David Robbins - War of the Rats - A Novel of Stalingrad

Where is that kind of shooting cell out there? Where?

Zaitsev reached across the park with his senses and his intuition, creeping with them like a jungle cat among and under the foliage of facts and perceptions. This was how he’d always hunted, as a boy in the taiga, as a man at war.

He recalled the scene: Danilov was on his feet for two seconds, no more. Thorvald is close to shoot like that, to see so clearly through the mist with the morning light in his eyes. And the even ring around the entry wound? An open mouth whispering in his grandfather’s voice.

Where?

First, he has an assistant. Thorvald told him to put the helmet on the stick again. The Headmaster must be close to the wall, behind it or in front of it, to give voice commands to the assistant. Probably within ten meters. How else could he have set the trap?

Where?

Zaitsev scanned the terrain through the periscope. He selected a range to his left and to his right, a logical perimeter within which the Headmaster must be to fire the shot that hit Danilov and leave a uniform hole and bruise ring in the commissar’s flesh.

On the left edge of his shooting range were several ragged craters, a toppled fountain, and a burned-out German tank. The tank faced east, toward Zaitsev’s position. He’d looked at this tank a hundred times during the past two days, but now the empty metal hulk bore a new significance. Was Thorvald inside? He could be. It was within range and close enough to the wall to work with an assistant. Thorvald could easily slide under the tank before dawn and enter through the emergency escape hatch. He could shoot out of the driver’s view slit or the hole left where the turret’s machine gun had been salvaged.

But this was not a position for an experienced sniper, especially a devious one. He’d have no quick escape route in case of an infantry or mortar attack on his position. His vision of the battlefield would be restricted, limiting his targets, and Thorvald had shown no inclination toward being selective with his victims.

Zaitsev swung his vision north to the right side of the range he’d selected. He concentrated on the wall. He imagined the Headmaster in a lair, calling to his assistant behind the wall. “Put the helmet on the stick and walk with it. Shake it up and down like you’re making popcorn over a campfire. Do it so badly the Hare will feel my hand slapping him in the face!” The periscope brought Zaitsev to the lip of another crater. No, he’s not in an open hole in the ground, he thought. Several humps of snow-covered rubble swelled on the park like white insect bites. He’s not behind any of them, either. On the far right was an abandoned German bunker, a small pillbox made of sandbags, stacked concrete, and wood beams. Could Thorvald be in there? Certainly. Zaitsev leaned into the periscope as if he could send his eyes into the air like hawks, out to the fortification to inspect its features, then carry the details back to him. Zaitsev felt the crevices of the pillbox with his vision, knocking on it, calling out Thorvald’s name: are you in there? How would Thorvald approach this shooting cell? How would he leave it? What were his firing angles? No, he’s not in there. Like the burned-out tank at the other end of the range, Zaitsev could not believe the Headmaster would choose such an obvious firing cell, one a lesser sniper might select. He moved the periscope to the center of the park, inspecting the rubble near the foot of the wall. More piles of bricks, more craters, and some metal sheets littered the ground.

Zaitsev paused in his search to inquire of himself if he were growing tired. He’d been staring through the periscope for two hours now, since Kulikov left with Danilov. The sun had risen to its noon seat. He checked his hands, eyes, his folded legs, his concentration. Don’t make these guesses and decisions if you aren’t razor sharp, he chided himself. Do you need a rest? If so, then stop. Don’t make a mistake. You must be alert, with your ears up, your nose in the wind. You’re all right? You can continue? Good. Then tell me: is he in the tank, the bunker, in a crater, behind a pile of bricks, in a building, behind the wall? Are you sure, Vasily? Tell me if you’re sure. Is it your instinct, or do you know for a fact? Tell me now.

No. He’s somewhere else. Somewhere I’ll find him. I am sure, because it is my instinct.

He is the Headmaster.

But I am a hunter. I am his hunter.

HE NOTICED THE MOTION FIRST. A GRAY OBJECT BOBBED atop the wall like a baby bird above the ledge of its nest. The thing twisted left and right, then shook up and down like an angry fist. After watching for several seconds, he recognized it as a field periscope, a favorite tool of the hidden Red sniper.

“Nikki!”

He concentrated into the scope to slice the crosshairs through the battle haze hanging on the park. A Russian stronghold at the right corner of the park had come under attack earlier that morning; the attack had faltered an hour before, but smoke and dust lingered above the open ground, catching and reflecting the light like a Berlin drizzle to obscure Thorvald’s vision.

He turned from the scope. His left eye, closed for most of the morning, was slow to open. The vision of his right eye—his aiming side—was filmed with a translucent, magnified image of the wall on the far side of the park. In the darkness of his cell, the image hovered like a reclining ghost.

He called again for Nikki; the sunlight dancing around but not into his hole caused the apparition on the right side of his vision to crinkle and disappear like burning paper. He blinked.

The corporal answered.

“Yes, sir, Colonel.”

“Get the helmet and the stick.”

Thorvald looked back through the scope. Who is this morning fool with his periscope swaying like a seasick child? He can’t be a sniper. He’s too eager, trying to take in the whole battlefield instead of moving precisely, imperceptibly, to avoid detection. No, this periscope is not in the hands of a sniper, at least not a veteran one. It must be a third party, perhaps an inexperienced officer or observer.

Nikki has confessed that he told the Reds I’m here to kill their Rabbit. This idiot might be someone who wants to record our little war. An intelligence officer, a correspondent for that stupid front newsletter of theirs, whatever. But certainly not a sniper.

I can put a bullet into that periscope. I could scare the piss out of the clumsy watcher, I could splatter glass all over him and all over Zaitsev, who I’m sure is sitting nearby. Why doesn’t Zaitsev tell him to get down or go away and let a sniper do his work? This is no place for whoever that is. I could twitch a finger and demonstrate that for him. I wonder what the waving periscope would do if I told Nikki to hoist the helmet.

But I won’t. Because this is too easy. Zaitsev must be baiting me. Yes, that’s it. He’s watching for me to shoot, hanging this target out like a salt lick. I see it now: there’s a trap in that periscope’s single eye. I won’t come out of hiding, Rabbit. You must do better for me.

That periscope. Stupid. I could put the crosshairs there, right on the mirror and lens. Zaitsev won’t see my muzzle flash. I’m far enough back in the darkness of this hole. He’d have to be looking right at me to spot it. There. Right in the middle of the periscope, if the cretin would hold it still for a moment.

It would feel good to show Zaitsev firsthand whom he’s up against.

Wait. Feel the rifle, blend it into the hands. The wood in both palms, skin of the rifle, my blood warming the wood. My cheek against the stock, laid there, resting, still as wood. The metal against my eye socket and the trigger under my finger, smooth, also skin but harder, wanting something from me. The scope pulls my eye in and throws it out bigger, to that periscope. The trigger wants something from me.