Stephen Hunter - Sniper's Honor

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Sniper's Honor: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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In this tour de force—part historical thriller, part modern adventure—from the
bestselling author of
, Bob Lee Swagger uncovers why WWII’s greatest sniper was erased from history… and why her disappearance still matters today.
Ludmilla “Mili” Petrova was once the most hunted woman on earth, having raised the fury of two of the most powerful leaders on either side of World War II: Joseph Stalin and Adolf Hitler.
But Kathy Reilly of
doesn’t know any of that when she encounters a brief mention of Mili in an old Russian propaganda magazine, and becomes interested in the story of a legendary, beautiful female sniper who seems to have vanished from history.
Reilly enlists former marine sniper Bob Lee Swagger to parse out the scarce details of Mili’s military service. The more Swagger learns about Mili’s last mission, the more he’s convinced her disappearance was no accident—but why would the Russian government go to such lengths to erase the existence of one of their own decorated soldiers? And why, when Swagger joins Kathy Reilly on a research trip to the Carpathian Mountains, is someone trying to kill them before they can find out?
As Bob Lee Swagger, “one of the finest series characters ever to grace the thriller genre, now and forever” (
), races to put the pieces together,
takes readers across oceans and time in an action-packed, compulsive read.

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It was odd. Targets didn’t have faces, usually. They were anonymous men in feldgrau or camouflage, if SS, who scurried this way and that until a moment came when they went still in the embrace of the PU telescopic reticle, and it was her finger who shot them. It seemed not to involve great pain, of which, she would admit to herself and nobody else, she was glad. Usually they would stiffen or step back. She tried never to take a head shot. This was by doctrinal assertion: the head was a far more difficult target from the technical point of view, smaller, more active, unpredictable. But there was a psychological reason as well: a head shot could be alarming if it shattered and emptied skull, broke the face plate into halves or thirds, removed a jaw, all amid a copious outflow of crimson. Sometimes there was an extravagant splatter pattern, and in the snow, the red galaxies of blasted blood could be disconcerting. No, a torso shot was best.

But here, now: a face. Dumpy, undistinguished save by the looseness of jowls, the sadness of demeanor, the lightlessness of expression. He looked so insignificant, like a janitor or an elderly factory worker. Still, a face. He was not a figure, he was a human being.

“Not a soldier but a professor, like your father,” said Krulov. “You’d hardly notice him. Hmmm, let’s see, yes, born 1890, Linz, educated University of Linz, taught high school, served in staff position in the first war, never left Germany, renowned early for extraordinary mathematical capacity and organizational talent. Numbers, numbers, numbers with this one. After the war, got his doctorate in economics at University of Heidelberg, married, taught at University of Munich, and there was disgusted with the economic policies of Weimar and thus became an early Nazi, party number 133. Met Hitler and exchanged ideas on several occasions. Now he’s a favorite. It’s all in the file.”

Petrova’s eyes ran quickly over the documents, confirming the high points. There was a photo of this Dr. Groedl with a grim woman, a picture of him with older people, parents possibly, and in each he had the stuffy formality, the lightless eyes, the awkwardness, the dowdy wardrobe. Finally she came across one of him in an actual SS uniform, and he looked ridiculous. He was trying to do that salute they do, the stiff arm at a 45-degree angle, when they shout “Heil”—she had seen it only in the cinema, for it never appeared on the battlefield—and the result was quite comical. What a grotesque fool; the physical realm was baffling for this fellow, and when he tried to express himself with something even so primitive as that salute, he had a clownish quality.

“Why must he be killed, Comrade Commissar? I mean, all of them must be killed or driven out, yes, of course, and when they come before our gunsights it happens, but this is different. I’ve never been assigned a targeted killing before.”

“Probably something in the woman in you rebels,” said Krulov with oil in his voice. “It’s to be expected. What you do is ‘fair,’ on a battlefield, against armed men who would kill you or, more important to someone of your heroic disposition, your comrades. And you can project the ruinous consequences for the nation if these bastards win. But now we take it a step further: we point out one man who, on the face of it, seems an undistinguished little chap, and we kill him. Why? A fair question. Colonel Dinosovich, you’re our Groedl expert. You could explain to the sniper sergeant.”

“Yes, sir,” said the junior NKVD officer without making eye contact.

“He was assigned to Reichskommissariat, which administers what the Germans call ‘colonies’ here in the east. His specialty from the start was Ukraine. He helped organize Einsatzgruppen D, which was the SS mobile killing unit in Ukraine. The ridiculous Ukraines thought the Germans were their liberators, and for their troubles, the Einsatzgruppen rounded them up and shot them en masse. Mostly Jews, also intellectuals, politicians, anyone with military experience, anyone bound to be dissident. Evidently Dr. Groedl put the lists of targeting killings together, with the assistance of SS intelligence operatives. He was very good at his job, and under the enthusiastic support of his mentor, Dr. Ohlendorf, head of D, he was quickly promoted. He became director of the Kiev district in Ukraine, once the Nazis had purified it, where his first priority was always total elimination of Jews and dissidents, as well as restoration of economic order for the benefit of the Wehrmacht supply organization. Those bastards might not have lasted so long at Stalingrad and Kursk and killed so many of us if Dr. Groedl’s organizational talents hadn’t been put to such good use.

“Now he’s what’s called a senior group leader–SS, a major general, though he normally avoids the military accouterments of his job, and that ridiculous photo of him in his SS getup from 1942 is the only one we have of him in uniform. Promoted to Reichskommissar after Koch left, he has ruled Ukraine for the past six months. During that spell, he has sent over fifty thousand people to the extermination camp at Auschwitz-Birkenau. He has kept the rails running on schedule despite a heroic bombing and strafing campaign by our aviators. Though he never takes to the field, he has organized anti-partisan campaigns that are among the most effective the Germans have, and via his efforts, over six thousand partisans have been either killed in battle or captured and executed. To frighten the farmers, he has executed over a thousand of them. He’s cut quite a path through the motherland for a little fatty in an expensive suit.

“Any further questions, Petrova?” asked Krulov.

“No, Comrade.”

“Another excellent lie,” said Krulov. “Wonderful job of pretending to be a mindless party automaton, what the Czechs call a robot. Nothing but obedience. Even your eyes hide questions. But of course you have questions. You do not ask them, because among such big shots as us, questions equal doubt, and if you doubt, we doubt, and consequences can be unpleasant.”

Silence. Krulov was indulging himself by speaking the truth. It was a perquisite of his rank. Even one of the NKVD fools looked a little uncertain at this unusual tack.

“All right, then,” said Krulov. “I will ask the questions you have wisely decided to pass on.”

“As you say, Comrade Commissar.”

“First of all: Why him? There are so many of them who we will hunt down and deal with after the war. Why this one little dim cog in their vast killing machine? Excellent question, Petrova. There are two answers, the first of which is all right for you to know, the second of which is not, and if any of these three NKVD monkeys report me, I could end up in the cellar of their fortress with a pistol muzzle behind the ear. Right, gentlemen?”

The three monkeys laughed awkwardly.

“All right, Colonel Dinosovich, control your giggles and explain.”

“Yes, Comrade Commissar. The key is accessibility. We have captured their high-ranking military personnel before, including a field marshal, but the civilian administrators, who set the policy and then step back, are difficult to locate and, if located, difficult to target. This Groedl operated out of the Reichskommissariat Ukraine—RKU—at Rivne, which was a large military complex. It was heavily defended, not only by SS ground forces but also by an interceptor squadron. Bombers did not get through, no partisans got close enough to strike. So for three years he did his business like any bureaucrat, living with his wife and puppy in a nice house, adding his numbers, making his decisions, a long way from any actual death or dying. That changed in February, when the Red Army finally liberated Rivne after a furious battle. Like all rats, he escaped and disappeared.

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