Sergent Hargrove moved two inches and lay still. He was pleased that the slight breeze rustled the tall grass around him. He crawled forward again, four inches this time. He needed to get another 30 yards to be within range. He also had to get within range before the sun broke over the ridge behind him.
Through his binoculars he watched as the sentries met in front of the hooch. They paused, then moved on. He had three minutes while their backs were turned to propel himself forward. He got to his feet and ran. He covered 15 yards, before throwing himself to the ground. Only 15 more yards to go. He lay still, trying to control his breathing, thinking of his football days, when 10 yards seemed an eternity, this time it really was.
The sentries met, paused and moved on. He ran again, then flopped in the tall grass. Satisfied now with the range, he lay quietly, waiting for the sunrise. Ants crawled over him, their hill was under his left leg. He ignored them. The early morning sun would blind the sentries to where the shot came from. He brought his rifle up. He'd been told that the target came outside every morning for a smoke. He made last minute adjustments to compensate for the cross-breeze. Then he tightened the sling around his arm, zeroed in on the front porch and waited. "There he is,” Hargrove thought. He looked through the scope and zeroed it on the targets eye. He fired.