I’m crouched behind this concrete bunker, my breath fogging in the frigid air. The scope of my weapon is locked onto a distant target moving across the snow-covered valley. The numbers on the reticle—2, 4, 6, 8, 10—mark the estimated range to the enemy, while the horizontal lines help me account for bullet drop. Every muscle is tense as I wait for the perfect moment to take the shot, the quiet of the winter landscape broken only by the howl of the wind. This is the calm before the storm, and I know that one wrong move could mean the difference between life and death.
Comments