Stephen Hunter - Sniper's Honor

An hour passed. The three prisoners ate a last meal. The other men remained in casual battle positions, with two recon posts half a mile down the Yaremche road to report on the arrival of either the Police Brigade panzerwagens or the Russians. Karl sat in the communications tent with Wili, monitoring developments over the radio.

He smoked and thought. He decided what the hell and finished off the last of his English pipe tobacco. It brought a rich, heavy buzz to his head. The sound of the shells, the scream of the rockets, was constant, though it varied in intensity. It rose, it fell. Still, no small-arms fire could be heard, which meant the battle was too far off to matter.

His reverie was interrupted by his signalman. “Karl, Horst on telephone.”

“Yes, yes,” said Karl, taking the receiver. “Hello, hello, Karl here.”

“Karl, I see them. Still a few miles out. Three SS panzerwagens coming down the road.”

“Fine, I receive you. Can you give me an estimate on arrival?”

“I’m guessing at least half an hour.”

“Good work. All right, get back here, in position.”

“Yes, Karl.”

“Leave the phone. Don’t waste time respooling the wire. One way or another, we won’t be needing it.”

“Got it and end transmit.”

“End transmit,” said Karl.

He rose, summoned Wili to him. “Can you put together a bread bag full of actual bread instead of grenades for a change? Some vegetables, maybe, some clean water in a water bottle.”

“Karl, what are you thinking?”

“Wili, just do what you’re told. I’m still the officer here, remember?”

“Yes, Karl.”

Karl went over to the three captured bandits, now in a trench together. “All right,” he said. “I’ve decided to let the two men go. Wili is putting together some supplies. My advice is to go through the canyon here, then cut right and find a cave or a glade some miles away from the road. You don’t want to be on this side of the crest because there may be a battle here, and a lot of sloppy fire will be going all over the place, maybe mortar rounds as well. There will be a large explosion when we seal off the road. Stay over there for at least twenty-four hours after the shooting stops. Then walk in, hands high, to your own people. They’re trigger-happy, so it’s best to wait until you see an officer or NCO in charge. He will keep things calm.”

He turned to the woman just as Wili arrived with two bread bags and a couple of water bottles. “I cannot do the same for you, as I have explained. Use the next few minutes to make your good-byes. The SS will be here shortly, and after that, I can do nothing more for you.”

“Karl, are you—” Wili began.

“I am sure.”

“But weren’t the orders explicit? The woman and the men with her. It could be just what they need to turn against us.”

“Possibly. But I think they’re going to be so happy to get the female sniper, they won’t care about anything else. On top of that, I’ll make a big deal over the imminent arrival of the Ivans. Believe me, Ali Baba won’t like that. He’ll be in a hurry to get down the road to Uzhgorod and behind our new lines. I guarantee you, the last thing this Arab wants is to be stuck in the middle of a battle between two forces he despises equally, the Red Army and Twenty-one Para. We’ll blow Ginger, and then I’ll go straight to Muntz, if he’s still alive, and tell him the men were near death, and there was no point in sending them further. He’ll have to accept that, and again, he will be happy to have sent this woman to Berlin with whatever secrets she has.”

“Yes, Karl, if you say so. We’ve never doubted you. But Karl, we have it all now, and it seems—”

“The men are meaningless, Wili. There’s a reason the SS gets the woman. There’s no reason for it to get these two idiots. They won’t even notice, I assure you.”

The Teacher and the Peasant, rested now and plied with bread bags, passed through the canyon passageway, turned right, and found a high trail deep into the woods under the crest. There were no Germans here, as all had fled. They were safe.

They hurried down the rocky cut in the forest. Then they both stopped.

“I have to see,” said the Teacher.

“So do I,” said the Peasant.

“You should go on. There’s nothing to see.”

“No, I must—”

“Your head must be made of marble. Now go, you have officially survived, remember what the German said, take your time, don’t jump at the Red Army, they will shoot you.”

“I will not go. I must see, too.”

“You could easily die.”

“So it happens.”

“Come on, then.”

The two rushed back until they reached the chalky canyon wall. They slithered closer and closer and finally came to the spot where the edge of the rock afforded visibility into the little German fortress.

The Teacher quickly noted the three SS panzerwagens, dappled in shades of forest brown and green, churning heavily on great gnashing treads up the dirt road. The three vehicles came ahead almost on sheer determination. A man stood like a ship’s captain in the cab of the first one. They were a few minutes away.

The Teacher shifted his view, came back to the fortified zone, saw nothing, and then—

“Look,” said the Peasant. “It’s Mili.”

“It is,” said the Teacher.

She walked with the young officer back along the road a bit. She was smoking a cigarette.

“What is he going to do?” asked the Peasant. “Is he going to let her go?”

“He can’t let her go. He would be executed.”

“Then what—”

“It will seem cruel,” said the Teacher. “But it is not. It is the only happy ending possible. It will probably cost the officer his life, but he cannot turn her over to the SS for torture. Like the two of us, he is in love with her.”

“I don’t—”

“Watch, Peasant. The drama has a wonderful ending. Think about it, and in time you will understand. You will also understand that the German is a decent man, possibly a hero.”

“We could—”

“No,” said the Teacher. “No, we couldn’t.”

They reached a sunlit place. She took a last puff on her cigarette and tossed it away. He walked around behind her and withdrew his pistol.

“He is probably killing himself as well,” said the Teacher.

The two watched. The officer put his pistol to the back of the head and fired. She dropped to her knees, then toppled to the earth. He walked around and again placed the muzzle to the back of the head and fired. Then he put his pistol in its holster and walked back to his men.

Moscow

THE PRESENT

It hit harder than he’d thought it would. You can’t predict. But this one hit so hard. All the way back he was stony, silent. He just stared ahead, paying no attention when she fished out her laptop and started writing—this story, another story, who knew? The cabin of the helicopter was dark, and the screen lit her face. He didn’t look at her, he just looked ahead or out the window.

They landed close to midnight, and Will was in the private terminal, waiting for Stronski’s jet. He hugged his wife, and they exchanged jabber and pleasure at each other’s presence in the way old-marrieds the world over do. Swagger made a big show of meeting Will for the first time, and obvious jokes were exchanged, all of it a kind of social theater that Swagger wasn’t really into. But the conventions demanded, and he delivered; he owed it to both of them. Finally Will drove them into Moscow, unaware that a car full of Stronski shooters rode hard a few lengths behind, just in case. Stronski’s idea, approved by Bob.