This was his third combat deployment, and Marcus was seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. He had spent months waiting for the green light in Iraq during Desert Shield, and eventually chased down Iraqi Republican Guard commanders and mobile SCUD launchers in the deserts of Iraq during Desert storm. He had hunted and killed Somali warlords in Mogadishu in 1993, an operation he considered to be successful despite what the media had portrayed after nineteen brave Army Rangers and Delta Operators had been killed after a Blackhawk was shot down. And now he found himself back in the action again, hunting down Serbian commanders guilty of heinous war crimes.

He lay prone, concealed by thick brush and the woods on the top of the small hill. His spotter, Corporal Matt Bynes lay next to him. It was their fifth mission in Bosnia over the last three months, and Marcus had been assured by his Captain that things were starting to wind down and that they would be headed back to the states soon. Marcus wasn’t sure he believed it, but he certainly wasn’t going to argue if that were true. His wife was still waiting for him back home. At least, he hoped she was. He hadn’t received a letter from her in a couple of weeks, and she never seemed to be around or able to talk when he called.

“I’ve got the mark,” Bynes said as he peered through his binoculars. Bynes was over a decade younger than Marcus who was pushing his late thirties. They had been paired for this deployment - the crusty old Gunny taking the young Corporal under his wing. Marcus’ only goal was to get them both home alive. Anything beyond that was a bonus.

“Crossing the road?” Marcus said as he picked up the man through the scope of his M40A1 rifle chambered in 7.62 x 51 NATO. The man was a Serbian Colonel that had been responsible for shelling a small village outside of Sarajevo. He was wearing a Serbian military winter uniform, escorted by a small contingent of soldiers. They had been watching the target area for the last two days, having received intel that he had set up his base of operations amongst a small village to discourage NATO allied bombings.

“Affirm, 564 yards, winds out of the east, two miles per hour,” Bynes responded as he confirmed Marcus’ calculations for windage, drop, and density. At that range, the smallest error would be the difference between a kill shot and exposing their position with nothing to show for it.

Marcus clicked in the settings in his scope as he zeroed his sights on the man’s head. That was the life of a sniper - hours, even days, of sitting and waiting followed by intense, split second, life and death decision-making. His adrenaline was pumping, but he remained unphased. He now only had to focus on his breathing and trigger pull as the man stood talking to one of his Lieutenants.