Valkyrie
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 4
True to her word, the next morning, a helicopter arrived with specialized equipment for the mission. There was a Snipex .50 caliber Alligator that shot a 14.5 x 114mm caliber round, which is significantly more powerful than the standard .50 BMG (12.7mm) round with a maximum range of up to 7,000 meters (over 4 miles). The only drawback for Megumi was it is a large weapon, weighing about 25 kg (55 lbs). It came with break down case. The weapon had mounting for a Vortex Venom 5-25x56 FFP offers a 5-25x scoped magnification range.
Webb received a Razor HD 27-60 × 100mm spotter scope with tripod including break down case. A sixty-pound baby that could spot over four and a half miles
Megumi spent the day familiarizing herself with the tremendous recoil and sighting.
The night air bit Megumi’s face as she crouched beside Webb at the edge of the landing zone, waiting for the faint “wop-wop” of helicopter blades that would signal the beginning of their mission. The moonless Afghan sky stretched above them a canvas of stars more brilliant than anything she’d seen in Colorado.
Somewhere out there across miles of hostile territory, Abdul Rahman was preparing for his weapons exchange, unaware that his name was on a kill list that had reached the highest levels of American military command.
“Nervous?” Webb asked his voice barely audible over the soft mountain wind. Megumi touched the compass in her pocket, her grandfather’s compass feeling its weathered brass beneath her fingertips.
“Not nervous,” she replied, focused, but that wasn’t entirely true. Behind her calm exterior, Megumi’s mind raced with conflicting emotions. Pride at being chosen for this mission.
Apprehension about the near impossible shot awaiting her. And a deeper, more unsettling question that had been growing since Colonel Hayes’ briefing, was she here because of her own merit or because of a genetic quirk inherited from a grandfather she barely knew? The distant thrum of rotor blades interrupted her thoughts. The helicopter materialized from the darkness, a black shape against the starlit sky, setting down just long enough for Megumi, Webb and Martinez to board before lifting off again.
No lights, no radio chatter, just the precision movement of a well-executed special operations insertion. Fifteen minutes to drop point, the pilot’s voice crackled through their headsets. Weather conditions holding stable. Winds at ten knots from the southeast.
Martinez leaned forward. “Equipment check, one last time.”
Megumi patted each component of her gear rifle secured in its case range finder, ammunition communication equipment, survival essentials.
The specialized Alligator they’d received for this mission weighed heavily across her back. Its presence a constant reminder of what lay ahead. As the helicopter bank toward their landing zone, Megumi’s mind drifted back to the Colorado mountains to her family’s ranch. To the first time her grandfather had placed a rifle in her small hands. She’d been eight years old standing in the field behind their house, uncertain and eager.
“Take your time, Megumi” Hiroshi Kashuahara had said his voice gentle but firm. “A rushed shot is a missed shot. Feel the weapon become part of you. Understand what it wants to do.”
She thought it strange phrasing at the time that a rifle could want anything. But as she’d grown older, as her marksmanship had developed from hobby to gift to professional skill, she’d come to understand what he meant.
Every weapon had its own personality, its own harmonics, its own way of translating the shooter’s intent into action. The best marksman didn’t fight those tendencies. They learned them, respected them, worked with them. The helicopter settled into a small clearing, rotors still turning as the team disembarked. The pilot gave a thumbs up and lifted off immediately, leaving them in sudden silence, broken only by the fading sound of the departing aircraft.
“Fifteen kilometers to the shooting position,” Martinez whispered, checking his GPS. “Terrain is steep, mostly rocky with sparse vegetation. Four hours of much-diminished time if we maintain good pace.”
“And if we encounter opposition,” Webb asked.
“We abort,” Martinez replied firmly. This mission has a single objective, to put Meg’s in position for the shot. Anything that compromises that objective is unacceptable risk.”
They moved through the darkness with the practiced efficiency of soldiers who understood that survival depended on discipline. Martinez took point his experience guiding them through terrain that might have seemed impassable to less trained observers.
Webb followed constantly scanning their surroundings with night vision equipment, alert for any sign of enemy movement. Megumi brought up the rear, the specialized rifle secure across her back, her mind already calculating variables for the shot to come.
Two hours into their movement, Martinez signaled for a halt. Ahead, the narrow path they had been following opened onto a wider valley. Even in the darkness, they could make out the dim lights of a small settlement.
“Not on the map,” Martinez muttered, studying the unexpected village through his night vision goggles. “Recent establishment or deliberately unmarked?”
“Posthumous structures,” Webb observed, “probably a farming community, non-combatants.”
Martinez nodded. “We go around, adds 40 minutes to our movement time.”
As they carefully circumnavigated the sleeping village, Megumi found herself wondering about the lives of the people inside those simple stone houses. Farmers, families, people trying to survive in a land torn by decades of war.
Did they support the Taliban? Did they hate Americans? Or were they simply caught in the middle, trying to protect their children in a world where violence had become routine? Her grandfather had written about similar thoughts in his journal, reflections on Vietnamese villagers trying to live between combatants.
The eyes of civilians in war zones all carry the same question he’d written. Are you here to help us or hurt us? And they’ve learned the hard way that the uniform doesn’t always answer that question honestly. By the time they reached the base of the ridge line that would serve as their shooting position, the eastern sky had begun to lighten. Dawn was approaching the deadline for establishing their hide before daylight exposed them to potential observation.
“Last push,” Martinez whispered, “800 meters mostly vertical. Watch your footing and noise discipline.”
The climb was grueling, especially with their equipment load. Megumi felt each additional ounce of the specialized rifle as they ascended the steep terrain. Loose rocks threatened to give way underfoot. Sparse vegetation offered minimal handholds. But years of hiking Colorado’s mountains had prepared her well, and she maintained a steady pace despite the challenging conditions.
They reach the ridgeline with the first pink streaks of dawn painting the eastern horizon. Martinez immediately set to work establishing security, creating subtle defensive positions that would protect them from potential attack while maintaining concealment.
Webb began unpacking his spotting equipment, preparing for the complex calculations that would support Megumi’s shot. Megumi found herself drawn to the edge of the ridgeline, where she could look out over the vast expanse they had crossed during the night. In the growing light, Afghanistan revealed itself in stark beauty, jagged mountains, deep valleys, and the scattered evidence of human habitation that had persisted through centuries of conflict.
She could see the village they had bypassed smoke now rising from cooking fires as the community awakened to a new day. And far in the distance, nearly three miles away, she could just make out the compound where Abdul Rahman was reportedly meeting with his terrorist network. At this range, it appeared as little more than a collection of beige structures against the brown landscape, almost indistinguishable from its surroundings. “Three miles,” she whispered to herself, the magnitude of the task ahead suddenly very real.
“Yea... 4,800 meters.” Webb joined her at the ridgeline, setting up his spotting scope on its carbon fiber tripod. “I’ve never even attempted calculations for this distance, he admitted, his voice carrying a note of awe. We’re in uncharted territory, Kashuahara.”
“Not entirely uncharted,” Megumi replied, thinking of her grandfather and whatever classified operations he might have conducted during and after Vietnam. Had he ever attempted something this ambitious? Had the Odin program pushed the boundaries of marksmanship this far before?
Martinez approached to having completed his security sweep? “Hide is established. We have clear observation of the target compound and multiple escape routes if extraction becomes necessary.”
He knelt beside them studying the distant compound through his binoculars. Webb begin environmental assessment.
“Kashuahar, prepare your position and equipment. We have approximately 90 minutes before the target window opens.”
Megumi nodded and moved to a flat section of the ridge line that offered both stability for shooting and concealment from observation. She unpacked the specialized rifle with methodical care assembling the weapon with movements that had become second nature through thousands of repetitions.
The Custom t0 caliber Alligator was a masterpiece of engineering the carbon fiber stock, match-grade barrel precision trigger assembly, and an advanced scope that represented the cutting edge of optical technology.
As she worked, Megumi thought about Abdul Rahman, the man she had been sent to kill. Seventeen bombing attacks across three countries, hundreds of civilian casualties, coordination with multiple terrorist networks. The intelligence briefing had painted him as a monster, a man whose elimination would save countless lives. Was he truly evil? Or was he like so many others in this complex conflict fighting for what he believed was right? Does it matter?
Her grandfather had written in his journal after killing the Viet Cong officer. In war, we rarely have the luxury of knowing the hearts of those we’re ordered to kill. We trust that those making the decisions have weighed the morality. Our job is to execute with precision and humanity as paradoxical as that sounds. A clean kill is its own form of respect.
Megumi settled behind her rifle adjusting her position for maximum stability and comfort. The weapon needed to become an extension of her body for the shot ahead. Any tension, any misalignment would translate to error at the target end. She controlled her breathing, feeling her heart rate slow as she entered the focus state that made exceptional marksmanship possible.
Kashuahara, Webb called from his spotting position. “I’m getting initial environmental readings. Wind at our position is 12 knots from the southeast. Temperature 68 degrees Fahrenheit, barometric pressure 26.8 inches and stable.”
Megumi made mental notes of these values, but she knew they were just the beginning. At nearly three miles, the bullet would pass through multiple wind zones, temperature gradients, and pressure systems. Its trajectory would be affected by the Coriolis effect, the rotation of the Earth itself. The curvature of the planet would come into play.
Subtle variations in air density between the ridgeline and the valley would alter the bullets path in ways that no existing ballistic calculator could fully predict.
“Martinez, I need higher ground, Megumi said suddenly studying the ridgeline. There’s a formation about 50 meters up that would give me better angle and elevation, less interference from thermal currents in the valley.”
Martinez frowned. “That position would be more exposed.”
“I know, but at this distance, the improved shooting conditions outweigh the increased vulnerability.”
Megumi met his gaze steadily. “This isn’t a standard shot, Sergeant. We need every advantage we can get.”
After a moment’s consideration, Martinez nodded. “Webb, maintain position here and establish communication relay. Kashuahara I will move to the higher position.”
The formation Megumi had identified was a jutting rock outcrop that provided a commanding view of the valley below. It offered a stable shooting platform and reduced the effect of heat mirage that would distort her scope picture as the day warmed. The trade-off was exposure they would be more visible against the skyline with fewer options for cover if detected.
As Megumi reestablished her shooting position on the higher ground, Webb’s voice came through their communication equipment. Target compound showing activity, multiple personnel moving in the courtyard, vehicles arriving from the southeast approach road. Megumi peered through her scope, adjusting the magnification to bring the distant compound into focus.
At nearly three miles even with the advanced optics, individual figures appear tiny. She could make out movement but couldn’t yet distinguish specific individuals or identify weapons.
“WebB talkto me about wind conditions between here and the target,” Martinez requested.
“Complex,” Webb replied, “I’m seeing dust movement indicating at least three distinct wind zones. Near ridge is 12 knots southeast. Mid valley showing lateral movement west to east at approximately 18 knots. Target area appears calmer, maybe 8 knots, but shifting direction frequently.”
Megumi absorbed this information, visualizing the invisible currents that would influence her bullet’s flight.
The mid valley winds would create the greatest deflection. Tate knots pushing laterally across the bullet path would move the point of impact significantly at this distance. She began making preliminary adjustments to her scope dialing and elevation to account for the extreme bullet drop over three miles.
“Kashuahara, what’s your confidence level?” Martinez asked quietly. Megumi continued working with her scope adjustments. “Under perfect conditions, with a stationary target and stable weather, I’d give it maybe a 30% chance of success. With variable winds and a moving target...” she left the sentence unfinished.
“So, we’re talking about a shot that’s more likely to miss than hit even for you?”
“Yes, but more likely to miss isn’t the same as impossible.” Megumi looked up from her scope.
“My grandfather’s journal mentioned something he called the moment of convergence, when all variables briefly aligned to create a perfect shooting solution. If such a moment occurs, I can make this shot.”
Martinez studied her face, searching for any sign of doubt or overconfidence. Finding neither, he nodded. “Then we wait for your moment of convergence.”
The next two hours passed in tense observation. Through her scope, Megumi watched the compound’s activity increase.
More vehicles arrived. Armed men established security positions. A makeshift market appeared to be forming in the courtyard. The weapons exchange described in the intelligence briefing was taking shape. Still no positive identification of Rahman,
Webb reported. “Multiple high-value targets visible, but primary objective remains unconfirmed.”
Megumi used the waiting time to fine-tune her mental calculations. She ran through the ballistic formulas, repeatedly adjusting variables, visualizing the bullet’s flight path. At extreme range, the, 50 caliber Alligator round would spend nearly seven seconds in the air and eternity in ballistic terms. The bullet would rise hundreds of feet above her line of sight before dropping toward the target. It would drift laterally with the wind its spin creating additional movement as it traveled.
And then there was the question of the Odin factor, whatever genetic gift allowed her to process visual information differently to understand trajectories intuitively. Megumi had never fully trusted this ability, preferring to rely on proven ballistic science. But at this distance, with so many variables beyond calculation, perhaps intuition was as valuable as mathematics.
Movement at the main building entrance, Webb’s voice crackled through the communication system, “SUV are arriving. Four to five security personnel exiting first. Establishing perimeter. Wait. His voice sharpened. Positive identification. Rahman has exited the building. Repeat primary target confirmed in the courtyard.”