Stephen Hunter - The Master Sniper

From the start, Hugo was undercutting him.

“Too bulky,” the old fool claimed. “Too sensitive. Too complicated.”

“Herr Schmeisser,” Hans began, suffering the immense strain of having to deal politely with a fool, “a few design modifications and we can join your assault rifle and my optics system and achieve the most modern device of the war. No, it’ll never be an assault weapon, or for the parachutists, but in the years ahead will come battles of a primarily defensive nature. The great days of rapid expansion are over. It’s time to concentrate on protecting what we’ve got. In any kind of stable night tactical situation, Vampir will make our enemies totally vulnerable.” And as he spoke, he could watch the old man’s eyes frost over with indifference. It was a most difficult situation, especially since in the background was another undercurrent: Hans the Kike was from the ERMA team that had built the wonderful MP-40; but, strangely, that weapon had picked up the nickname “Schmeisser,” though the old goat had had nothing to do with it. But he’d never disavowed the connection either, mad as he was for fame and glory.

With Schmeisser against him, he was doomed. The STG modifications were never approved, funds began to vanish, technicians were siphoned off to other projects, the Opticotechna people had difficulty with the lenses—Schmeisser’s influence?—and much gossip and vicious humor raged behind Hans the Kike’s back. He had no connections, nothing to match the might of the adroit Schmeisser, who didn’t want his assault rifle associated with some strange “wish-machine” invented by an obscure scientist and supervised by a disreputable ERMA veteran.

Vollmerhausen, under pressure, felt himself becoming more repellent. Whatever chances he had as an advocate for Vampir disappeared when he ceased shaving and bathing regularly, when he began denouncing the secret cabal that conspired behind his back. Vampir never went beyond prototype, despite some promising initial test results. It failed to meet certain specifications in its field trial, though Vollmerhausen asserted that “the cabal” had stacked the test against him. In May of ’44 the Waffenamt contract was canceled, and Vollmerhausen was ordered sharply back to Kummersdorf to a meaningless job. He was let go shortly afterward.

They let him dangle for a bit, nudging him closer and closer to despair. Worries on top of worries. His career in total collapse. Questions were asked. People began to avoid him. Nobody would look him in the eye. He thought he was being watched. The Army called him up for a physical exam and pronounced him fit for combat duty, despite fallen arches, a bronchial infection, bad ears and severe nearsightedness. He was advised to get his affairs in order, for the notice would arrive any day. It appeared his final fate might be to carry a “Schmeisser” on the Ostfront .

One day he happened to run into a friend in a disreputable café where he’d taken to spending his days.

“Have you heard, is Haenel still taking on people? I’d do anything. Draftsmanship, apprentice work, modeling.”

“Hans, I don’t think so. Old Hugo, you know. He’d stand in your way.”

“That old fool.”

“But, Hans, I did hear of something.” The friend was extremely nervous. It was the first time Vollmerhausen had seen him since he’d been fired. Hans had in fact been startled to see him in this place.

“Eh, what?” Vollmerhausen squinted, rubbed his hands through his hair and across his face, noticing for the first time that he hadn’t shaved in quite some time.

“Well, they say some fellows in the SS are going to let a big contract soon. For Vampir. They may revive Vampir.”

“The SS. What do they care about—”

“Hans, I didn’t ask. I-I just didn’t ask. But I hear it has to do with…” He trailed off.

“What? Come on now, Dieter. What on earth? I’ve never seen you quite so—”

“Hans. It’s just another job. Perhaps the Waffen SS wants to put Vampir into production. I don’t—”

“What did you hear?”

“It’s a special thing. A special mission. A special most secret, most important effort. That’s all. It’s said to originate from—from high quarters.”

Vollmerhausen pursed his lips disgustingly, puzzled.

“I think they’re interested in you. I think they’re quite interested in you. Would you be willing? Hans, think about it. Please.”

The SS filled him with dread. You heard so much. But a job was a job, especially when the alternative was the Ostfront .

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I—”

A day or so later he found himself in conversation with a pale officer at Unter den Eichen, the underground headquarters of the SS administrative and economic section, in Berlin.

“The Reichsführer is anxious to let a contract on an engineering project, sited down in the Schwarzwald. Actually, I may as well be frank with you, he believes this Vampir thing you worked on might have applications with regard to the duties of the SS and he’s anxious to pursue them.”

“Interesting,” said Vollmerhausen.

The man then proceeded to discuss with surprising precision the history and technology of Vampir, especially as linked to the STG-44. Vollmerhausen was stunned to realize how carefully the project had been examined by—what was it?—WVHA, of which up until a day or so ago he’d not even heard.

“There’s no question of funding,” the man explained, “we have access to adequate monies. A subsidiary called Ostindustrie GmbH produces quite a lot of income. Cheap labor from the East.”

“Well, the budget would certainly be a factor in such a project,” said Vollmerhausen noncommittally.

“Do you know this fellow Repp?”

“The great Waffen SS hero?”

“Yes, him. He’s a part of it too. He’ll be joining the project shortly. We’ve given it a code name, Nibelungen. Operation Nibelungen.”

“What on earth—”

“The Reichsführer ’s idea. He likes those little touches. It’s a joke, actually. Surely you can see that?”

But Vollmerhausen was baffled. Joke?

The officer continued. “Now, Herr Ingenieur-Doktor, here”—he shuffled some papers—“Vampir’s chief liability, according to the field results—”

“The test was planned for failure. They treated it like a piece of cookware. It’s a sophisticated—”

“Yes, yes. Well, from our point of view, the problem is weight.”

“With batteries, insulation, wiring, precision equipment, a lens system, energy conversion facilities, what do you expect?”

“What does the Vampir weigh?”

Vollmerhausen was silent. The answer was an embarrassment.

“Seventy kilos.” The man answered his own question. “At the very limits of movability.”

“A strong man—”

“A man at the front, in the rain, the cold, hungry, exhausted, is not strong.”

Vollmerhausen was again silent. He glared off into space. It was not safe to show anger toward the SS; yet he felt himself scowling.

“Herr Doktor, our specifications call for forty kilos.”

Vollmerhausen thought he had misheard. “Eh? I’m not sure I—”

“Forty kilos.”

“That’s insane! Is this a joke? That’s preposterous!”

“It can’t be done?”

“Not without compromising Vampir out of existence. This is no toy. Perhaps in the future, when new miniaturization technologies become available. But not now, not—”

“In three months. Perhaps four, even five, difficult to say at this point.”

Vollmerhausen almost leaped from his chair again; but he saw the man fixing him with a cool, steady glare.

“I—I don’t know,” he stammered.