Your Best Shot

YOUR BEST SHOT

“The thing you have to remember” said Ben, inhaling deeply then blowing smoke,

“the thing is, when you shoot them, they don't all just go down backward. It's not like in movies. There's no spandau ballet. Unless you get a headshot, they can just keep coming.”

Ben lit a fresh smoke from the butt of his last.

“Had a guy one time, plugged him in the chest twice. Just kept charging and screaming at me like he didn't know he was dead. Bit freaky.”

Two drones flew overhead and were quickly shot down by the automatic defense system. Ben and Ivan grabbed their helmets and hunkered down in case of showering debris.

It was Ivan's first outing, aged nineteen, fresh out of training. For Ben, at 24, it was his third or fourth, depending how you counted them. So Ivan was effectively under his wing today. Nice enough kid. Ukrainian or something, Ben forgot to ask.

Not important as right then the sound and feel of chopper blades filled the air behind them. Time to roll.

“Time to roll”, said Ben as he tossed his cigarette. “Stay low.” They hoisted their packs and guns, and made their way to the waiting chopper. Inside, he greeted the pilot Joey, who'd taken him on a couple of missions.

“Ready to go mate?”

“Ready when you are bro”, said Ben, strapping himself in next to Ivan.

“This'll be show number four eh?”

“Depends how you count them.” Ben replied. Joey was Australian so Ben made allowances.

They took off and were soon set down, about a click away from the target.

“Rotsa ruck.” Joey yelled as they disembarked amid rising dust. “Be back for you in about an hour okay?”

Ben gave a thumbs up as they moved out, staying low.

It took them about twenty minutes to make their destination: a small hill overlooking the camp. Just as the sky was beginning to take the touch of morning sun. Ben waved Ivan toward the patch of bush at its base.

“Stay low. Stay sharp. Don't shoot anyone unless you have to.”

Ivan nodded, and ensconced himself in the bush, out of sight, while Ben made his way up the hill.

Making his way and getting into place to set up, he had plenty of time to think and reflect. Ben wasn't much given to reflection though: he was one for focusing on the task at hand. So let's do it for him shall we.

Starting at the start: Ben was born in the usual way, as the very youngest of five siblings – the scrag end, as his father tended to call him. The runt of the litter. That was how he grew up: his brothers were a decade or more older than him, so they didn't hang out much. So he grew up mostly alone, and a loner. And small.

Weedy little guys fared about as well in school then as they do now; Ben learned to stay low, fast, mostly invisible. The bullies barely noticed him. When they did, he dealt with it in the same way: fast, hard and sharp, then gone before they knew what hit them – didn't have to do it too often. He did well enough in school, but didn't rise above the radar, pretty much on purpose. He stayed small.

He didn't really have friends. While not unsociable, he wasn't quick to form firm bonds, and home life was comfortable enough really. There was a black cat on the route to and from school, who tended to wait at the gate to meet him. That was nice. He would go home, eat, do his homework and sleep. Rinse and repeat.

On weekends he would watch sport and war movies with his dad. It was then he conceived two passions: basketball (via NBA) and joining the army. Given his size, neither seemed a likely prospect, and his father seemed a bit skeptical but let him go with it. He bought trainers and shorts and went with him to games.

“Give it your best shot son.” He would say, leaning over him, smiling.

“And stay low.”

And so he did. Two things the little sprite could do, stay low and jump high. When he got the ball, got down and moved fast, often the taller boys couldn't even see where the ball had gone until he was close to the net. Then he could get enough air to almost make the hoop. His success was a surprise to everyone except him. He'd always been an active kid and knew his capabilities.

Despite his prowess, he remained under the radar and on the B-team. This was a source of fuel for the kids on the A-team, who looked down on him, in both senses; they jeered at him, and gave him digs on the court: in both senses. He bore it all mostly. It came to a head one day though, when one of them (who actually wasn't much taller then Ben) crossed the line, questioning Ben's sexuality, genealogy, and parentage. Doing it for a rise, daring Ben to do something about it.

Ben could have been suitably enraged, but saw it for what it was, and wasn't one to show it anyway. He casually tossed the ball in his hand from one to the other, while looking down. He bounced it a couple of times then without warning, shot straight, fast and clean, the ball making friends with the other boy's nose. The kid went down in a spray of blood, clutching his face and yelping like a kicked puppy. As he lay on the floor whimpering, his team mates looked hard at Ben. His own team was still there though, and it was generally agreed to let things lie, so to speak.

All the same, he was off the basketball team after that. And lucky not to be suspended (some detention, but no big deal. His Dad was kind of amused, his Mum not so much). So,with dreams of the NBA on hold at least, Ben knuckled down to his studies. Applying himself a bit harder this time round, he got decent grades, still without making a deal of himself. It was about this time that his mother left them.

She left on a week day, bags packed. No note, no argument, no trace. Roy (Ben's father) tried every avenue and was stonewalled. Didn't want to be found, it seemed. Fact was, Ben knew in hindsight, she had been distant for a fair while, and irritable to boot. Always seemed like she wanted to be somewhere else. So that was his main memory of her. As noted, he wasn't one to dwell.

So this left Ben and Roy alone together. Which could have been okay – he didn't really miss his mum, once he realized she wasn't coming back and wasn't going to be in touch. The nightly pizza deliveries were good, except they came with a downward spiral on Roy's part. Roy got angry. Then he got physical. It started with the odd cuff, then it started to get rough, so as to make “the runt” cower. Then the drinking started in earnest.

Roy's mates Jim Beam and Double Brown were enough to egg him on to let loose, and so he did. He needed to unleash his anger, and guess who was at hand. The belt would come off, and when there was no belt, a jug cord or whatever would do. Ben would stumble or crawl to his room, barricade the door with what came to hand and go to bed, and curl up in a tight ball.

So he started staying away mostly. He'd finish school, then go to the library. He joined a gym, so he'd head there after. One guy there, Simon, was friendly and showed him some MMA type moves. He picked up a night job cleaning crates, so he'd finish and get home about 4am and straight to bed. Rinse and repeat. So he didn't see much of his dad, or know what was going on with him.

Roy was in fact on a downhill race, and steaming to an explosive level.

About this time, Ben put on a kind of miraculous growth spurt. He really noticed it while working out, it was extra painful. But somehow he gained a few inches at the same time as building himself up and came out looking, well not super tall but still pretty hot, really.

Importantly, he felt like he had the height and strength to make the army. Soon as he finished high school. Smooth sailing, long as he stayed low. But of course things had to come to a head at home.

A rare day off: Sunday morning, 10am and Roy's flying high. One sight of “the runt” as Ben comes out is enough to send him flinging a bottle and a slew of abuse. He tries to loom over Ben.

“Come on Boy. Give it your best shot.”

Ben straightens up, and it's plain Roy can't loom over him any more. He takes that tight little ball that Roy's put in him, and lets him have it, right in the bread basket. Roy sags to his knees. Ben doesn't hesitate but bends and puts an accurate jab to his father's neck, sending him collapsing sideways, unconscious. He wastes no time; whips to his room and fills a bag which was already half full, and steps over Roy's body and out the door. Last he'll see of him.

He wandered around for a while, his head full of steam, then found himself knocking at his sort-of-friend Simon's door, who let him in. Turned out he had a spare room - well more like a cupboard really but it accommodated a single mattress. Ben gratefully took it: it meant he could finish his studies, keep working out and working so as to pay the rent.

He learned some more martial arts moves from Simon, and he graduated high school with reasonable grades, and enough confidence to enlist. He went through basic training, and was noted for his level head, and his keen eye. He did in fact turn out to be a crack shot (again, no surprise to him). Once out of training and wearing corporal's stripes, he was increasingly singled out, until he became a candidate for special ops. He got to fly around the world, meet interesting people and kill them from a distance.

It was a living, and what brought him to this moment: lying on a hilltop at 7am as the sun rose, overlooking the camp, waiting for the commandant to make his morning inspection. And there he was, swaggering like you'd expect a man already half drunk to do. Ben adjusted his sights, zoomed in and saw: a man who looked a lot like his father. Same size, moustache, same swarthy complexion.

A reflection came to him, strangely: his dad looming over him, smiling benignly.

“Give it your best shot, son.”

His finger tightened on the trigger.