Despite the chaos that raged, the veteran Sniper kept low, and quiet.
He lay on his stomach, in the side of a desolate, uneven outcropping of stone that jutted out of the sands. In comparison to the low dunes, the tall, rocky formation stood like a monolith in the desert.
It was quite comfortable in the small hole in which he lay, there were canteens of water, boxes of food, even a bed and a long-range radio in his spider-hole.
He knew he'd had to wait for a good target. Now he had his chance. He braced his shoulder against his weapon, an Anti-tank rifle, a noticeably worn Soviet PTRD that he'd found far ago during the Battle of Kurgzgrad. It had been left forgotten in the basement of an old pawn shop. It has served him well ever since.
As he stared down his high-magnification scope, he locked his cold, uncaring eyes upon his target. The Changeling commander.
It was as if they were completely ignorant of the dangers that snipers like him could pose. The commander bellowed orders at a constant rate, as well as smashing the face in of a subordinate who had brought him unwelcome news. If that didn't give him away, then the decorated, polished dark green armor, lined with silver designs gave no room for doubt.
He'd only one shot.
He only needed one shot.
Wind.
Distance.
Velocity.
And now that he had compensated for these factors, he only needed to take his chance.
He cannot miss.
He will not miss.
With his finger on the trigger, he emptied his lungs. His aim would be as steady as it would ever be.
He slowly, ever so slowly, squeezed.