Stephen Hunter - Time to Hunt

“Great shooting,” said a cop. “You want to take a look at your handiwork?”

But Swagger had no desire to see the fallen man. What good would it do? He felt nothing except that he’d seen enough corpses.

“I’d rather see my daughter and my wife,” he said.

“Well, your wife is being treated by our medical people. We’ve got to debrief her as soon as possible. Mrs. Memphis is with Nikki.”

“Can I go?”

“They’re in the kitchen.”

He walked through a strange house full of strangers. People talked on radios, and computers had been set up. A squad of uninteresting young people hung about, talking shop, clearly agitated at the prospect of a big treat. He remembered when Agency people were all ex-FBI men, beefy cop types, who carried Swedish Ks and liked to talk about “pegging gooks.” These boys and girls looked like they belonged in prep school, but they sure made themselves at home, with the instant insouciance of the young.

He walked through them, and they parted, and he could feel their wonder. What would they make of him: his kind of war was so far from their kind it probably made no sense.

He found Sally in the kitchen, and next to her, there was his baby girl. These were the moments worth living for. Now he knew why he bothered to survive Vietnam.

“Hi, baby!”

“Oh, Daddy,” she said, her eyes widening with deep pleasure. He felt a warmth in his heart so intense he might melt. His child. Through it all, after it all, his own: flesh, blood, brains. She flew to him and he absorbed her tininess, felt her vitality as he picked her up and hugged her passionately.

“Oh, you sweet thing!” he sang. “You are the sweetest thing there is.”

“Oh, Daddy. They say you shot the bad man!”

He laughed.

“You never mind that. How are you? How’s Mommy?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. It was scary. He came into the basement with a gun.”

“Well, he won’t bother you no nevermore, all right?”

She clung to him. Sally fixed him with her usual gimlet eye.

“Bob Swagger,” she said, “you are a mean and ornery piece of work, and you aren’t much of a husband or a father, but by God, you do have a gift for the heroic.”

“I can see you’re still my biggest fan, Sally,” he said. “Well, anyhow, thanks for hanging around.”

“It sure was interesting. How are you?”

“My back hurts,” he said. “So does my leg and my eye. I am plenty hungry. And there’re too goddamned many young people out there. I hate young people. How is she?”

“She’s fine. We’re all fine. Nobody was hurt. But only just barely. Another tenth of a second and he would have pulled that trigger.”

“Well, to hell with him if he can’t take a joke.”

“I’ll leave you two alone.”

“See if you can get one of these Harvard kids to fix some coffee.”

“They probably don’t do coffee, and there isn’t a Starbucks around, but I’ll see what I can manage.”

And so he sat with his baby daughter in the kitchen and caught up on the news and told her about the superficiality of his wounds and made a promise he hoped he’d now be able to keep: to return with her and her mother to Arizona, and resume the good life they had together.

In half an hour a young man came to him. “Mr. Swagger?”

“Yes?”

“We’re going to have to debrief your wife now. She’s asked that you be present.”

“All right.”

“She’s very insistent. She won’t talk unless you’re there.”

“Sure, she’s spooked.”

“This way, sir.”

Sally came back to take care of Nikki.

“Sweetie,” he said to his daughter, “I’m going to go with these people to talk to Mommy. You stay here with Aunt Sally.”

“Daddy!”

She gave him a last hug, and he now saw how deeply she’d been traumatized. The war had come to her: she’d seen what few Americans ever saw anymore — combat death, the power of the bullet on flesh.

“Sweetie, I’ll be back. Then this’ll be over. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

They took him upstairs. The Agency team had set up in a bedroom, pushing aside the bed and dresser and installing a sofa from the living room and a group of chairs. Cleverly, they weren’t arranged before the sofa, as if to seat an audience, but rather in a semicircle, as if in a group counseling session. Tape-recording equipment had been installed, and computer terminals.

The room was crowded and hushed, but finally, he saw her. He walked through the milling analysts and agents, and found her, sitting alone on the sofa. She looked composed now, though her arm was still locked in its cast. She’d insisted on dressing and wore some jeans and a sweatshirt and her boots. She had a can of Diet Coke.

“Well, hello there,” he said.

“Well, hello yourself,” she said with a smile.

“You’re okay, they say.”

“Well, it’s a little bothersome when a Russian comes into your house and points a gun at you and then your husband blows half his head away. I’m damn lucky to have a husband who could do such a thing.”

“Oh, I’m such a big hero. Sweetie, I just pulled a trigger.”

“Oh, baby.”

He held her tight and it was fine: his wife; he’d slept next to her for years now, the same strong, tough beautiful woman, about as good as they made them. Her smell was achingly familiar. Strawberries, she smelled of strawberries always. He first saw her in a picture wrapped in cellophane that came from a young Marine’s boonie hat. The rain was falling. There was a war. He fell in love with her then and never came close to falling out in all the years since.

“Where did you come from?” she said. “How did you get here so fast?”

“They didn’t tell you? Damn idiot me, I got me a new hobby. I parachuted through the storm. Pretty exciting.”

“Oh, Bob.”

“I never been so scared in my life. If I’d had clean underwear, I’d have pissed in the ones I was wearing. Only, I didn’t have no clean underwear.”

“Oh, Bob—”

“We’ll talk about all that stuff. That’s up ahead.”

“What in hell is this all about?” she finally asked. “He came for me? That’s what these people say.”

“Yeah. It has to do with something that happened a long time ago. I have it half figured. These geniuses think they know all the answers, or they can figure them. You up to this?”

“Yes. I just want it over.”

“Then we’ll get it all straightened out, I swear to you.”

“I know.”

“Bonson?”

Bonson came over.

“She’s ready.”

“That’s terrific, Mrs. Swagger. We’ll try and make this as easy as possible. Are you comfortable? Do you want anything? Another Coke?”

“No, I’m fine. I want my husband here, that’s all.”

“That’s fine.”

“Okay, people,” Bonson said in a louder voice, “we’re all set. The debriefing can begin.”

He turned back to her.

“I have two lead analysts who’ll run this. They’re both psychologists. Just relax, take your time. You’re under no pressure of any sort. This is not adversarial and it has no legal standing. It’s not an interrogation. In fact, we’ll probably share things with you that you are not security-cleared to hear. But that’s all right. We want this to be easy for you, and for you not to sense reluctance or authority or power or discretion on our part. If you can, try and think of us as your friends, not your government.”

“Should I salute?” she said.

Bonson laughed.

“No. Nor will we be playing the national anthem or waving any flags. It’s just a chat between friends. Now, let us set up things for you, so you have some idea of a context in which this inquiry is taking place, and why your information is so vital.”