Stephen Hunter - I, Sniper

“Where is he now?”

“On the road.”

“Do you-”

“No, but I assure you, all possibilities are being exhaustively examined at this point in time. We have a federal alert code blue, the highest category, and all police agencies in the continental U.S. were notified immediately prior to this press conference.”

“What’s the motive? Is he crazy? Did he flip? Some kind of combat stress disorder?”

“Combat stress disorder, almost certainly. His own declining health, yes, as records indicate a slow recovery from a broken hip some years ago, problems with alcoholism, two DWI arrests in the past six months, and other factors generally pointing to depression and disappointment. Loneliness, isolation, depression in the aftermath of the death of his wife. But there was something else.

“For close to thirty years, Carl Hitchcock had been known publicly as the United States Marine Corps’ number one sniper in Vietnam. He had ninety-three kills, as I’ve said. A book was written about him, magazine articles and so forth. He was in a small world a king, a center of attraction and attention. I leave it to you all to discover the joys he took in that identity, as well as the benefits he reaped from it. He attended many gun shows, he sold autographs, he was kind of like an old ballplayer trading on his celebrity by attending public meets. He enjoyed small royalties from several products he endorsed, such as a rifle manufactured by Springfield, a lithograph that showed him in full combat regalia, a line of premium ammunition. I think this speaks to the point: he had a license plate that read SNIPR-1.

“But about two years ago, an article was published in Soldier of Fortune magazine mentioning offhandedly another marine sniper with ninety-six kills. It caused a storm in that small world. A researcher used the Freedom of Information Act to access Marine records and determined that, indeed, a Chuck McKenzie, a former lance corporal from Modoc, Oregon, had served for thirteen months in Vietnam in 1966 and achieved an officially credited ninety-six kills. It never occurred to him that he’d done anything remarkable, and he went on to a career in the United States Forestry Service, never mentioning his Vietnam service to anybody but other vets. As I understand it, he was never decorated, his kids didn’t even know what their dad had done in the war, and he took no part in what might be called ‘tactical culture,’ a kind of celebration of various aggressive, firearms-centric methodologies that seems to enjoy some currency now and is supported by various magazines and Web sites and blogs. He never knew there was a Carl Hitchcock cult, so to speak, and that products and endorsements and magazines and the book had been written about Carl and his ninety-three kills. He only found out about it when Soldier of Fortune contacted him a few years ago. He had no comment then; I doubt he has any comment now. He’s never done a thing to capitalize on his ‘fame,’ such as it was.

“But we now see that Carl was extremely upset. A taciturn man, he wouldn’t have sought psychological help or counseling. He simply withdrew from the world, a process speeded up by the death of his wife at about the same time. Clearly he brooded on it; I’ll let the psychologists tell you by what process he arrived at his conclusion, but from our reading of the materials in his house, it seems clear that he saw this week’s shootings as a continuation of his Vietnam tour of duty. It was a last mission, and he identified as ‘enemies’ not Vietcong or North Vietnamese regulars but protesters who in his interpretation had helped the enemy. So he set out to eliminate them and, in some fashion, reclaim the title of the number one Vietnam sniper. Thus we find the number ninety-seven scrawled all over the headquarters room he’d dedicated in his house; it seems clear that he will go on hunting the supposed traitors until we stop him or he comes to his senses and turns himself in.”

“What is the state of the manhunt at this time?”

“Well, even as we speak, this information is going to all law enforcement entities within the continental United States. We continue to receive information from hundreds of sources. Our last sighting places him in an Econo Lodge Motel on the outskirts of Shaker Heights, Ohio, two nights ago. We are concentrating our efforts in an area within two days’ drive of that locality. Meanwhile, our forensic people, our evidence recovery teams, and their local equivalents examine the evidence for further information. We have established state police roadblocks on interstates in Michigan, Illinois, Pennsylvania, and New York State. If Carl Hitchcock is listening, we urge him to give himself up and end this madness. But I have to say again, he is armed and dangerous, highly trained, a superb shot, a combat veteran, a close-quarters combat expert, and he is capable of wreaking extreme havoc in a very little time. So he must be approached with caution.”

“Do you have any opinion, Special Agent, on the use of ‘trained killers’ in the military and the risks such men pose for society when they return to the civilian world? I mean, this seems to dovetail neatly with the report released by the Homeland Security Agency some months ago that-”

“You must be from the New York Times.”

“Yes sir,” the young man said.

Then Nick saw movement, and his eyes flashed to it. In the back of the room Jack Hefner, assistant director and Nick’s immediate supervisor, was winding the index finger of one hand around, helicopter rotor style, meaning “Wind it up, we have news.”

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, sorry I don’t have time for more questions, but we’ve got to get back to the manhunt.”

Trying to appear casual, Nick gathered up his papers, conferred briefly with the Bureau’s public information officer, then slid out the door to the rear, avoiding the reporters who’d now clustered forward, wanting more, more, more.

Nick got into the off-limits sector of the floor and watched as Jack came toward him on the fly.

“We got him,” he said.

“Where?”

“His credit card was just used to check into a hotel in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He’s there now, in a room. Michigan State Police can have SWAT teams there in a few minutes. It’s your call, Nick.”

“No assault. Tell them to set up discreet surveillance. I don’t want this guy opening up. One sniper team. I guess if he goes, we’ll have to drop him. God, I’d hate to do that. But one sniper team in a truck across from the hotel. I’m leaving with my team now.”

“Nick, I’d advise that you send the word to take him down now. If it goes bad, Michigan will have to answer for it.”

“Jack, if I’m incident commander, my best judgment is soft surveillance. I’m on my way, can be there in three hours.” He looked at his watch. It was 9:35 p.m., 10:35 in the Midwest. “We’ll let him fall asleep. We’ll take him down at dawn.”

Through the night-vision binoculars, the Econo Lodge just off 83 in Grand Rapids, Michigan, looked calm enough. It dozed under a clear if cold night sky. A few lights blazed greenly in the amped fields of vision, slightly pixelated in distortion, as if painted by a mad Dutchman who’d just cut off his ear. It was the kind of detail that shouldn’t have come to Nick but did anyway, and he exiled it from his mind, just kept the lenses screwed on the first-floor window, sixth down from the office, which was dark.

“Any sign of movement?” Fields asked.

“Nothing. Captain, how are they coming?”

“I’m sure they’re almost done, Special Agent,” said the Michigan State Police SWAT commander, a burly guy in combat gear from head to toe, like some kind of medieval knight. He wore an MP5 submachine gun in a cinch sling tight to his body armor and a black watch cap.