July 20, 2024, Siddhirganj, Narayanganj
The rotors of an Mi-171 helicopter carved through the gunpowder and tearshell laced air. Its shadow was dancing across the densely packed apartment buildings and roads below like a prehistoric predator filmed in sci fi movies. Inside the copter’s cabin, four figures are seen- two law enforcement officers in tactical gears, and a specialised duo: a spotter and his sniper. The afternoon sun glinted off their equipment, casting occasional flashes across the cabin's interior.
The spotter adjusted his rangefinder, his eyes never leaving the rampage between law enforcers and protesters taking place on the roads below. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the downdraft from the rotors.
"Mate," the spotter began, his voice crackling through the tactical radio, "been thinking about something. Who do you think AI's going to replace first- us or you trigger-pullers?"
The sniper, a self proclaimed apprentice of Chris Kyle, whose hands hadn't trembled in eleven years of service, methodically checked his .338 Lapua Magnum rifle's chamber. "Not my concern," he replied flatly, his voice carrying the weight of countless operations. "Target neutralisation is my only priority."
The spotter chuckled, the sound mixing with the helicopter's rhythmic thump. "If you ask me, snipers are prime candidates for automation. No offence, but it's basically point-and-click once I feed you the variables. A basic robotic system could handle it- there is no need for fancy AI or complex human calculations."
The sniper's eyes narrowed behind his scope. "That so?" His voice carried a hint of professional pride. "There's more to this craft than following coordinates. Environmental awareness, split-second adjustments, reading the wind's subtle tells- these come from years of experience, critical thinking, and countless hours of practice. Show me an AI that can factor in the psychological element of the shot."
"Alright then, son," the spotter challenged, adjusting his position. "Prove it. Show me something that would make even a US military-grade AI jealous."
A Mother at Balcony
A young mother lulls her 7-day old baby to sleep. Sporadic gunshots, shouting and slogan of people coming from the streets. The sound of fine cut air under the rotors of the Mi-171 is swirling nearby. The mother, exhausted from a sleepless night, silently goes to the balcony to have some fresh air.
The Target
Through his scope, the sniper finds his target finally. It stood precisely 437 metres away, partially obscured by the balcony's railing. Wind speed: 8 knots, gusting to 12. Temperature: 33°C. Humidity: 78%. Barometric pressure: 1013 millibars. The helicopter's vibration added another layer of complexity.
He made his calculations, not in cold numbers, but in the language of instinct honed by thousands of hours behind the scope. His target and the steel railing aligned in perfect geometric harmony through his crosshairs.
A sniper from a circling helicopter finds his earnest target to prove how much skills even a military-grade AI needs to achieve to replace him.
The Headshot
The bullet slug, a 250-grain newborn metal child, is finally released with precise aerodynamic calculations summoned upon it leaving behind the dark long vaginal rugae of the barrel, the veteran sniper, the seasoned spotter, and the hideout with a magical, lethal accuracy.
One Asma Begum hears a sudden noise. Most probably it was the slug penetrating the balcony grill, or her daughter collapsed on the floor, or a mix of the both. But certainly it was not the cracking sound of a broken skull quitter than the pre and post bullet hit affects.
The noise suppressed Asma Begum’s wailing, her grand daughter’s cry for her mother’s milk. They failed to resonate the eardrums of Themis escalating the more important and roaring protests against the socio-political injustice taking place in the pre-political past, at that time, now, and in the future...
In the helicopter, the sniper chambered another round with mechanical precision, while the spotter logged the coordinates. Neither spoke.
