Stephen Hunter - The Master Sniper

Repp was blind now. These were rough hours; lesser men, alone in the night and silence, might have yielded to the temptations of flight.

He was thinking, marvelously alive, taking sustenance from the intricacies of the problem that now faced him.

The chief dilemma was Vampir itself. Now that it was dead, it was forty kilos of uselessness. In a fire fight, things happened fast. You needed to be able to move and shoot in fractions of seconds. Should he remove the device?

On the other hand, it was unique. It might be worth millions to the proper parties—perhaps even the Americans. It also might make a certain kind of future more feasible than others.

A running gunfight, if such a thing were to occur in the next few hours, might push him all over the face of this mountain. If he dismounted Vampir and hid it, he might never find it again, or he might be hit and unable to get back to it.

The decision then came down to his confidence.

He decided for Vampir.

“No, Roger,” the captain repeated. “You. You’re going out there.”

“I, uh—”

“Here’s how I’ve got it doped out. He doesn’t know how many we are. But mainly he doesn’t know we know Vampire’s out of juice. So he’s got to figure that if we come, we come at first light. So this is how I figure it. A two-step operation. Step one: Rog goes fast and hard for the mountain. You’ve got nearly an hour till light. Work your way up, keeping out of gullies, moving quietly. Nothing fancy. Just go up. His range at Anlage Elf was four hundred meters. So to get in range with your Thompson you’ve got to get at least two hundred, two hundred fifty meters up the slope. You got it?”

Roger couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“Step two: at seven-thirty A.M. on the fucking dot, I’m coming up the stairs. Wide open, flat out.”

Roger, for one second, stopped thinking about himself.

“You’re dead,” he said. “You’re flat cold dead. He’ll drill you after the first step.”

“Then you kill him, Rog. You’re close enough so when that subsonic round goes off you can get a fix on it. He doesn’t know you’re there. Now the key point in all this is wait. Wait! As long as you’re still, you’re fine. You start moving around and he’ll take you. It’s how these guys work, patience. After he fires, there’ll be at least half an hour, maybe an hour. It’ll be rough. But just wait him out. He’ll get up, Roger. You may be surprised at how close he is. He’ll probably be wearing one of those camouflage suits, spotted brown and green. Now, aim low, let the rise of the gun carry the rounds into him. Five-, six-round bursts, don’t risk a jam. Even when he’s down, keep shooting. When you use up that first magazine, put another in. Shoot him some more. Don’t fuck around. Try and get some slugs into the brains. Really blow them all over the place.”

Roger made a small noise.

Leets had taken the boy’s weapon and was checking it over. “You’ve fired a Thompson, I suppose? Okay, that’s a thirty-round mag in there. I’ve set it on full auto, but no round in the chamber. Now this is the M-one, the Army model. The bolt’s on the side, not on the top like the ones you see in the gangster movies. Just draw it back, it locks; you don’t have to let it go forward again, it fires off the open bolt.”

He handed the weapon back.

“Remember, wait him out. That’s the most important thing. And that shot of his, it won’t sound like a shot. It won’t be as loud, like a thud or something. But you’ll hear it. Then wait, goddamn it, how many times do I have to say this? Wait! Wait all day, if you’ve got to, okay?”

Roger stared at him, openmouthed.

“Your move, Rog. Match point coming up.”

He wants me to go out there? Roger thought in horror. The distance from the corner of the wall to the mountain seemed immense.

“Remember, Rog. It all starts happening at seven-thirty.”

Leets clapped the boy on his shoulder and whispered into his ear, “Now go!” and sent him on his way.

The light was growing. He could see the convent seem to solidify magically before and below him out of gray blur. Quiet down there, a body in the courtyard, otherwise empty.

Repp pressed the magazine release catch and a half-empty magazine slid out. He reached into his pouch, got out a full one, and eased it into the magazine housing.

He cocked the rifle and, leaning over it, peered down the slope through the trees. The light was rising now, increasing steadily; and birds were beginning to sing. Repp could smell the forest now, cool and moist.

The night was ending.

If there was a man, he would come soon.

Repp waited with great, calm patience.

Leets knew it was nearly his turn.

He crouched in the shadow of the wall of the convent, breathing uneasily, trying to conjure up new reasons for not going. It was quite light by now and the second hand of his Bulova persisted in its sweep, pulling the two larger hands along with it. Roger had made it but Leets couldn’t think about Roger. He was thinking about the long one hundred yards he had to cross before he reached the cover of the trees. A fast man could make it in twelve seconds. Leets was not fast. He’d be out there at least fifteen. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi… out there forever, fifteen Mississippis, which was nearly forever. He figured he’d catch it about the sixth or seventh Mississippi.

He’d peeled off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, but he was still hot. He’d checked the laces and straps of his boots—tight—and tossed aside his cap and taken the bars off his collar. There wasn’t much else to do.

He checked his watch again. The seconds seemed to drain away. They seemed to fall off the Bulova and rattle to the grass. He tried to feel good about what would probably happen next. Instead he felt puke in the bottom of his throat. His breathing came hard and his legs were cold and stiff and his mouth was dry.

He glanced about and saw the day opening pleasantly, a pale sun beginning to show over the mountain, a pure sky. A few fleecy clouds unraveled overhead. He knew he could catalog natural phenomena until the year 1957 if he didn’t watch himself. Goddamn it , he was thirsty.

He looked at the Bulova again and it gave him the bad news: almost time to go. Seconds to go.

He eased his way up to a crouch, checking for the thousandth time the tommy gun: magazine locked, full auto, safety off, bolt back. The forest was a long way off.

Don’t blow it, Roger, goddamn you, he thought.

And he thought of Susan once again. “Everything you touch turns to death,” she’d said. Susan. Susan, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean it. He did not hate her. He wished she were here and he could talk to her.

And he thought of Repp, behind his rifle in the trees.

The Bulova said it was time and Leets ran.

Repp watched the American break from the wall. He’d picked him up minutes ago—the fool kept peering out, then withdrawing. He couldn’t make his mind up, or perhaps he was enchanted with the view.

It didn’t matter. Repp tracked him lazily—such an easy shot—holding the sight blade just a touch up, leading him, drawing the slack out of the trigger. A big, healthy specimen, unruly hair, out of uniform: was this the chap that had been hunting him these months? He wobbled when he ran, bad leg or something.

Repp felt the trigger strain against his finger.

He let the fat American live.

He did not like it. Too easy. He felt he could down this fat huffing fellow anytime. He owned him. The man still had 400 meters of rough forest climb ahead of him, and Repp knew he’d come like a buffalo, bulky and desperate, crashing noisily through the brush. At any moment in the process, Repp could have him.