Stephen Hunter - Time to Hunt

Swagger was drunk. He was so drunk the world made no sense at all to him, and he liked it that way. The bourbon was like a nurse’s hand on his shoulder in the middle of the night, when he awoke screaming in the Philippines after having gotten hit on his first tour, really messed up through the upper lung. The nurse had touched him and said, “There, there, there.”

Now the bourbon said, “There, there, there.”

“Fucking good stuff,” Bob said. “The fucking-A best.”

“It is,” said Donny, smoking a giant cigar he’d gotten from somewhere. There were some others too: Brophy and Nichols of the CIA, Captain Feamster, the always mild XO, the company gunny — Firebase Dodge City’s inner circle, as it was, drunk as skunks in the intel bunker. Somewhere Mick Jagger was blaring out over an eight-track, the one about satisfaction.

“Well, we got some satisfaction today, goddamn,” said Feamster, an amiable professional who would never make bird colonel.

“We did, we did,” confirmed the XO, who would make brigadier, because he agreed with everything that was said by anybody above him in rank.

A couple of other sergeants made faces at the XO’s fawning, but only Swagger caught it.

“Goddamn right,” he said to make the officers go away, and after a bit they did.

He took another taste. Prairie fire. Crackling. The sense of merciful blur; the world again full of possibility.

Now it was Nichols’s turn to pay homage.

The CIA officer wandered over shyly, and said, “You know, it was a great day.”

“We didn’t get no head on the wall,” said Bob.

“Oh, the Russian’s dead, all right,” said Nichols. “Nobody could live through that. No, but what I’m talking about is the rifle.”

The rifle? thought Donny.

Oh, yeah. The rifle .

“You know how long we’ve been looking for that rifle?” Nichols turned and looked at Donny, who puffed on his cigar, took another swallow of bourbon and answered with a goofy smile.

“Well,” said Nichols, “we’ve been looking since 1958, when Evgenie Dragunov drew up the plans at the Izhevsk Machine Factory. Some of our analysts said it would revolutionize their capacities. But others said, no, it was nothing.”

“Looks like a piece of Russian crap to me,” said Bob. “I don’t think them guys know shit about building a precision rifle. They ain’t got no Townie Whelans or no Warren Pages or no P. O. Ackleys. They just got tractor drivers in monkey suits.”

Donny couldn’t tell if Swagger, out of some obscure sense of need, was putting on the earnest, ambitious intelligence officer or not.

“Well, whatever,” said Nichols. “Now we don’t have to wonder. Now we’ll be able to tell. And do you know what that means?”

“No.”

“Nothing here. This shit is over and it never meant shit to the Russians except as a way to bleed us dry. They wouldn’t even send Dragunovs to the ’Nam, that’s how low on the priority list it was. The Dragunov was a higher priority than Vietnam to them.”

This didn’t play well with Swagger, and a darkness came over his face, but the CIA man didn’t notice and kept on yapping.

“No, Russia’s interested in Europe. That’s where all the Russian divisions are. Now, with the Dragunovs coming down to platoon level in the next few years, and reaching the other Warsaw Bloc countries after that, what does that mean for our tactics? What level of precision fire can they bring against us if they move? Are they committing to sniper warfare in a big way? That’ll have a great deal to do with our dispositions, our troop strength, our alignments, our relationships to our allies and the general thrust of NATO policy over the next few years. Dammit, you gave it to us! No one could get one, no one could buy one, they were nowhere except under lock and key, and old Bob Lee Swagger goes out in the bad bush and brings one back alive. Goddamn, it was a good day!” His eyes were bright and happy. He wasn’t even drunk.

“Right now, it’s been shipped priority flash to Aberdeen in Maryland for thorough testing at the Army Weapons Lab. They’ll wring it out like you won’t believe. They’ll make that rifle sing!”

“A real feather in your cap,” said Donny.

“A victory for our side. One of damn few of late. You did a hell of a job, Swagger. I’ll see this goes into your record. I’ll see phone calls are made, the right people are informed. You are a piece of action, my friend. But I will say one damned thing. You must have really pissed them off if they were willing to engage you with a Dragunov. Man, they want you all the ways there are. If you want, I can let it be known your expertise is invaluable and we can get you on the next flight to Aberdeen, Sergeant, on that team. No need to get iced, if they try again.”

“I got a few months yet till my DEROS, Mr. Nichols. It’s just fine, thanks.”

“Think it over. Chew on it in your mind. You could be TDY Aberdeen Proving Ground the day after tomorrow. Baltimore? The Block? Those beauties up there? Blaze Starr? A damn fine town, Baltimore. A man could have himself some fun there, you know. A hell of a lot finer than Dodge City, I Corps, RSV-fucking-N!”

“Mr. Nichols, I extended and I have a tour to serve. I got four months and days till DEROS.”

“You are hard-core, Swagger. The hardest. The old Corps, the hardest, the best. Well, thanks, and God bless. You are a piece of action!”

He wandered away.

“You should do that,” said Donny.

“Yeah, clap in Baltimore and hanging out with a bunch of soldiers with long hippie hair and unshined boots. No thanks. Not for me, goddammit.”

“Well, at least we’re heroes,” said Donny.

“Today. They’ll forget all about it in a few hours, when they sober up. That’s a headquarters man for you. Your basic REMF.”

He took another deep swallow of the bourbon.

“You sure you should be drinking that much?”

“I can hold my liquor. That’s something the Swagger boys was always good at.”

“Boy, I’ll say.”

“You know, I want to tell you something,” he finally said. “Your gal. She is, goddammit, the prettiest goddamn woman I ever saw. You are one lucky boy.”

“I am,” said Donny, grinning like a monkey, taking a great slug of bourbon, then a draught on the cigar, expelling the smoke like vapors of chemwar.

“Here, I got something I want to show you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve showed you the photo. Look at this.”

He reached into his pocket and drew out a folded sheaf of heavy paper and delicately unfolded it.

“It was that Trig guy. He was an artist. He did it.”

Bob looked at it unsteadily in the flickering light. It was a creamy piece of paper, very carefully torn along one edge. But it wasn’t the paper that caught Bob’s eyes, it was the drawing itself. Bob didn’t know a goddamned thing about art, but whoever this bird was, he had something. He really caught Donny in a few lines; it was as if he loved Donny. Somehow you could feel the attraction. The girl was next to him and the artist’s feelings toward her were more complex. She was beautiful, hopelessly beautiful. A girl in a million. He felt a little part of himself die, knowing he’d never have a woman like that; it just wasn’t in the cards. He’d be alone all his life, and maybe he preferred it that way.

“Hell of a nice picture,” said Bob, handing it back.

“It is. He really got her. I think he was in love with her too. Everybody who sees Julie falls in love with her. I am so lucky.”

“And you know what?” said Swagger.

“No, uh-uh.”

“She is a damned lucky woman, too. She’s got you. You are the best. You are going to have a happy, wonderful life back in the world.”