The young man nodded, his helmet floating on his head a bit. “What do we do?”

The sniper was technically within range of the M16s their training weapons were made to simulate, though only for a good shot lying on firm ground. But what the hell? They were out here to experiment, right?

“Shoot him.”

“What? I can’t hit him from here. He’s like a mile away, sir.”

“Then you’ll miss him. And if you do, we’re going to get the trunk of this tree between him and us, and we’re going to very carefully climb to the ground. Him scoring against you is less of a problem than you falling. Understood?”

Duane gave a short, frightened nod as Smith altered the way the young man’s Merge treated a hit—disabling the subroutine that would degraded his vision and balance for one that read out the damage percentage only.

“Find a solid position and lean your rifle on a branch. What’s your targeting system saying?”

Duane hugged the tree and pressed the side of the weapon against the trunk, which was thick enough to resist the light winds. “The crosshairs have come up and it says he’s four hundred and twelve meters away. It’s asking for wind direction.”

“What do you think? That’s because it’s such a long shot.”

“Pretty much left to right.”

“Okay. That’s due east. Enter it.”

“It’s asking for speed.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. Maybe five miles an hour?”

Smith had significantly more experience judging these kinds of things and decided to cheat a bit. “Why don’t you put in seven?”

“Done.”

“Okay, Duane. Your team needs to get across that clearing alive. And for them to do that, you need to shoot that son of a bitch. Or at the very least, put the fear of God into him.”

“Should I tell them what I’m going to do?” Corporal Grayson’s voice suddenly filled their heads. “We’re already listening on the open comm. We’re ready. Let us know how you do and if we should go.”

“Roger,” Duane said and then held his breath while he adjusted his aim. It was an odd thing to watch—there was no scope or sights on the weapon, and thus no need for him to look along the barrel.

“Don’t jerk the trigger,” Smith said. “It’s got a nice light pull. Just an easy squeeze when you’ve got your crosshairs on him.”

The artificial sound of the rifle sent the birds sharing the tree into the air and Smith watched the readout in his peripheral vision.

“Jesus…”

“It’s a hit!” Duane shouted. “Go. Go!”

The sound of the team sprinting across the riverbed drifted up to them as the Delta sniper’s combat effectiveness number rolled down to forty-five percent. He lurched from beneath the poncho and, respecting the rules of the game, stumbled along in an awkward retreat. Duane got off another shot, but with the addition of movement into the equation, there was no way he could finish the job. Smith, though, knew that he himself could have easily. Incredible.