Stephen Hunter - The Master Sniper

“But then sometimes the most important assignments are those nobody ever knows about, eh?” said Repp.

Vollmerhausen felt this was a strange comment for a famous man, but merely nodded, for he was still stunned at Repp’s sudden burst of enthusiasm. And a sudden, still-resentful part of him wished that the asshead Schaeffer were here to listen to Der Meisterschütze himself heap on the praise. Yet, he acknowledged, he deserved it. Vampir represented an astonishing feat in so small a time, under such desperate pressure. Though even now it was hard to believe and take real pleasure in: he’d done it .

Still, certain details and refinements remained to be mastered, as well as some after-mission checks and some maintenance, and it was this problem he now addressed, aware at the same time how modest he must have seemed. “May I ask, Herr Obersturmbannführer, how soon you expect to go operational? And what preparations will be necessary on my part?”

“Of course,” Repp said smartly. “Certain aspects of the mission remain problematical. I’ve got to wait on intelligence reports: target confirmations, strategic developments, political considerations. I would say another week. Perhaps even more: a delicate job. It depends on factors even I can’t control.”

“I see,” said Vollmerhausen.

“I should tell you two things further. The weapon and I will leave separately. Vampir will be taken out of here by another team. They are responsible for delivery to target area. Good people, I’ve been assured.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you’ll have to prepare a travel kit. Boxes, a trunk, I don’t know. Everything should be lashed down and protected against jolts. It needn’t be fancy. After what you’ve handled, I shouldn’t think it would be a problem.”

“Not at all.”

“Now, secondly—look, relax. You look so stiff.”

It was true. Though seated, Vollmerhausen had assumed the posture of a Prussian Kadett .

“I’ve noticed that I make people nervous,” Repp said philosophically. “Why, I wonder? I’m no secret policeman. Just a soldier.”

Vollmerhausen forced himself to relax.

“Smoke, if you care to.”

“I don’t.”

“No, that’s right. I think I will.” He drew and lit one of the Russian things. He certainly was chipper this morning, all gaudy in his camouflages. “Now, may I be frank with you?” He toyed again with the black cube Vollmerhausen had noticed earlier.

“Germany is going to lose the war. And soon too. It’s the third week in April now; certainly it’ll all be over by the middle of May. You’re not one of those fools who thinks victory is still possible. Go ahead, speak out.”

Again, Repp had astonished him. He realized it showed on his face and hurriedly snapped his mouth shut.

“Yes, I suppose. Deep down. We all know,” Vollmerhausen confirmed.

“Of course. It’s quite obvious. They know in Berlin too, the smart ones. You’re a practical man, a realist, that’s why we chose you. But I tell you this because of the following: Operation Nibelungen proceeds. No matter what happens in Berlin. No matter that English commandos and American tanks are inside the wire here. In fact especially in those cases. You weren’t in Russia?”

“No, I—”

“No matter. That’s where the real war is. This business here with the Americans and the British, just a sideshow. Now, in Russia, four million fell. The figure is almost too vast to be believed. That’s sacrifice on a scale the world’s never seen before. That’s why the mission will go on. It’s all that generation will ever have. No statues, no monuments, no proud chapters in history books. Others will write the history; we will be its villains. Think of it, Vollmerhausen! Repp, a villain! Incredible, isn’t it?”

He looked directly at the engineer.

“Unbelievable,” said the engineer.

Vollmerhausen realized Repp was not giving a speech. He had none of the orator’s gifts and little of his zeal; he spoke tiredly, laconically, only in facts, as if an engineer himself, reading off a blueprint.

Another thought occurred to Vollmerhausen: the man is quite insane. He is out of his mind. It’s all over, still he talks of monuments, of consecrations. It’s not survival for him, as it is for me. There is no after-the-war for Repp; for Repp, there’ll always be a war. If not in a shell hole or on a front line, then in a park somewhere, at a pleasant crossroads, in a barn or an office building.

“Y-yes, unbelievable,” Vollmerhausen repeated nervously, for he was just beginning to realize how dangerous Repp was.

“They’re calling him, even here, right afterward, der Meisterschütze , not, I say again, not der Scharfschütze , the technical German for sniper. Which of you brilliant Americans will now explain the significance of this?”

Tony held in hand his scoop of the week: the March 5, 1942, issue of Das Schwarze Korps , the SS picture magazine, which the burrower who’d been sent to the British Museum’s collection of back-issue German periodicals had uncovered. Its lead story was Repp at Demyansk.

Leets cleared his throat.

“Meisterschütze: master shot. Literally.”

“Ah, see, chum, you haven’t entered it. You don’t feel it. However can you hope to track a man whose nickname you cannot fathom?”

“I wasn’t finished, goddamn it,” Leets snarled.

“Meisterschütze , yes, master shot, and since the context is clearly military, one may indeed say, as did the Jew, master sniper. A nice turn of phrase: the man has some talent. He is a writer though, is he not? At any rate, it’s a higher form of rhetoric, more formal, playing on the long Germanic tradition of guilds, apprentices and journeymen. It’s more, shall we say, resonant.”

His cold smile drove the heat from the room. Clever bastard: a Bloomsbury wag, only-my-genius-to-declare amusement smug on his face.

But the lesson was unfinished.

“It’s not hard to see why they made such a hero of him, is it?”

“It’s part of another war,” Leets explained. He was ready for this one. “Waffen SS against the Wehrmacht. Nazis against the old boys, the Prussians who run the army. Repp is perfect. No aristo, just a country boy who can kill anything he can see. The prize is first place in line—Hitler’s line—for the new-model Panzers coming out of the shops, the Tigers. They were in the market for heroes, right?”

“Right, indeed,” admitted Tony.

“But more to the point: from this we can see how important Repp will be to the SS. That is to say, from here on in, he’s not just one of them. He is them. That is to say, he becomes their official instrument, the embodiment of their will. He’s—” he struggled for language in which to make this concept felt, “—he’s an idea.”

Tony scowled. “You’re talking like a don. Dons don’t win wars.”

“You’ve got to see in this a higher reality. A symbolic reality.” Leets himself wasn’t sure what he was saying. A voice from inside was doing the talking; somewhere a part of his mind had made a leap, a breakthrough. “When we crack it, I can guarantee you this: it will be pure Nazi, pure SS. Their philosophy, given flesh, set to walking.”

“Wow, Frankenstein,” called Roger, across the room.

“You Americans have too much imagination for anybody’s good. You go to too many films.”

But Tony had more.

“I have found,” he announced, “the Man of Oak.”

Leets turned. He could not read the Englishman’s face. It was impassive, imperial.

“Who?” Leets demanded.

“It occurs to me that we knew all along. We knew, did we not, that our phantom WVHA has an address in eastern Berlin. A suburb called Lichtenfelde; but the place itself goes by an older, more traditional name. It is called Unter den Eichen.”