Стивен Хантер - Game of Snipers

The ground beneath him shattered. He was smashed hard into the post by unseen energy, as the cuffs twisted and sliced his wrists. He tasted blood and copper in his saliva, and after a second’s numb mercy, sharp pains began to clamor for attention, announcing the presence against his body of shards of debris, flung stones, supersonic grit.

He realized now: someone was shooting at him from a long way away.

The panic of the prey flooded his brain, and he tore away, only to have his motion halted by the cuffs.

“No,” he shouted. “You can’t do this. This isn’t right,” he screamed, but involuntarily began to sob.

They laughed. It was pretty funny.

“Katie,” he screamed. “Forgive me! Forgive Daddy! Please.”

He entered the light.

The ranch, Cascade, Idaho

What was there to complain about? The view from the rocker was superb, prairie meadows giving way in the distance to the mountains, snowcapped (as was he) and remote (as was he), been there forever (as had he). He owned everything he could see except for the mountains (ownership: God). The late-spring climate temperate, the sun not so strong, the breeze mild. Children successful. Wife content, as much as any wife could be. He just kept getting richer, not of his own volition but by the working of certain mechanisms. Health fine, even superb. The new hip (number three) felt great, his ticker still ticked. Horses — too many, all sinewy beasts with plenty of go in them. His guns? Some new ones, in fascinating calibers, maybe a new sniper round to test out, called 6.5 Creedmoor, which promised lots of amusement of the dry, technical sort he so enjoyed. Friends — more than he deserved, and in places he never thought he’d go, from NRA celebs to old snipers to a few journalists, to a lot of big-animal vets across seven states, plus dozens of former marine NCOs, as salty a crew as could be imagined. Pickup trucks? Could only drive one at a time, so what was the point in having any more?

I have everything, he thought.

His late self-education was progressing in his leisure. He was on to Crimea now, trying to imagine battles under gunpowder clouds so vast and brutal that no one could see their limits, the wounds nasty and greenish, headed into gangrene, toward, ultimately, amputation without anesthetic save whiskey. As a man whose life had been saved several times — and he had the scars to prove it — by modern emergency medicine, this fact alone sent a tremor of dread down his straight old spine. Everything was fine.

He knew it couldn’t last.

It didn’t.

It was the lowest category of rental car, in a shade of Day-Glo otherwise found no place on earth, pulling up the long road in from Idaho 82. It had to mean some sort of trouble, because friends never came without a call first, and not one of them would travel under such brightness. No mailbox shouted SWAGGER to the world at the otherwise unmarked gate, and the size and beauty of the house was not manifest from the highway: the road could have just as easily led to a broken-down trailer or a complex of heavily armed religious zealots or some other monstrosity that had taken root in Idaho’s free soil.

He touched the .38 Super Commander holstered under the tail of his T-shirt, found it secure yet accessible in a second, though that was mere habit, as the arrival of a nuclear airburst fuchsia Tempo or Prism hardly presaged a gunfight. Actually, he would have preferred a gunfight.

The car pulled up, and he rose, and he was not astonished but mildly nonplussed by the driver, who got out and faced him. Woman. Fifties, maybe early sixties. Pantsuit, makeup, and the ubiquitous high-end sneakers that most American women wore most places these days. Her smile was tentative, not practiced and professional. Her face was slightly out of symmetry, as if parted and rejoined inadequately, but no scars showed. It was just an oddness of cast that suggested complexities. He couldn’t help picking up a note of forlorn loss, however, when he added it all up. Something damaged about poor whoever-she-was.

“Ma’am,” he called. “Just so you know: this is private property, and I’m not what you’d call a public fellow. If you’re selling, I’m not buying. If you’re interviewing, I’m not talking. And if you’re campaigning, I don’t vote. But if you’re lost, I will happily give you directions, and a glass of water.”

“I’m not lost, Mr. Swagger — Sergeant Swagger. It took me days to find out where you lived. I know you don’t like interruptions, and there’s no reason you should, but I would claim the right to a hearing because of the circumstances.”

“Well—” he said, thinking, Oh, Lord, what now?

“My son. Lance Corporal Thomas McDowell, sniper, 3/8. Baghdad, 2003. Came back to me in a box.”

They sat in silence on the porch for a bit. He didn’t know what he could say, because of course there is nothing that can be said. He knew enough of grief to know that only time eats it down, and sometimes not even that, and death is the only ultimate release. So, it would be her show, and she seemed to need some time to gather.

Finally, she said, “It seems very pretty here.”

“I like to sit a couple of hours each day. Just watch the weather and the grass change. Sometimes a batch of antelope wander by, sometimes a few mulies — a buck and his gals. Once a bull elk, magnificent rack, but they seem not much in evidence these days.”

“You’re being very kind to me.”

“It’s just my way.”

“You think maybe I came for explanations. Context, history, the who, the why, the what, the physics of it. The ballistics. You would know such things.”

“If it helps, I’ll sound off.”

“I’ve learned a thing or two since the notification team knocked on the door. Seven-point-sixty-two by fifty-four, 160 grain. Classic Dragunov. Velocity about sixteen hundred feet per second by the time it reached him. Steel-cored, probably didn’t distort or rupture. Went clean through. It would have been instant, I’m told.”

“Sounds about right.”

“I should be grateful for that mercy, but don’t look to me for grateful. Mom doesn’t do grateful. Mom wants the man who pulled the trigger dead. That’s what Mom wants.”

He paused. That one was unexpected. Now, what the hell could he say?

“Mrs. McDowell, this ain’t healthy. Not only because what you describe is murder, not war, not only because it could get you into a whole peck of trouble that would make where you are now seem like kindergarten, not only because no matter how it came out you’d end up spending all your money — and I mean all of it — on lawyers and various other forms of predators, not only because it’s probably not even possible, and, finally, if you’re trying to get me to go on some kind of revenge safari for you, I am too old, at seventy-two, and lack any wherewithal for door-busting, stair-climbing, and the stalking part of sniping and would only get myself killed or arrested.”

She nodded.

“That is entirely sensible,” she said. “The people who would talk about Bob the Nailer said he was a decent man and would not steer me wrong, and he would give me solid advice. And, for the record, nobody in the marine community or the shooting community or the intelligence community — and I have entered them all — has encouraged me. They think it’s crazy.”

“I would not use such a harsh word. Let’s leave it at ‘bad idea.’”

“But—” she said.

“There’s always a ‘but,’” he said.

“Yes, and here’s mine. You can say it was war, that’s all. He joined the Marine Corps of his own volition, he signed on to sniper school, he went to war willingly, he had a few kills of his own, and one night his number came up. Numbers come up, that’s what war is about. But I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. And the boy who pulled the trigger, the argument would run, he was just another boy like Tom, dancing to a politician’s tune for policy goals that never made any sense, and, just like Tom, he’d rather have been at the mall or the movies, hanging out with girls, whatever. Is that it?”