David Healey - Winter Sniper

The sniper was gone.

Hess was hunting again.

He sought out the place he had scouted during his nighttime trip into the woods surrounding the resort. The moon had been so bright last night that now, by daylight, he had little trouble finding landmarks to guide him. In some cases he could pick out individual trees or outcroppings of rock, like signposts in the forest. Hess was somewhat troubled that he could also pick out his own tracks — but luck was on his side. Snow was beginning to fall. The old farmer had told them he could feel in his bones that they were in for a big storm. The heavy flakes fell almost straight down because there was no wind. A fresh layer of snow would cover his tracks and bury him in the woods.

Hess had planned for the snow. His entire rifle was wrapped in strips of white sacking, except for the muzzle and the optics. The magazine of the Mosin-Nagant was loaded with the last of his ammunition and he had the Luger tucked into his belt within easy reach. He felt like a soldier again, not a fugitive.

He hefted the rifle. He still thought of it as the Russian rifle, an entity of its own. He wondered sometimes if the factory workers who had made it ever considered that the rifle would end up in America for such a purpose. If they had any imagination at all, they must have pictured it being used to shoot Germans. It had none of the craftsmanship or precision of German weapons. It looked and felt more like a club than a rifle. For some reason, that made it feel more capable to Hess’s hands.

Not only was the rifle wrapped in white strips, but Hess had on overalls he had soaked in bleach until they were almost blinding as new snow. Now, deep in the trees, he took a white sheet from his pack and slipped it over his head through the hole he had cut in the center, leaving enough material to fashion a kind of hood with safety pins. The hooded sheet made an ideal camouflage poncho. Next, he wrapped the tops of his boots in strips he had cut from the sheet. From a distance, he would blend perfectly against a backdrop of snow.

Not only would the camouflage disguise him as he waited for the general, but it would help him escape. The woods were deep enough that he could disappear into the hills after he shot Eisenhower. Any pursuers would have to chase him on foot. With luck and a good head start, Hess doubted anyone could catch him. Beyond that, he did not have much of a plan for escape. He would be a lone soldier on his own in enemy territory — and most likely the target of a huge manhunt as well. He pushed the thought from his mind to focus on the task at hand.

He found the deadfall he had picked out last night and crawled under it. The shallow depression left by the torn roots made a kind of cave that would hold in his body heat. The pack also held food, a bottle of water and another flask of whiskey. He might not be warm exactly, but he would not freeze. His mind and body had been conditioned to ignore physical discomfort.

He settled the rifle into position and looked through the scope. The grounds around the resort sprang closer, blurred somewhat by the falling snow. Hess realized he was almost happy, never mind the cold. He was doing what he was meant to do, what he had been trained to do. They might call him a marksman and pin medals on him, but Hess knew the plain truth was that he was a killer, an assassin. This time, he would not fail. General Eisenhower was as good as dead.

Ty wanted snow — the next morning he got his wish. Before tumbling into bed late and more than a little woozy from a boozy night at the hotel bar — so much for doctor’s orders — he had looked out his window to notice that the nearly full moon had a halo around it. He knew that was a sign the old-timers used to predict a storm, but he was skeptical because an arctic front had pushed down from Canada. Too cold to snow, even in the forecast was calling for a big one. He woke up to a gray dawn, thinking a little wistfully of sun-kissed Italy — their last posting before establishing SHAEF headquarters in London.

The staff at the resort was busier than usual, getting ready for the storm. There was wood to be brought in and last-minute deliveries to receive. Here in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Ty saw that they took their snowstorms seriously.

“We might get socked in here if we stay,” Ike grumbled over coffee during an impromptu morning staff meeting. He dragged on a cigarette — already his fifth or sixth of the day.

Joe Durham got up pushed aside the curtain, letting in a view of the wooded foothills. Already, a few flakes slanted past in the growing wind. It looked like the start of something serious. “We’re better off here than stuck on the road somewhere or on a train,” Durham observed.

“All right, we’ll stay put,” Ike said. “Mamie will like that better, anyway. She’ll have me all to herself. But then it’s back to Washington. We’ve got a war to fight, gentlemen, though it’s peaceful enough here.”

Ty looked outside again at the slate-gray clouds of the gathering storm, wondering if the sniper was out there somewhere. He would have a rough time if he was, Ty thought with satisfaction.

The meeting broke up. Ty was heading back to his room when one of the staff members stopped him.

“Captain Walker? The concierge sent me to find you, sir. He thinks there’s someone you ought to see.”

Curious, Ty headed to the lobby. The staff member directed him to an office behind the front desk, where the concierge waited with a man who looked out of place in the Greenbrier’s elegant surroundings. He had the appearance of a local farmer, dressed in stained dungarees and worn Carhart coat, holding a billed cap in leathery, big-knuckled hands. His battered boots dripped slush into the spotless floor.

“This is Mr. Langdon,” the concierge said, after a somewhat pained glance at the floor. “He has a farm just down the road.”

Ty put out his hand and the farmer stared at it a moment before he seemed to realize he was supposed to shake it. The farmer’s hand was hard as a plank and rough as sandpaper.

“You’re the man I should see?” Langdon asked.

Ty glanced at the concierge, looking for some clue, but the man’s face was unreadable. “I’m Captain Walker. How can I help you, Mr. Langdon?”

“Well, Captain Walker, do you know anything about milkin’ cows?”

“I beg your pardon?” Ty cast another glance at the concierge, wondering if this was some local crazy they were pawning off on him.

“Didn’t think so,” Langdon said, looking satisfied with himself. “You see, it’s hard to find any help, which is why I wasn’t real particular when two fellers showed up at my place a few days ago. Can’t blame me for that. I hired them to milk. It ain’t so hard to milk once you get the hang of it.”

“You have a dairy farm,” Ty said, catching on.

“Just up the road,” Langdon replied. “You know, I was a soldier myself, back during the first time we had to whip the Krauts. Reckon we should of done a better job. Anyway, these two young fellers talked funny, said they was Pennsylvania Dutch. Can’t be too particular these days trying to get help around the farm.”

“I’m sure.” Ty wasn’t sure of anything, but he noticed the farmer was kneading his hat, working his way up to something.

“Yesterday I went into town to the feed mill, and when I come back I heard shooting. What’s all that shooting about? Didn’t think about it much at the time, deer hunters maybe, but then this morning I noticed the tracks leading to the back field and I followed them. Somebody was shooting at pumpkins and such back there. The tracks led back down to my barn, where these two hands of mine are staying.”