Stephen Hunter - Sniper's Honor

She needed to set herself against a tree, with a branch upon which to rest the rifle. If she was too far into the depth of the tree, she’d have to peel away the boughs and needles that interfered with the course of the bullet.

“Rest here, I will find a spot.” He slithered off. In time, he returned. “All right, it’s about thirty meters lower, and if I’m not mistaken, there seems to be an old track that should get us back to our path more quickly. Are you ready?”

“Yes. Let’s feed this bastard a breakfast of nine grams and get the hell out of here.”

Salid checked his watch for the third time in three minutes.

0855. Five minutes until Senior Group Leader Groedl arrived. Well, no, it couldn’t be five minutes. They weren’t traveling along Berlin streets but driving by Horch field car over backcountry roads, accompanied by panzerwagens full of 12th SS Panzergrenadiers. They could be hours late.

“Ackov?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Check again, please.”

“Sir, you just checked a minute ago.”

“You are right.”

The check had revealed exactly what he knew it would reveal. Everyone in place, men hidden in the foliage, a little farther out, the dog teams. The Vizslas would pick up the scent, and in minutes they’d take the shooter down. Moreover, a good corporal with a telephone to report in and communicate with these deployed troops by whistle. His own Scimitar troopers in panzerwagens hidden in the lee of the church, ready in seconds to grind out to a spot where they could access the action, if it came to that. Finally the damn parachutists at Natasha’s Womb, a few kilometers down the Yaremche road, fully alerted and expecting the fleeing fugitives to be driven to them.

At that moment, 0900 precisely, the first 12th SS Panzerwagen pulled into view. In seconds the open Horch car, top down, an immense vehicle that was configured like an automobile but built like a truck, emerged, and then behind it, the second panzerwagen.

Without even being asked, Ackov spun the knob on the field phone to send rings to the men on the line, then handed it to him.

“Hello, hello,” said Salid, “all Zeppelin units, this is Zeppelin Leader. On your toes now, the senior group leader is here, you must react quickly and close at high speed on targets when they reveal themselves.”

The small convoy closed the range to the command hut and halted. First SS men disembarked from their vehicles, formed a defensive perimeter. The machine gunner in each panzerwagen turned his MG-42 to the mountainside above the scorched-out zone.

A sergeant got out, saluted sharply to Salid, exchanged protocol greetings and salutations. Salid responded, then went with Ackov to the car, where Senior Group Leader Groedl sat smoking a cigar. As usual, he chose to dress in civilian clothes, more professor than general, and in gray suit, spats (spats! the quiet audacity of the man!), his wire-rimmed glasses, a muted tie, and a gray homburg, he waited patiently.

“Good morning, Herr Senior Group Leader, welcome to Yaremche.”

“Good morning, Captain. I understand you have a beautiful waterfall here.”

“It’ll be my pleasure to show it to you.”

“I know I don’t have to ask you. I know all your men are positioned properly, briefed properly, controlled properly. I know the instant of the shot, they will respond.”

“That is all taken care of, sir.”

“All right, shall we begin our little tour?”

“Yes sir. May I ask, do you have some sort of body armor beneath your coat, as I recommended? A shop platoon mechanic could hammer such a thing out easily and—”

“Not necessary, as I have told you. The data again. The data informs us that with any weapon she could have, she could not make the shot from over five hundred yards. Physically impossible.”

“Yes sir, I know. But perhaps a safeguard.”

“I will not have it be said that fat little Groedl was not as brave as any infantryman who goes naked into battle. Now, shall we proceed?” He got out of the car.

Then, accompanied by Salid, he began his bogus tour of Yaremche, full of pigs and farmers who were ordered to be exactly where they were, and who had been searched a hundred times over by SS during the night. Even the pigs obeyed. Who was not terrified by the prospect of incurring SS wrath? Everybody nodded and smiled and took hats off, all in their Sunday best. A little girl in the bright doll-like clothes of Ukraine gave him a bouquet of a dozen roses—for some reason she had plucked out and thrown away a thirteenth rose just before he arrived—and he bent and gave her a kiss and her mother as well. Then the ladies were shoved aside as the procession continued its tour downhill toward the bridge over the River Prut.

It was all security theater, designed to bring the economics professor and mass murderer to the bridge, where he would be most exposed. There he would stand until—well, until she fired or his feet fell asleep and he had to be carried back. But all believed she would shoot. She had to shoot. If she didn’t shoot, she would be executed by her own kind. Stalin, after all, had executed more than two hundred of his own generals for failures, some of them actual. He certainly would not hesitate at eliminating a failed sniper and those of her family who could be found.

The grubby buildings held no interest to any German, least of all Groedl. But he pretended politely to be fascinated as Salid pointed out various highlights, or rather, as Salid pretended anything in the dismal place could be considered a highlight by a German intellectual.

“Actually, the whole fucking place should be burned down,” said Groedl mildly. “With all the people in it. These benighted undermen and their monkey-children never should have been permitted to occupy a land so beautiful and rich in natural resources. It is ours by right of evolution. The lesser breeds must fall away into extinction. They are Neanderthal, their time is up. A massive correction is needed. We are the correction. We are here to restore natural order by obeying the data. Data, data, data.”

He went on and on in his civil, slightly amused informational voice, revealing these sacred truths, as they reached the bridge across the water to the second but equally unimpressive half of the village. They separated, feeling the bridge sway slightly under them, and headed across single-file. At the center, Groedl came to a halt.

“Not too close, Salid.” He turned to Sergeant Roffler, the SS NCO in command of the 12th SS Panzer detachment. “Spread your boys out, Sergeant. We want to give the White Witch a nice clear shot at me. It’s no good if we don’t tempt her.”

The Carpathians

THE PRESENT

“You talk, I’ll load.”

They were in a glade off the northern trail up to the cave, just north of the scree field. Swagger had before him ten seventy-year-old Sten magazines which he was busy loading with thirty seventy-year-old His Majesty’s 9mm ammunition. Mili’s sniper rifle lay to one side, as did ten No. 36 Mills bombs, pineapples full of TNT.

“How do you know it will work?” she asked.

“It should. It was in waterproof containment in a cave that by all indications was dry. No rust, no corrosion anywhere on the guns or on the container. No corrosion on the ammo. It should be okay.”

“Swagger, I’m scared.”

“To be expected. Get your mind off it. Make phone calls. Check your e-mail. Give me your latest. Do you have any long shots? You only scare yourself into ineffectiveness if your mind goes empty or numb. So just fill it with little shit, and you’ll be all right.”