The Weight of a Man

A glimpse into Staff Sergeant Randall Tavian's mind during a mission

"Sergeant, the target is in the open," a voice said. It stirred him from his semi-sleep. He pressed his cheek onto the rifle that lay before him. He adjusted his vision and took in the scene. The target, a local tribal chief, was sitting outside, talking to soldiers from his unit.

 

For several weeks, the chief had helped American troops in the area root out insurgents. This man held great respect from most other tribal leaders in the area. He was the key to sucessfully inserting a democracy in this forsaken land. The insurgents wouldn't dare attack him, but they openly threatened him. Although he supported the Americans' objectives, the surrounding tribal leaders were slow moving.

 

Then, someone deep inside the Pentagon devised a plan. And everything was now hinged on Staff Sergeant Randall Tavian. Randall joined the Marine Corps back in the Eighties and quickly volunteered for the Scout Sniper program. He graduated at the top of his class and became one of the Corps top snipers. He could boast a record of thirty-six confirmed kills.

 

"Sergeant, we need to act," his spotter whispered. The voice brought Randall back to reality. The hot desert sun and the weight of the ghillie suit caused sweat to drip into his eyes. He carefully blinked the sweat out and positioned his rifle.

 

Three weeks ago, he was recruited for this mission. He was to make his way to the rocky hills near the village and kill the chief. The C.I.A. had captured a known terrorist and planned to make the murder of the chief look as if the terrorist had done it. Everything was planned out perfectly. If everything went as it should, then the murder would cause the rest of the chiefs to give support to the Americans, who would bring the terrorist to justice. 

 

But why? This man has done nothing wrong. If we give him time, he could surely convince the other leaders to unite under the American banner of democracy. Why do we have to kill him? Is it really that important?

 

With rehearsed precision, Randall slid a fresh magazine into the reciever of his rifle. He slowly pulled the bolt back, chambering a round. Like a master painter putting the finishing strokes on his painting, Randall aimed the rifle. His gloved finger rested against the trigger, tempting him to squeeze it before he was ready. Randall slowed his breathing, trying to control his heart rate.

 

'Never point a gun at someone unless you intend to kill them.' His father's words echoed through his mind.

 

Randall, what do I do? I know this man is innocent, guilty of nothing. He has a wife, children, and a tribe to lead. Do I do the right thing? What is the right thing? Be a good man or be a good Marine? Should I spare the man this day and face a court-martial?

 

Randall adjusted for wind speed and distance. He took in a deep breath, steading his aim. The smell of dust reached his nostrils. The air was crisp and cool. His finger tightened on the trigger.

 

Be a good Marine. Follow orders and get the job done. You took the oath, don't question it now. Not when everyone is depending on you.

 

Randall joined the Marine Corps back in the Eighties and quickly volunteered for the Scout Sniper program. He graduated at the top of his class and became one of the Corps top snipers. He could boast a record of thirty-seven confirmed kills.

Author's Note

spelling may be a little off.