I swear, it started out as an ordinary "power song" post. But my muse wanted it written fic-style, and I started to just sketch it out, but she wanted me to play fair with tactics, and then... Well. See for yourself. Or just skip down to the actual song lyrics...
I slipped over the top of the ridgeline like a stalking snake, slow and silent and flat on my stomach. Between my field and and digital camo I'd traded in my usual leathers for, I was fairly confident I couldn't be spotted, but while the opposition might not have any metatalents, they were among the best at their chosen trade. And this mission was too important to take even the most minimal avoidable risks.
So I took it slowly, averaging something under a foot per minute, until my head was high enough to take in the view. I had an good view over most of the target zone, a narrow river valley that was almost a gorge, just like the map and brief had predicted.
Of course, the opposition had good maps, too, and knew what good overlook positions were good for. They hadn't had time to seed every potential spot with remote sensors (probably), but it there was no chance they didn't have them all under the best observation they could manage. Which is why my helmet and goggles were matted to eliminate reflection, and I was moving like molasses in January.
My spot wasn't the best --no point in being obvious-- but it was good. Still, the range was a good two thousand meters, and my eyes aren't *that* good. I took my time, conscious of the mission clock ticking in my brain, and picked out the most likely positions of their ambuscade; the spots *I'd* have chosen in their shoes. Then I slipped back behind the crest of the ridge as slowly as I'd come, and began working my way sideways. What I was about to do called for a certain type of position, and I'd picked out three candidates on my way up. I squirmed towards the one with the best sightlines, crept up to just below the crest, and rolled over on my back. I triple-checked to make *sure* my external speakers were off, and called up the song that was the reason I was here.
Then I waited, as my ears filled with the hum of an over-driven amplifier, and I felt my magegift begin to whisper quietly to itself.
That's one of the reasons I don't use this song very often: it takes its own sweet time to 'power up.' My few experiments with trimming the opening instrumentals to 'cut to the chase' didn't quite qualify as backlashes, but the headache lasted for *hours.* I guess it comes from the part of my personality that makes me such a good kitbasher -- even now, I couldn't help but feel a certain thrill watching all the parts materialize out of thin air and move into position, interlocking like a finely-machined puzzle into a long, darkly gleaming shape of polymer and steel, with hint of oil.
I don't know what it is, really -- I've had various gun geeks who've seen it call it everything from a Dragunov to a Walther 3000 to at least three different models of Barret. What I can say is that it's a long gun, scoped and suppressed, has a bolt action and magazine feed, and is as accurate as any rifle ever made.
Of course, I have to admit it's a bit of a cheat.
At the 33sec mark, the vocals kicked in and the rifle completed itself with a final well-oiled "click." I cycled a round into the chamber and rolled over to snake my way up into my chosen shooting position.
I've never had a really strong opinion one way or the other on firearms -- oh, when I was young, I learned the basics like most American kids, and I enjoyed it well enough, but I never felt really *passionate* about it. And once my metatalent kicked in, handling a butter knife was risky enough, much less a firearm. Besides, my talent usually gave me better, more finely controllable options.
Still, there were situations where the opposition had teleport blocks, and energy detectors, and telepathy screens, or sometimes just too darn much luck, and the only option is to fall back on more old-fashioned methods, as perfected in a place called Stalingrad.
Not that I'm above using my unique advantages for all they're worth, though.
My chosen firing position had foliage that covered me as a came head-and-shoulders over the ridgeline, seating the rifle butt against my shoulder and snugging my cheek against the stock as my sights settled onto the first target position I'd picked out below. The scope, as always, was zeroed to the range I was expecting to shoot at and set at a zoom level that struck the best balance between field of view and magnification.
My first target was, as I'd expected, a sniper in full ghillie suit partway up the far side of the valley, stationed to watch for someone like me. Even through the scope, it took me a couple seconds to resolve the difference between him and the moss-covered log he was covering behind -- this guy was good. I settled my crosshairs between his shoulders, let my breath trickle out slowly, and the recoil caught me by surprise as I saw him twitch -- somehow, he'd seen me just before I fired.
That's another reason I tend to avoid using this song. I'm a soldier -- I'm prepared to kill if I have to. I've done it. But something about sniping, as much as it makes sense pragmatically, is just a bit too cold-blooded for me. Too... impersonal. Listen to me -- next thing you know, I'll be blathering about honorable combat and issuing formal challenges on the battlefield. Although, it sure *would* confoozle the heck out of the bad guys....
My round left the muzzle doing a shade over Mach 2, and I started cheating. For the first thirty-plus meters, it was still within my talent's effective radius, and still under my control -- I could feel the trajectory taking shape, project it out through gravity and turbulence, see where it would end, and tweak it to within millimeter accuracies. The first shot really didn't need it -- my aim had been spot-on. But I was already coming to bear on the next target, and the rest of this engagement would have to be snapshots.
A mortar team with good overhead cover -- one down, one ducked fast enough. I pegged a round into the tube and moved on.
A periscope, looking for me over the top of the well-concealed foxhole. I put a round through the upper mirror, and another into the machine gunner casting about for a target in the next hole over.
Then something went *zing!* through my field, close enough to my head to make me fumble my next shot, even *with* the cheat -- the sniper on *my* side of the valley, who'd been blocked by terrain, had somehow made my position, despite my flash and sound suppression, and gambled that I didn't have a partner across the way. He'd thrown himself arse-over-teakettle down the slope, fetched up against a boulder (that *must* have hurt), and taken a darned credible snapshot at me. Without my field, he might had taken my head off. But as it was....
I cycled the bolt again and swung back to where the periscope had been, and sure 'nuff there was an officer or noncom who'd crawled out of his hole and was peering around the base of a tree with a pair of binocs that were barely out of the grass. I took the time to shoot out both lenses just as an object lesson, and then I saw the antiarmor missile arcing up, over, and down in my direction.
"Ohhhh, you *wascally* wabbits," I sang out as I got my legs under me and kicked off, throwing myself over the edge just before the missile hit five feet from my position with a hollow WHUMP. But now I was doing "The Man From Snowy River," except without a horse, and *boy* did that jumble of rocks look unfriendly....
I spent the rest of the engagement hiding in the rocks, playing "I'm Alive," and generally grousing about my lot in life while the assault force I'd been opening the door for rolled up the riverbed and wiped out the rest of the opposition, in a stiffly-fought but inevitable fight. Then I walked out to say hi to the boys I'd shot and compliment them on how much they were improving. Nice thing about my rifle -- it throws what I *want* it to throw, even if the projectiles violate the laws of physics. Like supersonic rounds that sting like heck, but don't actually do any harm. The boys got to use live ammo, but they *were* nice enough to replace their grenades, mortar rounds, and missile warheads with smoke rounds.
And that's how I ended my third week as an assistant guest instructor at the JSOC Special Tactics Combat Training School. Next week, we'll start on the "Counter-Metatalent Methodology" field exercises -- I can't *wait.* The boys've been getting a bit cocky this week, and it's time to remind them who the Big Rabbit is on this campus.
FILTER - Hey Man Nice Shot
I wish I would've met you.
Now it's a little late.
What you could'a taught me;
I could've saved some face.
They think that your early ending was all wrong.
For the most part, they're right;
But look how they all got strong.
That's why I say
Hey man nice shot.
Good shot man.
Thats why I say
hey man nice shot.
good shot man.
CHORUS:
A man has gun,
A man has fun,
Nice shot!
Now that the smoke's gone;
And the air is all clear;
Those who were right there;
Got a new kind of fear.
You'd fight and you were right,
But they were just too strong.
They'd stick it in your face and
Let you smell what they consider wrong.
That's why I say
Hey man nice shot.
A good shot man.
Thats why I say
Hey man nice shot.
What a good shot man.
CHORUS X4
Oh nice shot man!
I wish I would've met you,
I wish I would've met you,
I wish I would've met you,
I wish I would've met you;
I'd say nice shot!
Similar to "White Wedding," in that it supplies Doug with a sniper rifle optimized to his situation, which throws whatever ammo he can imagine, even if its behavior is inconsistent with the laws of ballistics and physics. Aside from their impact behavior, though, each round has to 'play fair' with Newton and Tartaglia after it leaves his AOE, which means that sufficiently bad wind conditions or unanticipated interference can still push the round off course.
The magazine provides ammo-of-choice for as long as the song lasts (just over 5 minutes for the standard track), after which the rifle dissipates, as do the remnants of the bullets.
The rifle does not finish assembling until the vocals kick in, and attempts to use shortened versions of the song consistently fail with mild backlash-ish effects -- apparently Doug's Inner Gunsmith *likes* piecing together his gun every time.
I slipped over the top of the ridgeline like a stalking snake, slow and silent and flat on my stomach. Between my field and and digital camo I'd traded in my usual leathers for, I was fairly confident I couldn't be spotted, but while the opposition might not have any metatalents, they were among the best at their chosen trade. And this mission was too important to take even the most minimal avoidable risks.
So I took it slowly, averaging something under a foot per minute, until my head was high enough to take in the view. I had an good view over most of the target zone, a narrow river valley that was almost a gorge, just like the map and brief had predicted.
Of course, the opposition had good maps, too, and knew what good overlook positions were good for. They hadn't had time to seed every potential spot with remote sensors (probably), but it there was no chance they didn't have them all under the best observation they could manage. Which is why my helmet and goggles were matted to eliminate reflection, and I was moving like molasses in January.
My spot wasn't the best --no point in being obvious-- but it was good. Still, the range was a good two thousand meters, and my eyes aren't *that* good. I took my time, conscious of the mission clock ticking in my brain, and picked out the most likely positions of their ambuscade; the spots *I'd* have chosen in their shoes. Then I slipped back behind the crest of the ridge as slowly as I'd come, and began working my way sideways. What I was about to do called for a certain type of position, and I'd picked out three candidates on my way up. I squirmed towards the one with the best sightlines, crept up to just below the crest, and rolled over on my back. I triple-checked to make *sure* my external speakers were off, and called up the song that was the reason I was here.
Then I waited, as my ears filled with the hum of an over-driven amplifier, and I felt my magegift begin to whisper quietly to itself.
That's one of the reasons I don't use this song very often: it takes its own sweet time to 'power up.' My few experiments with trimming the opening instrumentals to 'cut to the chase' didn't quite qualify as backlashes, but the headache lasted for *hours.* I guess it comes from the part of my personality that makes me such a good kitbasher -- even now, I couldn't help but feel a certain thrill watching all the parts materialize out of thin air and move into position, interlocking like a finely-machined puzzle into a long, darkly gleaming shape of polymer and steel, with hint of oil.
I don't know what it is, really -- I've had various gun geeks who've seen it call it everything from a Dragunov to a Walther 3000 to at least three different models of Barret. What I can say is that it's a long gun, scoped and suppressed, has a bolt action and magazine feed, and is as accurate as any rifle ever made.
Of course, I have to admit it's a bit of a cheat.
At the 33sec mark, the vocals kicked in and the rifle completed itself with a final well-oiled "click." I cycled a round into the chamber and rolled over to snake my way up into my chosen shooting position.
I've never had a really strong opinion one way or the other on firearms -- oh, when I was young, I learned the basics like most American kids, and I enjoyed it well enough, but I never felt really *passionate* about it. And once my metatalent kicked in, handling a butter knife was risky enough, much less a firearm. Besides, my talent usually gave me better, more finely controllable options.
Still, there were situations where the opposition had teleport blocks, and energy detectors, and telepathy screens, or sometimes just too darn much luck, and the only option is to fall back on more old-fashioned methods, as perfected in a place called Stalingrad.
Not that I'm above using my unique advantages for all they're worth, though.
My chosen firing position had foliage that covered me as a came head-and-shoulders over the ridgeline, seating the rifle butt against my shoulder and snugging my cheek against the stock as my sights settled onto the first target position I'd picked out below. The scope, as always, was zeroed to the range I was expecting to shoot at and set at a zoom level that struck the best balance between field of view and magnification.
My first target was, as I'd expected, a sniper in full ghillie suit partway up the far side of the valley, stationed to watch for someone like me. Even through the scope, it took me a couple seconds to resolve the difference between him and the moss-covered log he was covering behind -- this guy was good. I settled my crosshairs between his shoulders, let my breath trickle out slowly, and the recoil caught me by surprise as I saw him twitch -- somehow, he'd seen me just before I fired.
That's another reason I tend to avoid using this song. I'm a soldier -- I'm prepared to kill if I have to. I've done it. But something about sniping, as much as it makes sense pragmatically, is just a bit too cold-blooded for me. Too... impersonal. Listen to me -- next thing you know, I'll be blathering about honorable combat and issuing formal challenges on the battlefield. Although, it sure *would* confoozle the heck out of the bad guys....
My round left the muzzle doing a shade over Mach 2, and I started cheating. For the first thirty-plus meters, it was still within my talent's effective radius, and still under my control -- I could feel the trajectory taking shape, project it out through gravity and turbulence, see where it would end, and tweak it to within millimeter accuracies. The first shot really didn't need it -- my aim had been spot-on. But I was already coming to bear on the next target, and the rest of this engagement would have to be snapshots.
A mortar team with good overhead cover -- one down, one ducked fast enough. I pegged a round into the tube and moved on.
A periscope, looking for me over the top of the well-concealed foxhole. I put a round through the upper mirror, and another into the machine gunner casting about for a target in the next hole over.
Then something went *zing!* through my field, close enough to my head to make me fumble my next shot, even *with* the cheat -- the sniper on *my* side of the valley, who'd been blocked by terrain, had somehow made my position, despite my flash and sound suppression, and gambled that I didn't have a partner across the way. He'd thrown himself arse-over-teakettle down the slope, fetched up against a boulder (that *must* have hurt), and taken a darned credible snapshot at me. Without my field, he might had taken my head off. But as it was....
I cycled the bolt again and swung back to where the periscope had been, and sure 'nuff there was an officer or noncom who'd crawled out of his hole and was peering around the base of a tree with a pair of binocs that were barely out of the grass. I took the time to shoot out both lenses just as an object lesson, and then I saw the antiarmor missile arcing up, over, and down in my direction.
"Ohhhh, you *wascally* wabbits," I sang out as I got my legs under me and kicked off, throwing myself over the edge just before the missile hit five feet from my position with a hollow WHUMP. But now I was doing "The Man From Snowy River," except without a horse, and *boy* did that jumble of rocks look unfriendly....
I spent the rest of the engagement hiding in the rocks, playing "I'm Alive," and generally grousing about my lot in life while the assault force I'd been opening the door for rolled up the riverbed and wiped out the rest of the opposition, in a stiffly-fought but inevitable fight. Then I walked out to say hi to the boys I'd shot and compliment them on how much they were improving. Nice thing about my rifle -- it throws what I *want* it to throw, even if the projectiles violate the laws of physics. Like supersonic rounds that sting like heck, but don't actually do any harm. The boys got to use live ammo, but they *were* nice enough to replace their grenades, mortar rounds, and missile warheads with smoke rounds.
And that's how I ended my third week as an assistant guest instructor at the JSOC Special Tactics Combat Training School. Next week, we'll start on the "Counter-Metatalent Methodology" field exercises -- I can't *wait.* The boys've been getting a bit cocky this week, and it's time to remind them who the Big Rabbit is on this campus.
FILTER - Hey Man Nice Shot
I wish I would've met you.
Now it's a little late.
What you could'a taught me;
I could've saved some face.
They think that your early ending was all wrong.
For the most part, they're right;
But look how they all got strong.
That's why I say
Hey man nice shot.
Good shot man.
Thats why I say
hey man nice shot.
good shot man.
CHORUS:
A man has gun,
A man has fun,
Nice shot!
Now that the smoke's gone;
And the air is all clear;
Those who were right there;
Got a new kind of fear.
You'd fight and you were right,
But they were just too strong.
They'd stick it in your face and
Let you smell what they consider wrong.
That's why I say
Hey man nice shot.
A good shot man.
Thats why I say
Hey man nice shot.
What a good shot man.
CHORUS X4
Oh nice shot man!
I wish I would've met you,
I wish I would've met you,
I wish I would've met you,
I wish I would've met you;
I'd say nice shot!
Similar to "White Wedding," in that it supplies Doug with a sniper rifle optimized to his situation, which throws whatever ammo he can imagine, even if its behavior is inconsistent with the laws of ballistics and physics. Aside from their impact behavior, though, each round has to 'play fair' with Newton and Tartaglia after it leaves his AOE, which means that sufficiently bad wind conditions or unanticipated interference can still push the round off course.
The magazine provides ammo-of-choice for as long as the song lasts (just over 5 minutes for the standard track), after which the rifle dissipates, as do the remnants of the bullets.
The rifle does not finish assembling until the vocals kick in, and attempts to use shortened versions of the song consistently fail with mild backlash-ish effects -- apparently Doug's Inner Gunsmith *likes* piecing together his gun every time.
