I lost my first patient today. Her name was Ophelia. She died during childbirth. Thankfully, we were able to save the newborn.

The mother had moderate toxemia when I examined her a month ago. Her blood pressure spiked during labor and she suffered an aneurysm. I should have monitored the hypertension more closely. Medication could have adversely affected the fetus, but withholding it may have killed the mother. All of this will go into the morbidity and mortality report.

Ophelia was supposed to leave here a mother. Now her daughter will leave as an orphan. They deserved better than this.

She was barely lucid at the end. Ophelia spoke to her baby as I performed an emergency Cesarean. Her voice was very calm. At least it won’t be a lie when I tell her parents, “She felt no pain.”

Christ, I need a cigarette.

I’ve finally figured out how to grow more refined strains of grapes, such as Syrah and Malbec. The latest barrels are the finest this winery has ever produced. Unfortunately, almost no one is buying.

My government has doubled down on those who wish to sow discord within the republic. For this, the international community has punished us economically with sanctions. Public opinion has also taken a toll on my business. Do they not understand that the very people they wish to support are hit hardest by these actions? I’ve had to fire seven of my laborers because of reduced demand for the wines I make.

I do not agree with everything my government does. However, I do support the need for order. Look at the other countries on the subcontinent. They’re a mess. Like it or not, my forefathers made this country into the success it is now. The indigenous population are not ready to take the reigns of the republic we built. And I’m not ready to surrender my home and land – because that is surely what will happen.

One of my laborers is managing the irrigation network to bring our production to an international standard. Several kilometers of piping will soon water the vines at their roots. While we cannot reproduce the climate of more famous growing regions, we can mimic annual rainfall of these places with careful water management.

I was trying to work out how to distribute the water, when Jonathan suggested using Bournelli’s formula. It would be easier to regulate flow by properly sizing the pipes for each area instead of adjusting it exclusively with valves.

Jonathan did not learn Bournelli’s formula in school. I know because my government limits education to black South Africans. The rationale is that most are inherently limited in what they can learn. Money and resources on education would therefore be a waste.

A few years ago, I served in the Border War. In no other setting does Man more easily revert to his primal nature than in combat. The things the blacks did to us, and the things we did to them.

We were told that we needed to fight. We believed if we didn’t strike first, they would come for us, our women, our homes. Maybe it would have been true. It was certainly true that we came for them.

Jesus Christ, what’s your problem?

I just merged onto I-75, and some idiot blew the horn and waved at me – and not with all his fingers.

It’s a warm mid-August evening, and I’ve nothing to do and nowhere to go. I just left my job at the University of Dayton. I’m a professor for the freshman electronics class. The Fall 1977 semester doesn’t start until after labor day. However, I spent some time on the lesson plan and preparing the electronics lab for the freshman class to wreck it.

I have another job and Ohio State university, but they don’t pay me. My team and I search the cosmos for extra-terrestrial radio signals. We built the “Big Ear” radiotelescope on campus in 1970. In a shortsighted move, the National Science Foundation stopped funding the project in 1973. Anyone still interested in looking for little green men now does so as a volunteer.

I turn on the car radio and tune to the low end of the FM dial. I prefer news without AM-radio static.

This is All Things Considered on National Public Radio. I’m Susan Stamberg. It’s Friday, August 19th, 1977. Here are the stories we will be following this evening.

There is more information regarding the death of Elvis Presley. Preliminary findings suggest it may have been the result of a drug overdose.

More than a year after the Soweto Uprising, the white-minority government of South Africa continues to crack down on dissent. What will this mean for the black majority already living under Apartheid?

Tensions in the Middle East continue to rise after-

I’ve heard enough, and shut off the radio in disgust. How on Earth did Homo Sapiens last this long?

I maneuver the “Hulla Blue” Ford Maverick into the small parking lot. The car rolls a few feet past a space in front of my apartment. I pull the column shifter back, then up into reverse. The transmission confirms my intent with a clunk and a shudder, so turn the wheel left and back in. A pinkish glow reflects off the wall behind me – resolving to red and white as the car moves closer. I stop the Ford, put it in park, and let off the brake. The wall reflects only bright red.

It stays red even after I kill the ignition and remove the key.

Ah…the brakelight switch is stuck again. They must’ve been on the entire way home. That’s why the driver behind me got upset. Guess I shouldn’t have waved back at him.

I pull the brake pedal slightly backward with the tip of my shoe and wiggle it until there’s a subtle click. I’ve probably scuffed my shoe, but the brakelights go out.

I exit the car and walk up the stairs toward my apartment. There’s a box of perforated fan-fold paper in front of the door. Another Big Ear volunteer brought me a present. It’s a printout from the radiotelescope computer – the one that searches for little green men.

There’s a note taped to the box.

I loaded the printer and restarted the computer on Thursday.
Here’s the data from Monday to Wednesday. Have fun!
– Will

Some fun. Reviewing fifty columns of characters across fifteen-hundred pages is going to be a slog. Magnetic storage would have allowed this data to be recorded electronically, and that would have allowed me to write a program to sort through it. Too bad a volunteer’s time is worth less than an eight-inch platter drive.

I better get some coffee going. This will take a while. Sure glad tomorrow’s a Saturday.

The Pindad SPR-4 is one hell of a sniper rifle. Unlike previous iterations of the SPR series, it is not derivative of a foreign design. The weapon is seratus-percen Indonesian in both development and manufacture. The gun is well-matched to the caliber and charge of the Laupa .858 x 71mm ammunition it fires.

I remember the sense of pride when I first fired a prototype in early 2017. To be sure, it was a little rough around the edges. The butt didn’t fit cleanly into the rear stock. The barrel-cooler holes weren’t cleanly dimpled. However, the bolt-action felt solid and smooth, the trigger group precise. I was able to shoot two-centimeter groups at five-hundred meters with it. The holes downrange were perfect circles – the bullet didn’t tumble or do other stupid things coming out of the muzzle.

It’s unfortunate that I will not fire the SPR today. I’m still a very good marksman, yet time had taken the edge off. My hands are a little less steady. My eyes are a little less sharp. And laying prone for hours would fucking hurt.

I’m a spotter now. I’ve traded a rifle sight for a pair of binoculars. The sniper under my command will take the shot. My fifteen years of experience would help him make it.

The primary target is a thirty-five-year-old Afgan male. He is working with an Indonesian national who is also a target. They’ve taken three hostages in a private residence. Neither targets nor hostages know they are under surveillance. This will make our job a lot easier.

This terrorist came to my country to harm to its citizens and sow discord. Indonesia has enough problems without foreigners bringing their own. And he’s convinced a dim-witted local to help him. If a firing squad is convened for this traitor, I want to be on it.

We’ve been on station for almost six hours. A new sniper/spotter team will relieve us soon – then I can relieve myself. I’ve had to take a piss for the last hour. I wouldn’t have had coffee this morning if I knew there’d be a callup. These things never happen on a schedule.

I killed a man today.

Even though the death was sanctioned, he didn’t do anything wrong.

I did.

I was overconfident and made a foolish mistake. In an unforgivable lapse of tradecraft, I relayed instructions over a public phone in the clear. The man was standing nearby and overheard just enough, in a language he wasn’t “supposed” to understand.

The man did his job and followed me. I did my job and killed him.

My superiors made it easy – for me, anyway. Once I told them I was blown, they set a trap for the poor bastard. He didn’t know how deep it was until we bagged him. It was literally the story of his life. He’ll never get to file it.

I’ve never done wet-work before. Yet I was told I had to clean my own mess. They gave me an old untraceable sidearm to do it.

I looked him in the eyes and said I was sorry. He spat in my face. I told him I deserved that – just before I walked behind him and fired a bullet into the back of his skull. The muzzle was maybe two centimeters away. He didn’t feel a thing. At least I got that right.

They made me bury the body.

I removed his affects and the weapon from the kill site. The clothes and identification were burned. The pistol was broken into pieces and scattered into the ocean. I did all of this under instruction, yet there was a deeper lesson here. Fuck up, and innocent people die.

We are coming.

Are you ready?