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Message-ID: <37817asstr$1029075005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "artie m" <silli_artie@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} "Testing the Blade" by artie (FF, Caution)
Date: Sun, 11 Aug 2002 10:10:05 -0400
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Testing the Blade

(C) Copyright 2002 by silli_artie@hotmail.com

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/artie/www/blade.html

This work may not be reposted or redistributed without the prior express 
written permission of the author.

A work of fiction, meant for adults.  Read something else if you are not an 
adult, or are offended by stories with sexual content.  Then again, if all 
you're looking for is in-out, in-out, in-out, you should probably read 
something else.  I welcome constructive comments.  Enjoy.

	I started the morning by running a route to make sure I wasn't being 
tailed.  After all this time, it's almost a reflex -- but it's never done 
without thought.  That one time you don't pay attention, that will be the 
time it really matters...

	I met a local supporter.  All he knew was that he was to give someone a 
ride.  I gave him directions and we started off.

	It was a little over an hour out of town.  I napped along the way.  As we 
pulled up to our destination, a gate along a small county road, he asked, 
"Are you sure you'll be safe, Miss?"

	Three men waited by the gate.  A truck with a camper shell and what looked 
to be a rental car were parked nearby.  Another contact who was flying in 
later in the day would be meeting us and giving me a lift back to town and 
my hotel.

	"Yes, thank you for your concern," I told him with a smile.  I rotated my 
left wrist a little, feeling the ceramic blade in its spring-loaded holder 
along my forearm.  Even though I'm only about five foot four, I felt safe, 
or as safe as I could be in the circumstances.

	He pulled up the gate.  As I got out, I said, "Thank you again for your 
help."  I closed the door, waved, and he drove off.  I let my left arm hang 
down by my side, ready...

	My greeters: two older men, forties, one tall and fat, the other shorter 
and thin; the third man had the hallmarks of a U.S. Navy Seal and looked to 
be in his late twenties, my age.

	The fat one cried out in exasperation and anguish, "This is kidon?  You?"

	I didn't even bother to sneer.  I'd been through it too many times before.  
"Where's my rifle?" I asked.

	The thin one shook his head.  "This way, Major."  He indicated a path which 
led over the hill and started walking.  The fat one soon took the lead, 
muttering to himself all the while.  "They sent a little girl," he cried.

	Damn them -- I'd agreed to take this work, but I expected I'd be able to 
take my own rifle with me.  No, couldn't be done -- too risky, too easy to 
identify.  Shit -- you smuggle technical teams with trailerloads of 
technical gear in and out of the States all the time.  What's so hard about 
one rifle?  We'll provide you with one, don't worry.  That's like using 
someone else's toothbrush, I told them with disgust.  It will be a new one, 
better...  That means I'll have to break it in, get it sighted -- days of 
work.  My complaints fell on deaf ears.  Deaf ears and numb behinds was more 
like it.  I provided lists on what was acceptable, and how it had to be 
broken in and sighted.  I wasn't optimistic.  Being without my spotter, my 
sweet Ruty, was bad enough.  Nobody to hold me in the morning, to snuggle 
with at night, to keep me at my peak, to squeeze me between her sweet 
thighs.

	"You sighted in my rifle?" I asked the young one, who fell into step beside 
me.

	He smiled.  "Yes, ma'am."  After a brief pause, he looked forward, and said 
in a loud clear voice, "We followed your instructions to the letter.  It's 
good to be working with someone who knows how to break in a weapon 
properly."

	I smiled, chuckled, and nodded my head.  Things were looking up.  I could 
almost hear the fat one complaining, cleaning the barrel so carefully after 
every few shots, recording the result of each shot -- and now seeing a short 
and seemingly overweight young woman...

	"Thank you.  I'm Mary," I said, holding out a hand.  I was wearing thin 
leather gloves.

	With a smile, he shook my hand.  His grip was firm.  "Daniel," he said.  
"Pleased to be working with you."

	The fat one was still muttering as I paused at the ridgetop overlooking a 
valley.  Down a ways a canopy had been set up.  One more man was sitting by 
something covered with a cloth.  "Your partner?" I asked Daniel.

	"Yes Ma'am."

	"Did you work together as a tem?" I asked.

	He gave me another grin.  "Yes, Ma'am, for three years."

	"One shooting, the other spotting?"

	"Depended on the shot.  Alex is a little better at distance, but I read 
winds better."

	I nodded -- sounded like a good team.

	"My spotter is at home."  I missed my spotter, my sweet Ruty, undoubtedly 
sulking at home.  I'm sorry we couldn't bring you my sweet, but you wouldn't 
have worked -- you weren't born and raised here, as I was for 16 years.  I 
can almost see you pouting on our bed, one hand between your legs, idly 
fingering yourself.  I can almost see you, smell you, and taste you...

	We started walking again.  Fat and thin were just about to the canopy.  I 
spotted targets downrange as I observed the wind.  "You marked off the 
range?"

	"Yes, differential GPS.  We came as close as we could to the altitude 
differences you wanted at 800 and beyond.  Will you be needing a spotter?  
Always better to work with one."

	I nodded.  "Don't know yet -- I'd rather work with a spotter, but I've 
worked solo."

	"It's a lot harder," he agreed as we walked the last few yards to the 
canopy.

	The other seal, Alex, was still sitting down, even though the other two 
were now under the canopy.  I almost laughed -- he was making a statement.

	He stood up as we approached.  I saw an eyebrow raise as he looked at me, 
then glanced to his buddy.

	"Alex, this is Major Mary," Daniel said, introducing me.

	I held out a hand and shook his.  "Pleased to meet you Alex."

	He smiled.  "Pleased to meet you, Major."

	"Please call me Mary.  Let's see it."

	Alex took the cover off the rifle.  I smiled as I sat down on the tarp next 
to it.  "Oh, this is very nice," I said as I looked it over.  I took off my 
leather gloves and slipped on blue nitrile ones, making sure the cuffs 
stretched around my sleeves.  No prints, no contamination.

	I picked up the rifle.  Heavy, but not too heavy for a .50 caliber, about 
30 pounds.  Very nice work on the mounts for the telescopic sight -- they 
have to be done properly or the recoil will knock it out of alignment.  I 
asked about that, mentioning the name of a gunsmith as I checked the action.

	Alex said in a loud voice, "It's good to meet someone who recognizes 
first-class work."

	I worked the action, eyes open then eyes closed -- very nice, and I said 
so.  I put it back on the bipod and lay down, sighting through the scope.

	I sat up.  Fat and thin were sitting in camp chairs near the back of the 
canopy.  Fat was leaning forward, his head in his hands, still muttering in 
disgust.

	"Let's look at your sighting sheets," I said.

	Alex and Daniel sat down next to me and went over the records they'd kept 
for the break-in work.

	"Good work, gentlemen," I told them.  "Let's see how it shoots.  Who's 
spotting me?"

	Daniel moved to the spotting scope as Alex handed me a box of ammo.  I 
opened the box and looked at the cartridges.  They had a precise look and 
feel to them.  I picked two, placing them in my customary position.  "Two 
rounds, three hundred yards, at your signal," I said as I took position on 
my belly once more, putting on my shooting glasses.

	"Range ready," Daniel called out.

	I raised my head a little from the scope.  Part of me looked downrange, 
looking at the telltales, judging the wind, as another part of me put the 
cartridge into the action.

	I sighted, taking a breath.  Concentration on a ritual performed so many 
times -- let out half the breath, relax, aim, slack, squeeze.  Cycle the 
bolt as I breathed in again, noting with detachment the hole in the target a 
little high and a little to the left and repeat -- exhale, aim, slack, 
squeeze, and see another hole appear about an inch away from the first, 
closer to the center of the target.  I sat up, enjoying the ringing in my 
ears and the feeling in my body from the recoil -- like attention from a 
lover to me.  Oh Ruty -- how I miss your attention.

	Daniel looked up from the spotting scope with a smile.  Alex moved over and 
took a look.  As he raised his head he nodded as well, a nod of approval.

	"Cleaning supplies?" I asked.

	As Alex moved to get them, the fat one cried out in anguish, "Not again!  
How many times do we have to sit through this!"

	Daniel said, "You could change the target."

	Fatty scowled.

	As I picked up a cleaning rod, I said, "Nah -- too big a target to be 
challenging."

	Alex, Daniel, and the thin one laughed.  Fatty grunted and walked up the 
hill.

	I needed a strip of cloth for the middle of the cleaning rod -- it's part 
of my ritual, keeping the middle of the rod from touching the inside of the 
barrel.  I picked up a piece of scrap cloth with my right hand as I released 
my knife with my left.  I cut off a strip the size I'd need.

	Alex and Daniel observed me intently, looking at my left hand and the blade 
which hadn't been there a moment ago.  Alex gave me an inquisitive look.  I 
handed him the blade.

	He held it in his hand and whistled, nodding in approval as he handed it to 
Daniel.

	As Daniel handed it back to me he asked, "Ceramic?"

	I nodded as I wiped it on the cloth and resheathed it.  "Custom piece from 
Boker."

	We sat in silence as I went through the cleaning ritual.

	"How did I do?" I asked Alex and Daniel when I'd finished.

	Alex chuckled and shook his head.  "Our instructors would be pleased," 
Daniel said.

	Fatty returned, walking pompously.  His fly was open, some of his boxer 
shorts sticking out.  Alex frowned and started to say something.  I put a 
hand on his arm and said, "It's not a big deal."  That brought loud guffaws 
from everyone in the group, save one.

	I returned the rifle to shooting position and picked out four cartridges.  
"Okay, 1000 yards flat."

	"Finally!" fatty exclaimed.

	In an urban environment, chances were I'd not be doing anything beyond 600 
yards, 800 at the max.  Still, I'd learn a lot at 1000.  I dialed in the 
scope for that range.

	Based on what I saw of the winds, I corrected my first shot a little left 
and up.  Not quite enough correction, but very close.

	As I settled in for my second shot, fatty  started singing -- loudly.  When 
he didn't quiet down after a few seconds, Daniel yelled out, "Shut up, 
asshole!"

	That only made fatty louder.  As he screamed at Daniel and stomped around 
behind me, I heard Daniel get up and scream back.  Fine -- breathe, relax, 
aim, slack, squeeze.

	Shot number two was about two inches away from the first one.  I reloaded 
and squeezed off number three, pulling it more to the center, pulling it too 
much, about three inches to the left.  Cycle the action smoothly as I 
breathed, and placed number four closer to one and two.

	I sat up to see Daniel and fatty face to face about six inches apart, 
staring at each other.

	"That's enough!" I shouted as I policed my used brass.

	They both turned to me.

	Alex looked at them both with amusement and disgust.

	"Well?" the thin one asked, getting up from his chair.

	Alex moved away from the scope.  "Look for yourself.  A five inch group at 
1000 yards.  A whole lot better than I could do cold, with a rifle I'd never 
shot before."

	Fatty smiled from ear to ear, laughing and dancing with glee.  The thin one 
took a look through the spotting scope and smiled.  Daniel looked, then held 
out his hand.  We shook again.

	Fatty stopped dancing and approached me, smiling.

	"Please accept my apologies," he said, offering his hand.

	When I offered him my still gloved hand in return, he raised it in his and 
kissed it.

	"I understand," I told him.

	Alex and Daniel were nodding.

	"I hope they did that to you during training," I told them.

	Alex nodded.  "Oh yeah.  Still, too much of a distraction and it's easier 
to kill them."

	I laughed.  "I think we all consider that."

	"What now?" the thin one asked.

	"Another cleaning," I said, "wait a while for it to warm up, and work the 
range.  Run through this box of ammo and about a third of the next one."

	Fatty pouted.  "Can we take a break for lunch?  Please?"

	I smiled.  "Yes, cleaning first."

	The thin one suggested, "You could have him do it," nodding toward his fat 
colleague.

	My smile disappeared.  "Anyone other than Daniel, Alex, or myself that 
touches this rifle dies."

	Alex and Daniel stepped closer to the rifle, protecting it, and me.

	The thin one raised his hands.  "Sorry!  Trying to be useful!"  He stepped 
back.

	Fatty nodded his head.  "I can replace targets.  Can I keep the 1000 yard 
one?"

	I smiled again.  "Yes, thank you."

	Alex handed him two new targets.  Fat and thin headed down the range.

	As I sat and started cleaning again, Alex said, "That was very impressive 
shooting."

	I nodded.  "Thank you for making it possible."

	Daniel asked, "Ma'am, what did he call you earlier?  Kee something?"

	I looked at the end of my cleaning tool.  One more pass.  I looked to Alex, 
and Daniel.  "Kidon," I told them.  "It means blade, bayonet ...  or 
assassin."

	They both nodded.  "An honor to work with you, Major," Daniel said.  "Just 
ask if you need a spotter."  "Yes, an honor," Alex added.

	Oh Ruty -- as I nodded in reply to them, making my last cleaning pass on 
this fine barrel, I looked them both over carefully, spotting the wedding 
ring on Alex's hand, but not on Daniel's.  I thought about those winter 
nights on the Frontier, working with you, out on that hillside, with you 
leaning against me, our bodies pressing together to keep warm under a 
moonless night sky, and how much closer they pressed together when we were 
off duty...

	"Lunch?" I asked after putting away the cleaning kit.  I peeled off one set 
of blue gloves and put on another.

	Alex moved with a big smile, pulling a cooler out from under a tarp.  I had 
my choice of turkey or beef; I chose the turkey, and a Pepsi.  It was cold 
and tasted very good.

	The three of us talked as we ate.  They told me of Central America, often 
making their shots through dense foliage.  The last one they'd done, they 
spent a day up a tree blind, waiting for just the right breeze to hold a 
clear path open and their target to appear.  Twice things weren't right.  
The third time the winds were right, their target cooperated, and they made 
the shot.

	I shook my head.  No dense foliage where I worked.  I told them of our 
last, working with my favorite spotter (that's you, Ruty, if you didn't 
know).  We were dug into a hillside in a pile of rubble.  At sunset my 
spotter saw a glint of light off to our right.  She swung her scope around 
and saw another sniper pair setting up shop.  They had a nice blind, a 
better spot than we had.  In the fading light we identified them as 
unfriendly, and called our superiors.  Were they after the same target we 
were after?  Our target in the valley compound below had pissed off quite a 
few groups.  We don't like competition -- we were cleared to take them out.  
Isn't that going to alert our primary target?  Don't worry, we were told, 
you'll know when to do it; wait for it.

	A slight drop from our position, about 450 yards, the wind hadn't started 
yet -- not a tough shot.  I set it up and waited.  I watched them set up 
through my scope while my spotter watched the primary target area.  I could 
swing back and fire in under two seconds if need be.

	The rifle they had was an old one, East German or Soviet most likely, but 
with a very modern Western scope and mounting rings.  Seen through my scope 
they moved in and out of darkness with the ease and synchrony of a pair that 
had worked together for a long time.  I don't like competition, especially 
when they could be targeting friends or family.

	"Get ready," Ruty hissed in my ear later.  I didn't move, taking a slow, 
deep breath.

	I heard noise from the valley floor below -- mortar fire.  "Now!" she 
hissed.

	I took out the shooter, parting his hair as he dialed in his scope.  His 
spotter pulled him back into the darkness of their blind.  As the mortar 
fire continued sporadically, the idiots in the valley below started shooting 
anti-aircraft rounds at the surrounding hills, including the one we were on. 
  Someone sent up a parachute flare.  The flare wobbled enough to cast its 
light into their blind; I took out the spotter, confirming the hit just as 
the flare dropped too low to be useful.  I put a round into the receiver of 
their rifle, kicking it into the darkness of their blind.

	I returned to my primary target.  The compound in the valley floor below 
was boiling like a stirred-up ant mound, and with about the same amount of 
visible order.  "Pull back -- we're done," Ruty hissed in my ear.  We packed 
up and made it back to our pickup point.

	Our commander praised us for a very good catch.  They'd tentatively 
identified the pair we'd picked off -- very good and very active.  After 
spending a few days living in a hole in the side of hill, we had some time 
off.

	I looked to Alex and Daniel.  Fat and thin had rejoined us as well, picking 
lunch out of the cooler.

	Oh Ruty -- I didn't tell them about showering with you afterwards, how we 
scrubbed each other to get rid of the dirt and the bugs.  I didn't tell them 
about chiding you once more for not checking for bugs.  And you chided me 
for not completely shaving my privates -- that's when I took you to bed to 
check yours out much closer.  Oh Ruty, I miss you so!  I miss the way you 
taste, the way you moan, and the things you do to me!

	After lunch things had warmed up enough to work the range.  I wanted to 
shoot at different target elevations, temperatures, and wind conditions 
through the day.  We worked methodically, with Alex and Daniel taking turns 
spotting, taking breaks to let the barrel cool.

	I let them take a few shots so I could see how well the flash suppressor 
worked.  They were professional -- they worked on a 600 yard target.  Most 
of the men I'd worked with would have shot with their balls rather than 
their brains, and gone for the 1000 yard target.

	I was working at 800 yards, in the process of squeezing off my third shot 
when the fat one started screaming behind me, making quite a racket with 
something.  I made the shot, reloaded for the fourth, and then the fifth, a 
good, tight little group, all as he carried on.

	I sat up to see him beating our lunch cooler with one of the folding camp 
chairs.

	He looked to me with a smile, and then to Alex who was at the scope.  
"Well?" he asked.

	Alex shook his head, frowning.  "Under four inches at 800 yards.  Those 
chairs cost money, you know."

	Fatty shrugged his shoulders and sat on the cooler, his chair no longer 
useable for its intended purpose.

	We were cleaning up after my final group when the thin guy returned with 
another man.  I recognized him and nodded -- we'd worked together in the 
past.  I had support from the first team on this one.  The fat one came back 
up the hill from retrieving targets, huffing and puffing.

	Our new arrival asked, "How did we do?"

	Fatty beamed from ear to ear.  "Fantastic!"  He unzipped his windbreaker 
and pulled out a folded target, folded so a group of holes was visible.  
"This morning, 1000 yards, with me at my worst." he said as he handed the 
target to our new arrival.

	Our arrival nodded, smiling.  He handed the target back.  Fatty kissed it, 
and before he put it back in his jacket, he said with some emotion, "In 
memory of my granddaughter."

	We finished packing up and policing the area.  We walked back to the road.  
I carried the rifle case.  As I walked along, I knew I'd be sore tomorrow 
from all the shooting I'd done, and I smiled at the thought.  Sore from the 
attentions of a lover -- oh Ruty, how I miss you!  We'd come back from hours 
on the practice range and you'd start out massaging my back and shoulders, 
but you always got carried away, your strong hands drifting lower on my 
body, and soon I'd cry out and pull you to me...

	Another car had joined the earlier two.  I placed the rifle case in the 
trunk of the thin one's rental.  I will be seeing you again in a few weeks 
my friend, I told it silently.

	"Don't worry, we'll take very good care of it," the thin one told me.

	"Yes, and again, my apologies," the fat one said.

	I extended my hand, but we hugged and he patted my back.  "For our 
families, our friends, our country," he whispered.

	I exchanged hugs with the thin one.  They got into their car and drove off.

	I turned to Alex and Daniel.  I held out my arms, smiling.  I hugged one, 
then the other.  "Thank you for all your help," I told them.

	Alex said, "Let us know if you need a spotter.  They know how to contact 
us."

	"I will," I told them.

	They got into their truck and drove off.

	As soon as they were out of sight, my associate opened the trunk and took 
out a large plastic bag.  I still had gloves on.  The first thing in the bag 
was my wig with its plastic liner.  Damn, it itched!  Not as much as a 
Ghillie suit with days of desert in it, but close!  I took off my knife, 
then stripped off the outer layers of clothing, down to the "bunny suit" I 
was wearing to isolate the inner from the outer layers.  I dumped the gloves 
in the bag and let Peter peel the bunny suit off.  It went into a separate 
bag.  That left me in my sweats, feeling and looking a whole lot different.  
I set the knife on my left forearm and sighed as Peter closed the trunk, the 
bags safely packed inside.

	"Will you need more training time?" he asked as he handed me cleaning 
wipes.

	I wiped my face, neck, and hands.  "I think not.  If the conditions are 
really unusual, maybe, but I think not.  Where am I headed?"

	He smiled and opened the car door for me.  I got in and fastened the seat 
belt, hopefully free of any contamination.

	"Back to your hotel?" he suggested as he started the car.

	I didn't bother to make a face.  I'd find out when the time was right.  For 
now, I was a blade in its scabbard -- tested, sharpened, polished, ready to 
be used.  A trip to the sauna and a good massage for me, then a light 
supper.

	"The fucking goldfish are arguing over which target is number one and which 
is number two.  I told them last night to quit screwing around and pick one, 
or we will," he said as we pulled back on to the larger county road.

	"But either one," he told me with a smile, "will be much easier than your 
last one."

	I allowed myself a shudder -- those days and nights on the side of that 
hill...

	But Ruty --at least it was with you!  You to lean against me, ostensibly to 
keep warm, you who would lean over to me and whisper about the things you 
were going to do to me, how you were going to make me come over and over 
again, you who snuggles in my arms in bed in the morning, holding me and 
nursing at my breast.

	Oh Ruty -- I want to be back with you, back in your arms.

	"God's will," I said with a sigh.

FIN
08/01/2002

Testing the Blade
By silli_artie@hotmail.com
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/artie/www



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