David Healey: Winter Sniper

Hess would never have been a good shooting instructor, he knew, because there was something almost inexplicable about it. A kind of sixth sense. Part of that was imagining where the bullet would strike. He could almost hear the soft melon sound of the bullet hitting flesh. In his mind’s eye he pictured the impact and everything else fell into place — his finger on the trigger, where the sight floated at the target’s temple, even his heartbeat. If he imagined it happening, it took only a bit of pressure from that disembodied finger to make it a reality. This instinct was the difference between a skilled rifleman and a marksman who could hit a target every time at a thousand yards.

In his rifle scope, Hess could see General Eisenhower standing beside Eva. He lit a cigarette for her. There was some danger of hitting her as well or that, at the last second, she would step in front of the target and take the bullet meant for Ike. There was a grim set to the general’s face, as if he somehow knew he was moments from death. Ike tossed the stub of cigarette away. Hess let the pad of his fingertips caress the last bit of tension out of the trigger.

A fraction of a second before the firing pin released, a third figured entered the scope’s magnified circle and stood talking with the general and Eva. It was the man who had arrived on the snow machine. He pulled off his goggles.

Camel’s hair coat. Wide, open face framing blue eyes. Balding head. Eisenhower. You are mine.

Then Hess jerked his finger away from the trigger. He pressed his eye close to the rifle sight and stared in disbelief. Das ist doch verruckt . Crazy! Where a moment before there had been one General Eisenhower, now there were two .

General Dwight D. Eisenhower was no fool. He had paid his dues as a field officer and could sense when someone was trying to hide something. He knew Sergeant Crandall instantly but it took him a moment to place the woman before he realized it was Eva Von Stahl, Ty Walker’s girl. Although girl was not the way to describe her, he thought. By gumbo, but she was a looker. She had the kind of figure that not even a leather bomber jacket could hide. He remembered something about her having been a movie star before the war. A German one at that. She looked a little wobbly on the skis now that they were standing still and Crandall offered her his arm.

What Ike did notice was that Crandall and Miss Von Stahl looked guilty as hell. Scared even, which wasn’t something Ike had ever seen before in his driver’s face. The question was, what had they been up to? Maybe something behind Ty’s back?

“Crandall, I never took you for a skier,” Ike said. He nodded back at the snow mobile. “What you ought to do is take one of these for a spin. I’d say that’s more your style.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then it dawned on Ike. The camel’s hair coat that was clearly his or else damned similar. The campaign hat that left Crandall’s jug ears exposed. The general was well aware that there had always been a rough resemblance between them, but for once, Crandall actually seemed to be trying to look like Ike.

“Sergeant, what the hell is going on?”

“We’re out here on Captain Walker’s orders, sir. We’re trying to lure out the German sniper, you see. We have one of our own marksmen covering us.”

“Captain Walker warned me about this particular threat, but I don’t put much stock in it. I’m convinced that what happened in Washington was an isolated incident.”

“That would be a good thing, sir, considering that if there is a sniper, he’s probably in the woods out there.” Crandall nodded toward the snowy trees. “And if he’s out there, he’s probably got us in his rifle sights right about now.”

Mamie Eisenhower, who had sat quietly in the snowmobile until now, called out to her husband. “What’s that about a sniper?”

“Nothing to worry about, dear.” But Ike cast a nervous eye toward the wintry woods that was a tapestry of snow-covered limbs and deep shadows. Half to himself he added, “That’s a long way to shoot a rifle.”

Crandall overheard. “Then let’s hope he’s not a good shot, sir.”

Hess stared in disbelief at the two generals in the circle of the telescopic sight. They could not both be General Eisenhower. But he could not tell them apart. Perhaps up close the difference would have been apparent, but from across the open field the two men looked almost exactly alike. The one might have been the mirror reflection of the other.

The sniper felt that he had been let in on some secret. Had the Americans found a double for the general that allowed him to be in two places at once? There were always rumors that Stalin did this, and even Hitler. Hess would have liked a deutschmark for every time Stalin had been seen on the front lines at Stalingrad. A trick of the cold and fatigue, or simply Russian propaganda? He would not have thought the Americans would stoop to such tricks, but the scene in front of him dispelled that notion.

Hess let the rifle sight waver from one man to the other, his finger all the while taking up tension on the trigger. He would have time for only one shot. Hess decided he would have an even chance of killing the right man. The same odds one had tossing a coin into the air. He would simply have to choose one. The trouble was that Eva stood to one side of the man on skis, blocking Hess’s line of fire.

Then Eva stepped forward and took the newcomer by the arm. Hess took this as a signal.

He put the post sight on Eisenhower’s temple and fired.

When he heard the gunshot, Ty was just coming out of the hotel. The sound shattered the wintry stillness of the valley. The corner of the hotel blocked his view of the open field, so he slogged through the snow. Drifts had piled up on this side of the building and he struggled through them. It was like trying to run through the water at the beach — or like trying to run in a nightmare when your feet won’t move. He heard another shot. And another. Then a deeper crack that he recognized as another rifle. Yancey . He only hoped their own sniper lived up to all his swagger.

Ty rounded the corner of the building and gasped at the scene in front of him. The glare off the snow hurt his eyes, but he couldn’t stop staring. Far out in the middle of the field, he saw three figures crouching by a snowmobile. In spite of everything that had happened, he felt a surge of relief when he glimpsed Eva’s blond hair. A fourth figure lay crumpled in the snow. Ty prayed to God that it wasn’t Ike.

Several other men were crossing the field, being waved toward the woods by Kit Henderson, who had run out of the hotel just ahead of Ty. Some men lacked coats and hats — or even any weapons that Ty could see — but they surged steadily through the snow toward where the sniper was hidden. He counted three more bodies scattered around, which would explain the additional rifle shots he had heard. The German sniper hadn’t given up easily. He saw another figure, dressed in white to blend in with the snow, picking his way along the tree line. That would be Yancey. He seemed happy to let the others charge across the field while he approached more cautiously.

Ty forced his legs to work harder. His lungs felt like they were on fire and he regretted every cigarette and scotch he’d had in the last two years. He vowed that he would cut back if only some divine power would let him run faster. Even his head began to throb again, probably set off by the snow glare. The sudden pain made it feel as if the sniper’s rifle was crashing into his skull all over again.

As he ran closer to the fallen figure, he could make out a brown coat. Then a balding head. Was it Crandall or Ike? When he finally reached the dead man, Ty put his hands on his knees, gulping in great lungfuls of cold air. His heart hammered in his chest. Only when he had caught his breath did he dare to take a closer look.