Lilith
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 2: U.S. Army Sniper School
FORT BENNING, GEORGIA
January 2013
Shira reported to the Sniper School the day after completing OSUT. No break, no leave. The Army didn’t waste time when it had a trained asset.
The school compound was separate from the main training areas—a collection of ranges, classrooms, and field sites designed specifically for precision shooting. Forty students stood in formation on the first morning, all of them experienced soldiers.
Except her.
Staff Sergeant Daniel Warren stood before them, flanked by three other instructors. His eyes swept the formation with the practiced assessment of a man who’d evaluated hundreds of students.
“Welcome to the United States Army Sniper Course,” Warren began. “I’m Staff Sergeant Warren, senior instructor. Over the next seven weeks, you will be taught advanced marksmanship, field craft, observation, and reconnaissance. You will learn to shoot accurately at extended ranges, move undetected through hostile terrain, and operate independently with minimal support.”
He paused, letting the weight settle.
“The standards here are absolute. You either meet them or you don’t. There is no curve, no second chances, no participation trophies. Fifty percent of you will fail.” His gaze touched on Shira briefly. “I don’t care about your rank, your time in service, or where you came from. I care about one thing: can you put a round on target when it matters.”
Shira believed him. She’d heard the same speech, more or less, from Israeli instructors. Warriors recognized each other across borders.
“One more thing,” Warren continued. “Some of you may have noticed we have a female student this cycle. Private First Class Abrams.” He looked directly at her. “She’s here because she earned it. She’s held to the exact same standards as every man in this formation. If that’s a problem for anyone, the door is right there. No one is forcing you to be here.”
No one moved.
“Outstanding. Get to class.”
WEEK ONE: ACADEMICS
The classroom instruction was dense—ballistics physics, meteorological effects, range estimation techniques, target analysis, scope mechanics. Shira took notes in a mixture of Hebrew and English, her handwriting small and precise.
Next to her sat another student who’d arrived quietly and said little. Her name tape read CHEN.
“You’re the Israeli, right?” Chen said during a break.
“Yes. Shira.”
“Sarah Chen. Third time trying for this course.” She said it matter-of-factly, without shame. “Washed out twice on the stalking portion. Couldn’t get close enough without being spotted.”
“What changed?”
“I stopped trying to be invisible and started trying to be terrain.” Sarah shrugged. “We’ll see if it works this time.”
They became study partners by default—two women in a school designed for men, both knowing they’d be scrutinized more carefully than anyone else.
On the third day, Shira noticed another student watching her. Specialist Rex Farber, a stocky man from Ohio with the build of a linebacker and eyes that tracked her movements with open hostility.
“Problem, Specialist?” she asked.
“Nope.” He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Just wondering how long you’ll last.”
“Longer than you.”
His smile vanished. “We’ll see.”
Sarah watched the exchange. “That one’s going to be a problem.”
“I know,” Shira said.
WEEK TWO: LIVE FIRE
The ranges were where students started washing out. Classroom knowledge meant nothing if you couldn’t execute under pressure.
The M24 sniper weapon system was heavier than Shira expected, but the scope was exceptional—clear glass, precise adjustments, reliable tracking. She spent the first morning familiarizing herself with the weapon, noting the differences from IDF systems.
Then came the shooting.
Warren walked the line as students engaged targets at 300 meters. Most were competent—these were experienced soldiers who’d already proven basic marksmanship. But competent wasn’t the standard here.
“Sight picture,” Warren called. “Trigger press. Follow-through. If I see anyone jerking that trigger, you’re doing push-ups until I’m bored.”
Shira settled into her position. Breath control. Natural respiratory pause. Smooth press.
The rifle fired. The target dropped.
“Again,” Warren said. “Engage target fourteen.”
She worked through the course methodically. Target after target, distance after distance. By the end of the morning, she’d hit every single one.
Warren checked her score sheet. “Outstanding, Abrams. Take a break.”
Rex was three lanes over. She’d heard him miss twice. When Warren moved on, Rex glared at her.
“Teacher’s pet,” he muttered, just loud enough for his friends to hear.
Shira ignored him. Words didn’t matter. Scores did.
WEEK THREE: EXTENDED RANGE
At 600 meters, the course got harder. Wind became a dominant factor. Temperature, humidity, barometric pressure—all affected bullet trajectory in ways that required constant mental calculation.
Sarah struggled. She could shoot well at shorter distances, but the math at range overwhelmed her. Shira helped her during study sessions, walking through the calculations step by step.
“How do you do it so fast?” Sarah asked, frustrated with herself.
“Practice. My father drilled this into me for years.”
“Your father taught you to be a sniper?”
“Yes. In the Golan Heights. Since I was seven.”
Sarah stared. “Seven? That’s...”
“Necessary,” Shira said. “Where I grew up, everyone was a potential target. Training kept you alive.”
“Jesus.” Sarah shook her head. “And I thought my childhood was rough.”
At 800 meters, two students washed out—couldn’t maintain accuracy, couldn’t handle the mental pressure. The class was now down to thirty-six.
Rex was still in, but barely. His scores put him in the bottom third. Shira led the class.
She noticed him watching her more frequently. His comments became more frequent too—muttered jokes about “diversity quotas” and “affirmative action snipers.” His small crew laughed along, but uncomfortably.
Warren noticed too. She saw him documenting Rex’s behavior in a small notebook, but he said nothing. Not yet.
WEEK FOUR: THE SABOTAGE BEGINS
INCIDENT ONE: THE JAMMED BOLT
The night before a major qualification shoot, Shira performed her routine weapons maintenance. The bolt on her M24 caught—wrong resistance, wrong feel.
She field-stripped the rifle methodically. Someone had jammed the bolt mechanism with dirt and debris, packed carefully into the chamber. Subtle enough that most shooters wouldn’t notice until they tried to fire.
Shira cleaned it thoroughly, lubricated the action, and reassembled the weapon. Twenty minutes of work. She said nothing to anyone.
The next morning on the range, Rex kept glancing at her lane, waiting for something.
When she fired her first shot—clean, on target—his expression darkened.
She shot expert qualification. Rex barely passed.
INCIDENT TWO: THE SCOPE
Before the 1,000-meter qualification, Shira took her position and ranged the target. Something felt wrong—the reticle alignment was off, just slightly.
She checked the scope adjustments. Someone had turned the elevation dial three clicks up—barely noticeable, but enough to throw shots high at extended range.
In the Golan Heights, her father had taught her to compensate for equipment failures. The rifle is a tool. If the tool breaks, you adapt.
She mentally calculated the offset and adjusted her holdover to compensate.
First shot: center mass.
Warren observed through spotting scope. “Did you adjust your scope, Abrams?”
“No, Staff Sergeant. I compensated for a three-click elevation error.”
He walked to her position and checked the scope. His jaw tightened. “Someone tampered with this?”
“Appears so, Staff Sergeant.”
“And you just ... calculated around it?”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”
Warren’s expression was unreadable. “Carry on.”
She shot nine more rounds. Every single one hit.
Rex’s face went white when the scores were posted. He’d come in twentieth out of thirty-six. Shira was first. Again.
Warren approached Rex after the shoot. “Specialist Farber. A word.”
Shira didn’t hear the conversation, but she saw Rex’s body language—defensive, angry, defiant. Whatever Warren said, it wasn’t a friendly chat.
Sarah found Shira during the lunch break. “Rex is losing his shit. His buddies are starting to distance themselves.”
“Good.”
“You’re not worried?”
Shira thought about the suicide bomber who’d killed Ari. About Hezbollah fighters trying to kill Saul. About real threats versus petty harassment.
“No,” she said simply.
WEEK FIVE: FIELD CRAFT
The course shifted to stalking and concealment—the art of moving undetected through hostile territory. Students spent hours lying motionless in ghillie suits, learning to become terrain.
Sarah excelled here. Whatever she’d changed from her previous attempts worked—she ghosted through the field exercises, nearly invisible.
Shira was good, but Sarah was better. Shira didn’t mind. Everyone had strengths.
Rex continued to struggle. His scores were declining, his frustration mounting. His crew had mostly abandoned him now—they’d seen the sabotage attempts, heard the comments, and wanted no part of whatever was coming.
One of them—a corporal named Davis—approached Shira after class.
“Look, I just want to say ... some of us aren’t cool with what Rex is doing.”
“Okay.”
“He’s obsessed with you. It’s creepy. Just ... watch your back.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Davis nodded and left. Small moment, but it mattered. Not everyone was an enemy.
WEEK SIX: THE GHILLIE SUIT
INCIDENT THREE: BLEACH
The final major evaluation was a full-spectrum stalk—construct a hide, move 400 meters without detection, engage a target at 300 yards, and extract. The ghillie suit was critical for this evolution.
Shira had spent weeks building her suit—carefully weaving burlap, natural vegetation, and camouflage material into a three-dimensional pattern that broke up human silhouette. It was tedious work, but essential.
The morning before the final stalk, she found her ghillie suit destroyed.
Someone had poured bleach across it—the material was discolored, stiff, ruined. Hours of work obliterated. The suit was unusable, and the test was tomorrow.
Sarah found her staring at the damage.
“Jesus Christ. Rex?”
“Probably.”
“You can’t make a new one in time—”
“I know.” Shira’s voice was calm, but her mind was racing. The ghillie suit was required equipment. Without it, she couldn’t complete the test. Without the test, she couldn’t graduate.
“I’ll help,” Sarah said immediately. “We’ve got—” she checked her watch “—fourteen hours. We can do this.”
They worked through the night. Sarah brought materials from her own stockpile. Other students—Davis and two others who’d quietly become allies—contributed spare burlap and vegetation.
By 0400, they had a functional ghillie suit. Not as refined as the original, but it would work.
Shira looked at Sarah. “Thank you.”
“Anytime. Now go pass this fucking test.”
THE FINAL STALK
Twenty students remained. They’d be inserted in pairs, required to stalk to an observation post, identify a target, and engage without being detected by evaluators with high-powered optics.
Shira was paired with Rex Farber.
The pairing was random, but it felt like fate.
They inserted at 0600, eight miles from the objective. The terrain was thick Georgia forest—pine, oak, scrub brush. Good concealment, but difficult movement.
Rex set a brutal pace on the hike, trying to exhaust her. Shira matched him step for step, her body remembering the Golan Heights hills.
By mile six, Rex was breathing hard. Shira’s breathing was controlled, steady.
“Slow down,” she said. “We need energy for the stalk.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Rex snapped.
They reached the insertion point with two hours to prepare. The target was a moving vehicle—a pickup truck with a visible driver, traveling on a dirt road 300 to 500 yards from potential shooting positions.
The terrain forced them into a hide on a slight slope. Not ideal—the angle would extend the effective range.
Shira ranged the target zone. “From this position, the target will be approximately 450 yards when it passes. Not 300.”
“Bullshit. That’s 300 max.”
“The angle extends the distance. Trust me—”
“I don’t trust you.” Rex cut her off. “You’ve been trying to sabotage me this whole course.”
Shira stared at him. “You’re joking.”
“You jammed my rifle. Messed with my scope—”
“That was you. You did those things to me.”
Rex’s face flushed. “Lying bitch. Just give me the wind call.”
Shira calculated silently. Engaging at 450 yards, moving target, 10 mph wind from the east, downhill angle...
“Wind eight miles per hour, right to left. Lead the target three feet. Aim center mass, hold two MOA low to compensate for the downhill angle.”
Rex settled into shooting position. His breathing was erratic, his grip too tight.
The target vehicle appeared.
“Send it,” Shira said calmly.
Rex fired.
The shot went wide right—missed by three feet.
“Fuck!” Rex screamed. “You gave me wrong data!”
“The data was correct. You jerked the trigger—”
“BULLSHIT!”
He turned on her, face red with rage. Before she could react, his hands were around her throat.
“You fucking sabotaged me! You ruined my—”
Shira’s training took over. She pressed the radial nerve on his right hand—a precise strike to a bundle of nerves Simon had taught her when she was twelve. Rex’s grip spasmed open involuntarily.
In one smooth motion, she drew the training knife from her belt and brought it to his throat.
Rex froze. The blade was sharp enough to draw a thin line of blood.
“Let me be very clear,” Shira said, her voice cold and level. “You grabbed me. You are assaulting a fellow soldier. And right now, I have a blade at your carotid artery. If I wanted you dead, you would be dead.”
Rex’s eyes were wide, finally understanding. This wasn’t a game. She wasn’t a victim.
She was a warrior.
“This is over,” Shira continued. “You will let go. You will back away. And you will never touch me again. Understand?”
“Yes,” Rex croaked.
She released him and stepped back, knife still ready.
Above them, a surveillance drone captured everything.
AFTERMATH
Within thirty minutes, Warren and two other instructors arrived at their position. They’d been monitoring the drone feed in real time.
“Specialist Farber,” Warren said, his voice like iron. “You’re removed from training, effective immediately. MPs are waiting at the compound.”
“But she—”
“We saw everything. The assault. Her restrained response. You’re done.”
Rex was escorted away in handcuffs.
Warren turned to Shira. “You okay, Abrams?”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”
“Good shooting data, by the way. Ballistics review confirms your calculations were spot-on. His miss was poor fundamentals.” He paused. “You showed remarkable restraint. That knife could’ve done a lot more damage.”
“I’m a soldier, Staff Sergeant. Not a murderer.”
“Good answer.” He gestured to the extraction point. “Get back to compound. We’ll debrief this evening.”
WEEK SEVEN: GRADUATION
The final week was abbreviated for Shira—the failed mission was ruled a partner failure, not her fault. Her scores throughout the course had been exceptional. The instructors had no doubt about her qualification.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.