FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Mind

Sulav, Northern Iraq, November 14th, 2017

Time: 0947

The village of Sulav was already starting to bustle with activity, or at least as much activity as such a small village would get. The Beshesh mountains that overlooked the village itself stood silent, not even the howl of a feral Arabian wolf that normally accompanied the morning ringing out. The mixed villagers - ranging from wolves, to jackals, to humans - mingled and talked amongst themselves. Some laughed, some stayed quiet. Children played.

Several of these children kicked a ball around, laughing and shouting all the while. A few adults who were walking through the part of the village they had taken to playing in briefly stepped in to kick the ball once or twice back and forth, but otherwise the children were left alone save for the occasional shouted instruction to watch what they were doing or a called name in various tones. Some in reprimand, some in praise.

The children called out to each other excitedly in Farsi as they played, laughing excitedly as they moved throughout the village to keep the game going and get away from the growing number of adults who were getting in their way.

The ball was kicked a little too hard by a passing adult, the children pursuing it as it bounced and rolled towards the main road coming into the village. The first one to catch it bent over and picked it up, freezing as his gaze locked onto a dust cloud a short distance. One of the other children, a wolf, tilted their head briefly before suddenly barking in alarm. Outsiders were coming.

A vehicle convoy approached on the dirt road leading into the village. Four tarp covered troop transport trucks, and a technical in the lead and the rear. Both technicals had a Degtyarov Shpagin Krupnokalibernyi - or the DShK, commonly called the Dushka - mounted on them. All of the visible combatants were either human or wolf males, and all but a handful of the combatants in the transport trucks were the same. Those handful that weren't wolves or humans were golden jackals.

The villagers stared at the convoy of Ural-4320s and Toyota Hiluxs, children running back to their homes, as the vehicles came to a stop in the center of the road. The lead technical's driver side door opened, a man stepping out into the sun. Militants uploaded from the transport trucks, the machine gunners on the backs of the technicals staying where they were. Their DShKs were trained on the villagers, a silent warning not to resist lest they get torn to shreds.

Almost all the militants were equipped with Avtomat Kalashnikovas - or AK-47s as they were otherwise known - though three of them had Ruchnoy Pulemyot Kalashnikovas - also known as the PKM - for support purposes. None of them spoke, waiting for orders from the man who had stepped from the technical.

An uncomfortable silence stretched over the village as many of them stared in fear at the man. The only sound was the flag on the hood of the lead transport flapping in the wind. He looked around the village, silent, then looked up at the nearby mountains. He turned his body towards it, narrowing his eyes. After a tense moment he grunted softly to himself, then looked over at the villagers. His hand reached for the sidearm at his hip, drawing it and aiming at the closest villager.

A report rang out, screams filling the air. Blood splattered and a body hit the ground.

***

Fifteen Hours Earlier

Johan Whitepelt - an American timber wolf suffering from leucism with, according to his mother and her side of the family, Samoan blood - sat silently in the Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk as it flew low over the terrain, his M2010 Enhanced Sniper Rifle chambered in .300 Winchester Magnum resting next to him with the butt on the floor of the helo and a paw gripping the barrel to keep it upright. It could fire effectively and reliably up to 1,500 meters at 2,985 feet per second, almost fifty percent further than the U.S. Army's previous precision rifle, the M24, which had an effective range of only 800 meters in the standard 7.62x51 cartridge at 2,580 feet per second, and up to 1,500 meters in the .338 Lapua Magnum conversion. At his hip was a Beretta M9A3 in the unlikely event of a close quarters engagement, with a boot knife as an absolute last resort.

There was a small bag next to him, holding a Leupold Mark 4 spotting scope, a laser range finder, and a wind meter. It also held a small medical kit and a couple smoke grenades in case of emergency, but if he, the brass, and the pilot did their jobs right he wouldn't need them. The last things it held was a notepad and a pencil for his calculations.

He recalled the briefing he had undergone prior to the deployment. His target was a commander of the local Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant forces, named Almanzor Nassar. A chuff escaped him. 'Triumphant granter of victory' wasn't a terrible name for an ISIL commander, he had to admit. Now it was time to see if that name rang true. If he could avoid Johan's bullet, or if he'd fall just the same as the previous ISIL militants who had found themselves in his scope.

An ear twitched as he suddenly remembered that next week was both his thirty-seventh birthday and his and his wife's twelfth anniversary. Their son, Jake, would be ten in about a month. Their daughter, Delilah, had turned nine back in April. The wolf couldn't resist the urge to smile at the memories he had of them. During their most recent video call just the night before, his wife Clara - who would be thirty-five in December - had told him about this moose they'd run into, Matthew Dillard.

Former Marine, 5th Marine Regiment. Apparently he was looking to adopt some time soon, which was nice. A bit of work, from how Clara had told him the moose had described the process, but he was willing to stick it out. Johan was glad. The system was rough, overcrowded, and severely understaffed and underfunded for what it was trying to do. But that applied to a lot of America's so called 'best in the world' systems.

Education, the prison industrial complex, and many others. They were better than a lot of countries, sure, but they were hardly the best in the world. And the medical field? Sure, they were one of the best countries in that field, but what did it matter when a necessary life-saving procedure would send a family not lucky enough to have good jobs and income into debt for decades? And then there was college. That whole system was a joke. Decent education, he could admit, but he didn't really think that putting somebody into debt for most of their life - if they weren't lucky enough to get a job that paid a great amount of money, that is - was worth the stress, time, and whatever cheap experiences one could get out of it.

He quickly shut his eyes, forcing himself to focus, and took a deep breath. He couldn't be thinking about his family or anything and anybody else right now. It would only serve as a distraction, and one that might just kill him. And that just wouldn't do.

The Black Hawk shifted suddenly, Johan opening his eyes as it tilted back, slowing down. The wolf moved to the door, jumping the three foot drop as the helo came to a stop. He dropped to a knee, remaining perfectly still. The Black Hawk started moving again, turning and going back the way it had come from. Johan was alone.

Normally he would have a spotter with him, but his, another timber wolf named Walter Stevens - ever so affectionately nicknamed Skittles by some of the more conservative leaning soldiers for his orientation - was stuck back at base recovering from a twisted ankle. Nobody else qualified was available. Johan didn't like it, nor did his superiors, but the mission was time sensitive and it was either now or never. His target would be too close to civilians to warrant a drone strike.

Snipers were not supposed to be sent out without a spotter at the least, but he understood there were always going to be exceptions to every rule. It wasn't like he could just say no because he was uncomfortable going out alone. That was a surefire way to get called a pussy, or some other insult meant to chip at his sense of masculinity, by some of the others. Not that they'd work, and would mostly be in good fun anyway, but that wouldn't stop anybody who actually meant it from trying.

Johan stood and started walking towards the mountain in front of him. Standard target approach protocol was to stay prone and move forward as slowly as possible, but with how steep the mountain was and the distance he had to cross, there was no way he would make it there on his stomach. The closest village was Sulav, which was just on the other side of the mountain he needed to climb.

It was a half-mile trek to the base of the mountain. Johan kept his head on a swivel, constantly looking around the surrounding area to scan for anybody who might spot him. The wolf came to a stop as his gaze fixated on a hazy shape a distance away, his rifle coming up. The flip up optic covers raised with a simple flick of a finger, Johan lowering to a knee to steady himself. His optic's magnification was intended for long range engagements. Perfect for where he had seen the shape, though the slightest twitch could send a bullet anywhere from inches to feet off at certain ranges.

It took the wolf a few precious seconds of scanning the distance with his scope to find what he had seen. A half second passed before he huffed and raised his head from the rifle, closing the optic covers. It had simply been a rock. Shaking his head, Johan stood and resumed walking. Some would call him paranoid, but he figured it better to waste a bit of time verifying than to get a nasty surprise in your back. Walter tended to agree with him, thankfully.

He thought back to the grey-furred timber wolf. Five foot four, only an inch shorter than him. In decent shape, same as him, and in better shape than some of the infantrymen. Johan was secure enough in himself to admit the wolf was handsome, though he held no attraction to him. Hell, he was even a better shot than the leucistic wolf was at long range. The only reason he tended to be a spotter during their deployments was because he was more experienced. Johan had passed sniper school three years ago, Walter five.

Thinking about the wolf only brought back memories about how he'd twisted his ankle. A soft chuckle escaped Johan, the wolf spinning three hundred-sixty degrees to check his surroundings. It had been during their last mission, sent out to another village as overwatch for a convoy. It had gone smoothly, thankfully, up until the very end. They'd been descending from their overwatch point, Walter hopping from foot to foot in a zigzag pattern for no reason other than to get to the bottom of the hill quicker. Surprisingly enough, that hadn't been how his ankle had been injured.

Johan had stepped onto a loose piece of scree, which had sent his foot out from under him and found the wolf stumbling towards Walter. The grey-furred wolf had turned on the spot and moved in front of him, though he didn't have time to brace properly. They'd collided, and to his credit Walter had done a good job of stopping them both from tumbling down the hill. With the gear they'd had, that would have been both an unpleasant experience as well as an expensive one.

Walter's leg had been turned to the side to try and make up for the lack of proper bracing, and the collision had put more weight onto it - and, consequently, the dirt, rocks, and scree under and around it - and sent him stumbling backwards. His foot had got caught between two larger, heavier rocks, and he'd fallen back. In the moment, with their adrenaline still high, the slightly shorter wolf had seemed fine. Once they got back to base, though, and the eventual crash had hit, he'd had trouble walking and had gone to the infirmary to get it checked out. Johan hadn't been surprised to learn his ankle had been twisted in the fall.

Shaking his head, the wolf grunted to himself and kept walking. He needed to stop letting himself get distracted. It didn't matter that intel had reported no militant activity within at least fifty miles. Intel was wrong all the time. There was only one thing that one could rely on when it came to intel: plan for it being right, and have a backup plan for it being wrong.

It was but an hour later that Johan came to the base of the mountain. He turned his back to it, raised his rifle and popped up the lens covers on his scope, dropped to a knee, and scanned the horizon all the way from thirty to ninety degrees around him. He took his time, too, knowing that the moment he began to climb he would be sticking out to those at lower elevations. There were a few bumps he made sure to stare at long enough to be sure, but he eventually lowered the lens covers along with the rifle. With a satisfied nod, he turned, rifle secured via sling, and leaned forward slightly as he began the process of ascending.

Five minutes into the climb he was reminded of Jake and Delilah during their first hike. Jake had climbed a tree, his reason being who knew what. Delilah had attempted to as well, but she had a small fear of heights and abandoned the process only three or four yards up the tree. Johan had been forced to climb up after Jake. His son hadn't been stuck, he'd just refused to come down. He'd inherited his father's stubbornness, it seemed. A soft chuckle escaped Johan at the memory.

Clara had chastised them both when they'd returned home. Jake for what he'd done, and Johan for being covered in leaves, twigs, and grass stains. The grass stains, of course, hadn't come from the tree, but from Johan chasing after his kits in a playful game of tag and constantly tripping up over himself, the smaller wolves, and just generally sliding across the grass for one reason or another after the event with the tree. Johan had apologized by doing the laundry the next four loads.

Words alone couldn't convey the love he felt for his wife and their kits. Johan felt an indescribable warmth whenever he was around them. Did they get on his nerves occasionally? Sure, but that was something he had known would happen when him and Clara had begun trying for kits. And if he were being honest, he loved that they did that. It only heightened the warm feeling he had around them. His family was everything to him. Family was as important as the air one needed to breathe.

Thinking about his family only reminded him of a point of contention between himself and Walter. The younger wolf believed that while family was important, it shouldn't hold such a tight sway over wolf culture. On top of that, he held the belief that the family one chose - that is, your friends or brothers in arms who have your back through thick and thin, who stick by you when nobody else will - was more important than family given to you by blood. Johan couldn't understand the concept. Yes, he had friends and brothers in arms he would die for, and the latter of which he had killed to protect, but they would never be more important to him than his family. On the off chance he ever had to choose between them, he'd pick his family every time.

Perhaps it was simply a generational thing. More and more younger wolves were placing an importance on the bonds one forged on their own rather than those they were born with. He wanted to spare his kits from that. He didn't want to go through the pain of realizing they valued their friendships more than him or their mother. Johan knew a revelation of that magnitude would kill him, and he did not believe that to be figurative.

The wolf slipped on a loose rock, Johan barely suppressing a yelp of shock as he fell onto his front. Smaller rocks tumbled down behind him as Johan slid down the mountain for a short duration, quickly coming to a stop only a dozen or so feet where he'd slipped. He groaned as he forced himself to stand, dusting himself off as best he could before hissing in pain. Looking down, he saw a small tear in his pants. He stooped, a paw gingerly touching at the tear. The contact elicited another hiss of pain from him.

Johan slid his pant leg up, grimacing when he saw the blood on his leg. It wasn't a bad scrape, but it was still capable of infection. He hoped to be back at base before infection could hope to set in, but he wasn't going to take chances. Turning around and sitting on his rear, the wolf unzipped the gear bag and pulled out the small medical kit. After rubbing the scrape with an alcohol wipe, he wrapped it in gauze and lowered his pant leg. That was also wrapped at the site of the tear, and the medical kit was closed and secured back in the bag. Zipping that shut as well, Johan stood and turned back into the mountain. He resumed his ascent.

It was a short while later that the leucistic wolf came across what looked like a small indent into the mountain. Johan was all too happy to step into it and out of the sun for a short time. He suddenly froze, his nose twitching and his ears perking as the sound and smell of another creature inside the indent reached him. It took a long moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and as they did the creature let out a warning growl.

Johan let out a soft gasp of surprise.

There, near the back of the small cave, was a feral Arabian wolf. It stared straight at him, lips peeled back and fur standing on end to make itself seem larger. Johan stared in shock, completely caught off guard by its presence. He'd known that they were a common sighting in the geographical region, and it wasn't the first he'd seen, but it was the first one he'd seen up close. The feral wolf stared into his eyes, daring him to come further inside.

Johan couldn't move. He stood, frozen, as the wolf's growls only got louder. He was overstaying his welcome, that much was obvious. The desire to leave was there, but it was overshadowed by the surge of fear he was experiencing. This level of fear was strange to him. He had never been as scared as he was now, not even when his kits had been born. There was something else there, too. It was too faint to identify, however.

Minutes passed in what felt like hours, the strange feeling only building with each heartbeat. Eventually it became identifiable, and when it did, he latched onto it. Not fear, but the desire to challenge. Now that he could identify it, he could recall the previous times he'd felt it. It had been a long time, but he still remembered it clear as day.

It had been a week since his thirteenth birthday. His father had taken him hunting. Feral deer were populous in the forests of America. Johan had never even touched a gun before, and his father had voiced his beliefs that he wouldn't actually be able to hit anything cleanly. That had sparked the same desire in him, and twelve hours later, he dropped his first feral deer. It had been a good feeling, impressing his father.

Johan let out his own growl, staring the feral wolf down as he removed his rifle and leaned it against the wall of the cave. Its jaws parted slightly as its own growl deepened. Johan didn't even have time to bend down to draw his blade before it rushed and leapt at him. He rolled to the side to dodge it, drawing his boot knife in the few precious seconds he had before it turned and snapped aggressively at him. Now it was between him and the exit. He mentally berated himself for letting it get into that position.

The wolf charged again, and this time Johan was ready. As it leapt he brought his blade up. There wasn't even a hint of resistance until the guard hit its flesh. Warm blood ran over his paw as the wolf struggled. Johan took several steps back as he yanked his blade free, the feral wolf staggering for a few heartbeats before collapsing to the ground. Its chest heaved, jaws parted.

Johan stared down at the wolf in silence, flicking his knife. After a moment he grunted, then stepped forward and dropped a knee onto its neck as hard as he could manage. There was a crack! as the impact broke its neck, the wolf jerking before going still. Johan wiped his knife off on the wolf's fur, and what couldn't be wiped off there was then given a second wipe over his left arm before being sheathed once more. He huffed, moving towards the front of the cave and retrieving his rifle before heading for the back. The wolf sat down, ankles crossed and rifle barrel resting atop them. The buttstock rested against his chest, his paws resting on it to keep the rifle stable.

The smell of blood reached him not long after. That sharp, metallic tang. Johan ignored it, smacking his lips idly. After a few moments he decided to rest a bit, wait until it was cooler to set up. He was more than capable of performing his calculations and zeroing in three or four hours. He'd had it drilled into him that he should set up as soon as possible - without compromising his position or giving away his presence until he took his shot - and then wait.

That was bullshit, as far as he was concerned, though he understood why that was the taught method. Better to be ready hours ahead of time than caught off guard by an early arrival and having to guess. And guessing, well...that was a sniper's worst enemy. If you guessed wrong, your target would disappear into their hole and not be seen again for months on end. Or they'd put fire on your position, which meant your family probably wouldn't have a body to bury. Or, most likely, they would do both unless the successful counterattack emboldened them.

The last option would make it easier to set up a follow-up strike, but at the cost of another American life? Johan knew his wife didn't think it worth it. He both did and didn't. On the one paw, if the enemy became emboldened by their success, and somebody managed to take them out, the sniper's sacrifice wouldn't be in vain. On the other, it was just as likely it would be in vain, and the target would disappear for God knows how long.

Johan opened his eyes, the train of thought bringing him to his stance on the military industrial complex and America's political leaders. He'd never been a huge believer in the patriotism speel and the surge of it that had followed September eleventh. It was just pretty words and empty promises propped up on bigotry and an us versus them mentality combined with the notion for revenge. His jaws peeled back slightly in anger.

'I pledged allegiance to the flag of the once United States of America,' he thought to himself, lifting his rifle and leaning it against the wall next to him. A low growl escaped him. 'To the republic for which it claimed to stand. But now, we've become a nation under Godforsaken fools. Highly divisible. Liberated by lies. Justified in our complaceny by an idiotic and narcisisstic leader who preys on the xenophobia and bigotry of a piece of shit political minority. The moral high ground our nation was built upon has already begun to erode. The blood of the fallen is seeping in, widening the chasm and washing away the very land our soldiers have died for. No, a house divided against itself cannot stand. There's no solace in a folded flag, or a heart-shaped medal, to a grieving family. My country has become indifferent to our sacrifice. Apathetic to the ideas of our forefathers.'

With a scoff, Johan shook his head and abandoned his thoughts on the matter. It would make for a decent speech, but he wasn't that type. Perhaps one day he would find someone who could make it a reality, or something. Until then he'd keep his mouth shut. The soldiers back at base wouldn't take too kindly to that kind of talk. His wife would just get her hopes up. Perhaps there was somebody that would listen, though, who would take him seriously and understand where he was coming from...

He shook his head again. He hadn't spoken to them in years. The likelihood they'd even answer his call, let alone want to talk to him, was astronomically low. No, he was fine without that disappointment. They probably wouldn't even understand. Jonathan had always taken pride in his service. He'd always believed in what they claimed to fight for.

Unless he was wrong. That was just as likely. Perhaps he didn't quite know the wolf as well as he thought he did. Johan wouldn't have been surprised if that were the case. He'd never been the best judge of character.

He took a deep breath, leaning his head back and entwining his paws together over his stomach. It was time for rest. Not a deep rest. Deep enough to actually gain some benefit from it, but shallow enough he could awaken in a heartbeat at the merest sound. His training was to thank for that kind of skill. That and never knowing when the Drill Sergeant would storm through the barracks during basic.

Opening his eyes revealed darkness. The wolf hummed softly, standing up slowly and retrieving his rifle. He slung it over his shoulder, walking past the dead feral wolf and out of the cave. It was much cooler now. With a nod, Johan resumed his ascent. He thought back to the wolf as he climbed. His stomach churned as a thought occurred to him.

He didn't know how long feral pups were with their mother. What if he had killed a she-wolf who'd been hunting for her pups? They would starve, or be shot. Probably for kicks, for daring to exist in a world that was no longer inclined to their existence. Few saw them as living beings who deserved to be respected as such. Were Bips - short for Bipeds, a rather silly nickname humans had come up with for the animals that had evolved to stand on two legs like them that had stuck for some unknown reason - superior to their feral counterparts? No question, absolutely. But they still deserved a basic amount of respect.

Johan wasn't sure how or why, but his thoughts suddenly shifted to the command structure back at base. He didn't quite understand why the higher ups had decided a desert monitor was the best option to be in charge. Was he better suited to the climate? Sure, absolutely. But wolves were the superior leaders. They deserved a wolven commander for how many of them were present on base. Hell, even a fox would have been the better option. They at least understood the sense of commitment that was needed for a good leader.

Not just that, but reps - a common nickname for reptiles - were just plain dirty. Johan had never met one who had the same kind of personal hygiene as a mammal. Sure, they didn't sweat, and secreted a far lower amount of body odor, but they still seemed so complacent with rarely bathing or even cleaning up after themselves. Maybe it was temperature that slowed them down, that made them that complacent. He didn't know. He just knew they were disgusting. Colonel Thorne was okay, but he was still a rep.

He recalled a flyer he had seen some years earlier for a rally being lead by some wolf named Jude and his wife, Janet. It had seemed interesting, if a bit...supremacist. Possibly, anyway. He didn't really know. Still interesting, though, even if that was just his curiosity talking.

He knew of a few wolf supremacist ideals that he identified with. Mostly the sense of family and their positions as natural born leaders. A few smaller ones here and there, but overall he wouldn't say he agreed wholeheartedly with the movement. The idea of being an Alpha did appeal to him, though, he had to admit.

Johan could almost see it. Him as Alpha, Clara as his Beta. Jake and Delilah their pack, along with whatever kits they might have in the future. Oh, what a glorious idea it was. Perhaps that would bring his kits back to their senses. They'd respect and appreciate the value of blood family then, he just knew it. Family was everything, after all.

Shaking his head to clear it, Johan dispelled his thoughts and focused on his climb. He was nearly to the top of the mountain, a fact which surprised even himself. Had he really been absorbed in his thoughts for that long? Or had he simply been climbing that quickly? He didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing.

The timber wolf lowered himself to a prone position as he came to the top of the mountain, crawling forward slowly until he could see down into the village. He retrieved his Leupold Mark 4, holding it up to his eye and scanning the village below. Once that was done he retrieved the rangefinder. Closest landmark was roughly four hundred meters, furthest was almost eight hundred.

Placing the rangefinder back into his bag but keeping the spotting scope out, Johan retrieved his notepad and pencil, beginning to jot down distances to various landmarks throughout the village. The sun began to rise as he worked through the math, and once he was satisfied the wolf slid his pencil into the rings on the notepad but kept it open. He slid his rifle up, though kept it down in case of lens glare giving away his position.

He simply lay there, watching in silence through his spotting scope as the village began to come alive. It didn't take long for children to begin playing, kicking a ball around with the occasional kick from an adult. Johan lowered the scope with an amused smile, only for something to catch his eye in his peripheral vision. A dust cloud.

Johan quickly raised the spotting scope back to his eye, realizing quickly the dust cloud was being kicked up by vehicles he couldn't yet see. The wolf quickly put his spotting scope back in his bag and slid it in front of him, propping his rifle up on it. He had a bipod, but he always preferred using a bag or a wall or whatever else was present as a solid enough rest. His bipod only ever deployed on relatively even and flat ground, and he was rarely involved in that.

He stared through his scope as he followed the dust cloud. A convoy eventually came into view. Two technicals, Toyota Hiluxs, came into view. One in front, one at the back. Both with Dushkas mounted in their beds. Ural-4320s were between them as troop transports. Johan's stomach churned. Nassar wasn't supposed to have this many militants with him.

He decided to ignore the feeling. He was looking over Sulav to perform a mission, nothing else. The villagers were a distraction. He couldn't worry about their safety. Johan took a deep breath, following the lead Ural with his scope. As it came to a stop in front of the village, he noted it had stopped right by the six hundred meter landmark. He adjusted his scope to account for the distance and bullet drop, then hurriedly retrieved the wind meter. Three miles per hour.

With a nod, Johan nestled the stock into his shoulder and peered through the scope once again. He could do that in his head. He twisted the windage dial on his scope, then began to take even breaths.

Nassar had stepped out into the open. The bearded man looked around as Johan began to slowly squeeze the trigger. He seemed to stare at the wolf suddenly, which only made him grin. He suddenly recalled a scene from his guilty pleasure movie, and decided to emulate it as Nassar reached for the sidearm at his hip and aimed at a villager.

"Mahalo, motherfucker," he whispered. His rifle barked.