Stephen Hunter - Sniper's Honor

“You are like a lion who feeds off the fringes of the herd,” he said. “As long as he doesn’t take above a certain replaceable level, his attacks are fundamentally meaningless and the herd hardly notices him. At some level, instinctual I am sure, every social unit, man or animal, fears its own extinction. That is, it fears reaching a level where there are not enough surplus females to renew at a certain predictable rate that year; at that point, the tribe, the pride, the swarm, the herd, the platoon, ceases to exist conceptually. Thus it cannot cohere, thus anarchy, dissipation, abandonment, and abrogation of the natural impulse. Anomaly.”

Salid nodded.

“The smaller village, Yasinia, is of no concern,” continued Dr. Groedl. “But the other five, especially Yaremche, are of concern because they are large enough, theoretically, to harbor secret sympathizers for the bandits. Are you following me, Captain Salid?”

“Yes sir. But what I do not understand is whether you are pleased with my first operation or if you believe I have failed. I have to know what attitude to convey to my men, and I need to have a feel for what satisfies you.”

“What is ‘pleased’? Who is to say what is pleasing and what is not? How does one distinguish the threshold between that which is pleasing and that which is not? I have no idea. I prefer to deal in data. It’s pure and clean.”

“Yes,” said the captain.

“It’s all science, math. That is the scientific basis of our race purification philosophy and it is moral, therefore, because it is mathematically—that is, scientifically—based. We do what the data commands. Do you see?”

Salid did not, even if he smiled contritely, trying to make some sort of human contact with the little adding machine in a fat man’s body that sat across from him in his office at the Town Hall, beneath some rather gaudy Reich banners.

“Now,” Groedl said, “I want you to go back to your quarters and have a nice rest.”

“Sir, our quarters are not—”

“I know, I know. But that will be changed. You and your men need more space, more comfort, as an indication of your importance to the overall aims of our policy. For you, the Andrewski Palace.”

This was an aristocratic manse dating from half a dozen or so centuries ago, a vast, crenellated, walled castle built not to withstand war but to withstand envy, in its way as destructive as war. A line of Polish dukes had lived there, controlling all of South Ukraine. Some may have lived there as penniless and pathetic wards of the state after the revolution, until The Boss hauled them off to the camps during his occupation of 1939 to 1941, ending the six-hundred-year-old Andrewski line in the form of a ninety-three-pound zek. But the Russians hadn’t controlled the palace long enough to destroy its grandeur, and it remained the showplace of Stanislav.

“I know, I know,” continued Dr. Groedl, “the Andrewski Palace is currently occupied by parachutists, a specialist unit once a part of the 2nd Parachute Infantry Division, now in Normandy, called Regiment 21. It no longer exists. Its survivors are called Battlegroup Von Drehle. They have uniforms and helmets like no others. Not Waffen-SS, not even army. Rather, Luftwaffe. A thorn in my side. They’re much favored by that damned Von Bink. These fellows are out on some sort of job now, but when they return, I will order Von Bink to requarter them in a field adjacent to Fourteenth Panzergrenadier. Digging their own latrines and pitching their own tents and unspooling their own K-wire will do them some good, I think. Meanwhile, Police Battalion goes into Duke Andrewski’s house and is to enjoy the comfort it offers. They will need the rest for the days ahead.”

“That is very good news, Dr. Groedl.”

There was, it could not be denied, something rather impressive about Dr. Groedl. Max Weber called it charisma, a certain aura that all who came in contact with him felt and responded to. It was his utter seriousness, his utter belief, his uncanny gift for memorizing vast amounts of data. When he spoke, it was as if he were inviting you into an elite circle who knew vastly more than others. It was said that when he taught economics in Munich in the twenties, a young artist named Schicklgruber used to hear his lectures and leave, inspired. Later, that young man was able to reward the professor with a position of power in the government and crusade he had begun.

“Tomorrow, I am giving a dinner party in my suite at the hotel. Seven P.M. You have dress uniform?” he said to Salid.

“Of course.”

“Seven P.M., bathed, shaved, dress uniform. Meet the generals and the department heads who control what is left of German Ukraine. Impress them, they will give you everything, put you at the head of every line. Tomorrow night I will introduce you to an officer, and if you charm him, those three panzerwagens will be permanently assigned to Police Battalion, no waiting, no explanation, no competing interests in the dispatch pool. They are simply yours, with endless fuel and ammunition, so that you may operate with impunity.”

“Excellent, sir.”

“And the day after, it is time to expand the base line. I want you back to those five villages along the Yaremche Road, and this time I want twenty hostages shot in each. That should get their attention and their obedience. I want you to make them look extinction in the eye. Their genes will discipline them. It is bred into them to fear and obey. We merely confirm the natural principles.”

Altitude four thousand feet above Yaremche

She made him repeat it, and the Teacher translated from the Ukrainian.

“I am to move down the mountainside and, in the dark, enter the village of Yaremche. I will make my recon at dark. Three nights, no rush. I will avoid any contact. I will move silently. I will attempt to recover a rifle.”

“What kind of rifle?” Petrova demanded.

“One with a telescope.”

“Finally, information. Do the Germans occupy the village? Or do they patrol through it and, if so, how often, in what strength? What is their demeanor? Are they combat-ready, as we might say, or is it a joke to them and they slack off and never get out of their heavy vehicles?”

The Teacher translated.

“I know you’ll succeed,” she said.

The Peasant seemed pleased, and he ducked out through the entrance of the cave and slipped away.

“The chances of him obtaining a rifle with a telescope are almost negligible,” said the Teacher. “You know that.”

“He needs an ideal, that’s all.”

“Only the German army has them, and I’m betting within it, only specialized units. They’re not apt to leave any about. They don’t forget to put their toys away.”

“If he can just get a half-decent, not-too-beaten-up Mosin or even a German Mauser, I believe I could make that shot from a hundred yards with open sights. It is much the same, finding the position, achieving the concentration, controlling the breathing, willing the trigger finger.”

“The telescope gives you two hundred yards more distance, maybe two-fifty. It gives you a chance to escape. Believe me, you do not want to be caught by the SS after killing one of their leaders.”

“And so I die. It’s a war. It happens all the time.”

“I believe an executioner’s shot behind the ear would be the most you could hope for. That would be a happy ending. I doubt you’d find a German so inclined. The reality is likely far more unpleasant.”

“No point of thinking so negatively,” she said. “At Kursk, even as we closed with the Tigers, we had no negative thoughts. We thought only of duty.”

“I envy you such purity. Anyhow, it’s time to rest.”

“Thank you, I will,” she said.