Sergent Hargrove moved two inches and lay still. He was pleased that the slight breeze rustled the tall grass around him. He crawled forward again, four inches this time. He needed to get another 30 yards to be within range. He also had to get within range before the sun broke over the ridge behind him.

He watched as the sentries met in front of the hootch. They paused, then moved on. He had four minutes while their backs were toward him to propell himself forward. He ran. Now he only had 10 yards to go. He lay still, trying to control his breathing, thinking of his football days, when 10 yards was an eternity, this time it really was.

The sentries met, paused and moved on. He ran again. He flopped in the grass. Satisfied now, he brought his rifle up. He knew the target would come outside and smoke any moment now. He tightened the sling around his arm, zeroed in on the front porch and waited. “Ah, there he is,” Hargrove thought. He looked through the scope and zeroed on the targets eye. He fired.