his mind and body for the long haul.

Snipers had all kinds of tricks to remain in position for long periods of time: pissing into bags with sponges, surreptitiously eating field rations with their face to the ground. Cancer, however, had always preferred to exclude every possible distraction by eating and drinking as little as possible, removing every bodily requirement through a single-minded focus on the sight through his scope. To that end, there was one supplement he never traveled without.

Slipping his fingers into a vest pouch, he procured a round white tablet and deposited it into his mouth, using his tongue to tuck the chalky mass into his cheek. He immediately began to feel the dull tingle of the lozenge, which would deposit four milligrams of nicotine—about two cigarettes’ worth—into his bloodstream in the coming half hour or so as it dissolved. While he vastly preferred the substance in its most ancient and civilized form of smoking, the tablets designed for people trying to quit provided him with a welcome source of consumption when the alternative would result in him getting shot in the face.

Keying his radio, he whispered to David, “I’ve got eyes-on the target.”





Ian flipped open the ruggedized laptop, the screen coming to life with a soft glow that illuminated David in the shadows beside him.

Lying shoulder to shoulder beneath the tarp, both men momentarily locked eyes. David looked bewildered, and for good reason—they hadn’t expected anyone to reach the target so soon, much less establish a feasible surveillance position.

David arranged a notepad and pen over the maps and protractors spread out on the ground, transmitting back, “Cancer, MSS copies. Send your grid.”

Then he jotted down Cancer’s response as Ian typed the grid. They’d transcribe every scrap of information in this manner, then cross-check the data against each other’s notes to construct an overall map of the objective.

While their three teammates had been cloverleafing the objective in an attempt to gain visual, David and Ian had remained at the MSS a full kilometer away, spending the vast majority of that time constructing their current hide site at a naturally occurring depression in the earth. Building it in broad daylight had been a hair-raising proposition, but they had little choice in the matter.

First they’d had to remove a wide swath of groundcover consisting mainly of leaf litter and fallen branches, relocating it to ponchos spread for the purpose. Then they’d dug using sawed-off shovels from an Abuja hardware store, storing the removed dirt in sandbags until they had a scrape large enough to fit both men and their rucksacks. After lining the hole’s perimeter with tent stakes, they’d used rope to form a crisscrossing web at ground level, staking down a tarp over it and redistributing the excavated dirt atop it before spreading the piles of leaf litter and deadfall.

The end result wasn’t exceptional in terms of comfort, but Ian had to admit it served their purposes well: both he and David had walked around the site until they were confident it blended with the surrounding terrain, the only distinguishing feature being a foot-tall gap at the entrance that a passerby would almost have to kneel down to see.

Now both men took their notes while breathing the tiny hide site’s sweltering, earthy air as Cancer finished transmitting his grid. Then the sniper continued in a whisper, “Limits of visibility are as follows: left 55 degrees, right 137 degrees. SALUTE report follows.”

As Ian typed, he considered that he wasn’t particularly surprised that Duchess’s grid had proven to be an accurate Boko Haram location—dozens, if not hundreds, of them were scattered across this sprawling forest. But the confirmation of enemy fighters didn’t mean the American hostages were present or ever would be. In the search for the kidnapped Chibok schoolgirls, the Nigerian military had raided the Sambisa Forest en masse, finding and freeing almost 300 women from Boko Haram captivity—none of whom were the intended hostages.

“Send it,” David replied.

Cancer spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Size: four military-age males. None of them look like they’re starving; all are reasonably alert so we can rule out significant dehydration. That means they’re either new arrivals or receiving regular resupply, in which case there’s an avenue of approach for vehicles that we couldn’t make out from the satellite imagery. Break. Activity: they’re standing in a group in a clearing, bullshitting, smoking, look like they’re waiting around for something. No defensive posture, no indications that there’s a high-value individual or hostages to protect. Break. Location: 50 meters to my twelve o’clock.”

Ian typed quickly, completing an almost word-for-word description of Cancer’s report as David continued taking analog notes via pen.

“Unit: dressed in a mix of woodland camouflage fatigues and brown Arab-style thawb garments with headscarves. Combat boots on three of them, sandals on the fourth. Two of them are wearing the Soviet surplus AK racks you’d expect to see in a third-world area, olive drab, three mag pouches and a grenade pouch on either side. Mag pouches look full, which indicates the guys who aren’t wearing them have kit located outside my POV.”

Legitimate point, Ian thought; in many regions of the world, extremists wore these seemingly ubiquitous chest racks whether they had anything to put in the pouches or not. To them, in lieu of any formalized training, it was often the status symbol of a warrior.

Cancer continued, “I can’t tell if anyone’s got grenades. Time: now. Break. Equipment: one AK-47 and two AK-74s worn on slings. One unmanned PK machinegun with a hundred-round drum sitting in the open, oriented north so we can safely assume there’s a road or trail approach somewhere in that direction. Break. Let me know when you’re ready for the camp layout, over.”

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