The Soldier who Said No by Chris Marnewick

do it,’ Verster whispered. ‘Fire when you’re ready.’ He kept his eye on his spotter’s scope.
    For the third time De Villiers set Mugabe in the sights. Heatwaves danced up from the red earth of the landing strip.
    The crosshairs settled on the target’s chest, a ribbon of military honours in the sights just above the man’s pocket. De Villiers felt the urge to focus on the man’s face and resisted at first, keeping the sights on the breast pocket. He slowed his breathing and held it. He waited until he could feel his heartbeat in his trigger finger. He started counting the beats.
    One two three four … five … six … seven … twelve … I’ve done this before and can do it again .
    Behind Mugabe the sun reflected off the windscreen of a moving vehicle. In the haze Mugabe’s olive green tunic was transformed into red. De Villiers blinked and lowered the barrel of the rifle, a blond woman’s face in his mind’s eye, her red tunic in the sights.
    When he lined the target up again, Mugabe’s face reappeared in the sights.
    Verster knew better than to speak as De Villiers slowly centred the crosshairs on Mugabe’s breast pocket. De Villiers slowed his breathing and his heartbeat and gently took up the slack on the trigger.
    From this moment events would unfold slowly. The explosion would be deafening to the sniper and the spotter, but nearly a kilometre and a half away on the podium where Mugabe stood, there would only be a distant crack, the sound arriving after the bullet had struck. The bullet would cleave a path through the air and take its time to reach Mugabe a full second and a half after leaving the barrel. In the keen eye of Verster’s spotter’s scope a hole would appear in Mugabe’s top pocket before he would fall backwards as if pushed by an invisible hand. The assembled troops and dignitaries would watch in silence for a few seconds, and when they connected the distant thunderclap to the blood and the gaping red hole in the back of their hero’s uniform, they would scatter for the sparse cover provided by the few buildings of Vila Nova Armada.
    De Villiers lowered the rifle. ‘This isn’t right.’
    Verster kept his eye on the target through his spotter’s scope. ‘Go when you’re ready,’ he said as if De Villiers hadn’t spoken. When he sensed that there was no movement next to him, he turned to face De Villiers. ‘What’s wrong, Pierre?’
    ‘This isn’t right.’
    ‘Our orders have been confirmed, you heard that. Now shoot him so that we can get out of here!’ There was an urgency in Verster’s voice. ‘If the parade breaks up, they will load their weapons and come after us.’ It was well known that Mugabe was paranoid and always insisted that the soldiers on inspection should be unarmed.
    ‘It’s not right,’ De Villiers said a third time. ‘I’m calling this off.’
    ‘We have orders, Pierre. Shoot him and let’s get out of here.’
    ‘No, the operation is over.’
    ‘Pierre, we’ve done this before.’
    ‘That was different, Jacques. That was a soldier. This man is a civilian.’
    ‘He’s wearing a uniform, Pierre.’ Verster tapped on the lens of his scope. ‘See for yourself,’ he insisted.
    ‘That doesn’t change anything. This man is not a soldier. He’s a politician. We don’t shoot civilians,’ De Villiers said a second time.
    ‘Pierre, we don’t have much time. Our orders are clear. We have to shoot him now and get out of here. This is not a regular operation. We have to follow orders.’
    When there was no answer, Verster added, ‘Pierre, we shot that Russian and we can shoot this man. He’s a terrorist.’
    The image of the Russian in a red tunic reappeared in De Villiers’s mind. ‘She was a soldier,’ he said defensively, his words sounding like a lame excuse, a plea for understanding, even to his own ears.
    ‘No more than this man.’ Verster pointed at the parade ground in the distance. He turned and put his hand on De