David Healey - Winter Sniper

“Isn’t it obvious? He wants to let us know he’s here.”

Snow was coming down hard by the time the Jeeps were halfway back to the Greenbrier. There didn’t seem to be any wind but the snow slanted in at an angle nonetheless, coating the dead leaves that clung to the oaks on the mountainsides and layering itself on the faded green leaves of the mountain laurel. Ty thought it might have been pleasant to watch the storm out the window while sitting in one of the resort’s old leather chairs, fireplace crackling and glass of brandy in hand. An old-fashioned Currier & Ives print from his grandparents’ house come to life. But they were out in the thick of it. The snow was dry as sand and sifted under their collars and stung their eyes. It was like driving through a snow globe.

“Goddamn!” Ty shouted, fighting the wheel as the Jeep skidded on the slick road.

“Better slow down,” Kit recommended. “And those idiots behind us need to get off our tail. If you hit the brakes they’re gonna slide a bumper right up our ying-yang.”

Ty took his eyes off the road long enough to see that the second Jeep was too close. He waved them back. The third Jeep, with the ever-competent Sergeant Crandall at the wheel, had kept its distance.

When they left the woods and entered an open area, it was hard to tell the road from the surrounding field. Ty slowed the Jeep to a crawl. He still managed to drive off into the field, churning up grass and dirt until he got all four tires back on the macadam. Frustrated, he resigned himself to a slow drive back to the resort.

“You know, that sniper must have brass balls to leave a shell casing behind for us to find in the barn,” Kit said. “I don’t think he was being careless, not a guy like that. He wanted to let us know he was here. Why would he give himself away like that?”

“It’s his calling card,” Ty said. At this low speed he didn’t have to shout to make himself heard, but snow filled his mouth.

“Say again?”

“When Yancey flew in, he brought some classified material with him about German and Russian snipers.”

“We’re keeping tabs on the Reds too, huh? I thought they were on our side.”

“They are right now. But for how long? Anyway, the Germans and the Russians have highly developed sniper warfare programs. We even have some information about individual snipers. When we get back to the resort I’m going to look this guy up.”

“I dunno, Ty.” Kit seemed to shrug, but he was so bulky in his winter coat that it was hard to tell. “The Eastern Front is awful goddamn far from Greenbrier County, West Virginia.”

Ty took one hand off the wheel long enough to gesture at the snowy fields. “Maybe it isn’t. Seems to me that a winter sniper would feel right at home here right about now.”

Ty considered what to do next. Comb the roads looking for the two men who had fled the farm? He doubted they would be traveling out in the open where a patrol could pick them up; most likely they had taken to the woods, where two highly trained and experienced men could stay hidden as long as they wanted, no matter how many soldiers Ty sent to search for them. The farmer had insisted that they leave him to tend to his cows and Ty had agreed, promising to have someone bring the old man’s battered pickup by after the storm. The farmer had promised to telephone if the missing hands turned up. Ty thought it was unlikely that the two would reappear. And if they did, he doubted that the old man would get a chance to call for help.

No, his only choice now was to set the trap that might draw the sniper out of the winter woods. He and Yancey had been discussing the plan for the last couple of days. It was risky, but it just might work. Anything was better than putting Ike at risk with this waiting game. Not only that, but he liked the idea of turning the tables on this German sniper.

Hess welcomed the snow. He listened to the flakes hiss down through the dry oak leaves and settle on the forest floor, coating everything in white. For some reason, falling snow did not muffle sound but made it carry farther. In the quiet woods, he would easily hear a patrol tramping through the trees if they came looking for him. Even a lone man would have a hard time moving silently.In his opinion, the storm was better than having a ring of sentries protecting his position.

Out on the road he could hear the low-pitched whine of several vehicles moving slowly. Jeeps? Hard to say; he couldn’t see the distant road through the trees.

Anyone more than ten feet away would not have seen Hess. The barrel of the Russian sniper rifle was wrapped in the white sacking and he himself was camouflaged in the sheet. The camouflage was makeshift but as effective as any winter issue. Under it all he wore his Iron Cross. Since abandoning his uniform after the U-boat went down, it was his only proof that he was a German soldier, not an assassin.

Hess shivered. His nest under the windfall was not exactly cozy, but he was in no danger of freezing. He was glad that it was so cold because the snow wasn’t melting as it fell.He would lay there all night, the storm completely covering the tracks he might have left in the old snow.

Hess knew something about winter storms, having hunted in them before. He guessed that the snow would end during the night and that the stars would come out. It would be clear and cold once more. The sun would come up over a dazzlingly white world. He knew that General Eisenhower was an outdoorsman and an early riser. The general would be out in the morning to ski on the trails around the lodge. When he did so, he would cross the field in front of Hess. With a clear line of fire, this time there would be no chance of missing.

“Grab another sack of potatoes, will ya?”

Zumwald nodded and hurried off to the pantry, hefting one of the twenty-pound bags and scrambling for the kitchen, where a small army of cooks sliced, diced, stirred and fried. After the truckload of soldiers had dropped him off, he had headed right for the kitchen. The soldiers had assumed he worked here, so why not take the hint? Besides, with the storm coming, he didn’t want to take his chances heading out on the road again. Then there was the small matter of that convoy of Jeeps headed for the farm where he and Hess had been staying. Had they been riding horses, it would have had all the makings of an Old West posse. When they came up empty they would start scouring the roads. Better to stay in the kitchen until both storms had blown over.

Because this was a private hotel, the staff was mostly made up of sturdy local ladies with fat arms that jiggled as they rolled out pastry or beat eggs. There were a few girls and boys mixed in. Zumwald was a little old for the job, but he nodded and smiled at every order until everyone seemed to accept that he was the idiot son of one of the local farmers. His English was good, but the fact that no one even bothered to engage him in conversation was fine with him. No chance to slip up with a ya or nein .

He grabbed some dirty pots and pans, then hustled them toward the big metal sinks and got to work. Nobody thought twice about an errand boy and dishwasher. He had already scouted out a quiet spot to spend the night in the pantry. When things calmed down and the roads cleared, he would be on his way out West again, leaving this crazy war behind for good.

“How was that?” Ty asked. He was stretched across the foot of the bed, his head resting near Eva’s feet.

“A gentleman never asks, darling.” But Eva smiled as she said it. She would have purred for him if she had been a cat.

“I was a gentleman up until about half an hour ago,” he said. Ty worked his way back up, taking his time along the inside of her thigh. When he paused halfway up, Eva reached back and grabbed the headboard so she would have something to hang onto this time. She wouldn’t have thought that was possible again. When he was finished, she took him by the hair and pulled his face up to kiss him. Ty kneed her legs apart and slipped inside. She wrapped her legs around the small of his back and let him pump away. The headboard thudded rhythmically against the wall, letting anyone who cared to know exactly what was going on in Room 301.