Witness Rejection

by David R Lewis

  “Ah, yes,” Goody said. “That’s because of the rifle to which you will be assigned. It is necessary to use ear protection with this particular firearm, Crockett, if you want to leave the field and still be able to hear.”

  “We’re not using the Accuracy International?”

  “I’ve studied the terrain maps and photos that Cletus has been kind enough to provide, and gone over some of them with Stitch. We have found what appear to be three, perhaps four, possible landing zones within three miles of your target location. While the Accuracy International was fine as it was used in your last application, a way of demonstrating accuracy from distance, for this exercise the shooting will be defined by a more, shall we say, lethal parameter. That’s assuming you want to eliminate the opposition.”

  “I do,” Crockett said.

  “Quite.” Goody rolled to a bench on which rested a long and slender object covered by a lightweight tarp. “This, then,” he went on, “is what you shall use.”

  He lifted the cover away to reveal a darkly brutal offspring of the conventional rifle. It was long and lean, the barrel, receiver, and stock all in a continuous upper level line to transmit recoil directly toward the rear. A massive muzzle brake covered the end of the barrel, a folding bipod supported the weapon from the front of the forearm, and a removable carrying handle sprouted upward from a Picatinny rail mounted on top of the upper receiver. A massive magazine projected below the action in front of a pistol-grip trigger mechanism. The butt plate depended from the rear of the rifle, supported by a short framework that doubled as another carrying handle. From the base of the butt plate protruded a monopod, adjustable to raise or lower the rear of the weapon. The rifle gleamed an evil dull green in the shop lights. Crockett could almost hear it hiss.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said.

  “Gentlemen, may I present the M107, .50 caliber, LRSR, or long range sniper rifle.”

  “Damn,” Clete said. “That thing is a monster!”

  “Indeed,” Goody went on. “This rifle customarily uses the fifty caliber Browning Machine Gun round, twelve point seven by ninety-nine millimeters, as its standard means of destruction, along with such other adaptations as armor piercing, explosive, and incendiary rounds. It is designed to work well on material targets such as buildings, aircraft, motor vehicles, radar sites, and such, from a distance of two thousand yards. It is also designed to acquire and defeat enemy snipers at a thousand yards or more. Muzzle velocity is nearly three thousand feet per second, total range about four and a half miles. Muzzle energy is eleven thousand five hundred foot-pounds.”

  “Good Lord,” Clete said. “This sumbitch’ll shoot through a fuckin’ Humvee!”

  “Or a concrete wall, or into an engine block, or set off a explosive dump, or cut through significant sheet steel,” Goody added. “I expect, with a bit of tinkering with the loading of rounds, I should be able to get the material distance out to twenty-five hundred yards, and the anti-personnel effectiveness out to, at least, fifteen hundred yards. Perhaps even a full mile. Of course the total range and muzzle energy will increase correspondingly.”

  “You expect me to shoot that thing?”

  “I expect you to not only shoot this thing, Crockett, I fully expect you to hit that at which you are aiming.”

  “It’s like the T-Rex of rifles. Look at it! What the hell does it weigh?”

  “It’s a bit robust,” Goody said. “Unloaded, with the scope, twenty eight and a half pounds.”

  “That’s almost twice as much as the Accuracy International.”

  “Quite,” Goody said. “The magazines are rated to ten rounds, but you know how that is. With eight, each magazine weighs a little over three and a half pounds.”

  “Big rounds,” Crockett said.

  “Immense. And it is an auto loader.”

  “What?”

  “Eight rounds as fast as you can maintain your sight picture and squeeze the trigger.”

  “But that’ll put brass in the air,” Crockett said.

  “At the range from which you’ll be shooting, and with your targets being, essentially, in a non-military circumstance, flying brass is of little consequence.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Son,” Clete said, “this sumbitch’ll tear down a house if you want it to!”

  “Next week,” Goody said, “I will have finished my work on it and loaded some ammunition. We’ll zip off to my old homestead where we can, safe from prying eyes and ears, touch this beauty off. Also by then, I will have more surprises for you.”

  Clete grinned. “I can’t wait.”

  “Right. Off you go then. It’s time for my afternoon nap. I’ll see you lovely lads at dinner.”

  In the hallway, Crockett peered at Clete. “Twenty eight pounds,” he said.

  “Twenty eight and a half pounds. And that’s not countin’ the weight of the magazines and ammo. You better git some rest, Crockett. You know, save your energy. Want me to break the news to Carson for ya?”

  “May as well,” Crockett said, turning away and walking off down the hall. “Satin and I already had a nice conversation about you this morning.”

  “You what?”

  Crockett waved over his shoulder and continued to walk away.

  “Hey!” Clete said, setting off in pursuit. “Wait a minute, goddammit!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Haints

  Crockett looked at the Browning M2 .50 caliber round he hefted in his left hand and released a slow sigh. Approaching six inches long with a cartridge three quarters of an inch in diameter, it was massive.

  “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “This thing is a missile.”

  From his wheelchair beside the Pequod’s dinette table, Goody chuckled. “The same round the B-29 bombers carried in World War Two,” he said. “Makes a seven millimeter magnum look like a pea shooter.”

  “Maybe we can shoot down a Messerschmitt,” Clete said from his position in the driver’s seat.

  Clete had taken over the wheel when they stopped for gas in Knoxville, Tennessee. They left Ivy’s early that morning, on the way to Goody’s place near Walhalla, in the northwest corner of South Carolina. Stitch had remained behind to provide security, augmented by rotating shifts of off duty cops recruited at Crockett’s request from the local P.D. At any given time until Clete, Crockett, and Goody returned home, there would be a minimum of six armed officers stationed on random patrol in private vehicles around the mansion. The bus was chosen for the trip because, although Goody still owned the house and property in South Carolina, power and water were no longer available on site.

  “Several options on ammunition are available to us with this particular round, although not all that are to be had are suitable for the M107,” Goody went on. “Sabot rounds, for instance, are not recommended for the rifle. I have chosen two options. The standard M2 ball, and the M8 ball, armor piercing incendiary.”

  Crockett’s eyebrows rose. “Armor piercing incendiary?”

  Goody smiled. “Quite,” he said.

  “Damn, Goody. We’re not going after Hiroshima or Nagasaki here.”

  “Better a plethora than a deficiency,” Goody said. “You’ll carry two magazines of the incendiaries and eight of the ball. Sixteen and sixty four rounds respectively. That will add another thirty-five pounds to your burden. The optical sight on the weapon is not available to the masses at this time, but I managed to secure one for this particular exercise. It has a digital range finder built in with the display at the bottom of the eyepiece, and automatic distance compensation. Regardless of how outlying your target, once it is acquired and recognized by the optic, the center crosshairs will always be correct. Windage shall remain, of course, your responsibility. Battery life is much longer than will be necessary for this enterprise. The scope and its battery pack add another nine pounds, I’m afraid.”

  Crockett did some mental arithmetic. “Hell, Goody! That’s seventy-two and a half pounds of rifle and ammo!”

  �
��Indeed. That is why, on this exercise, you will not carry a carbine. Your only other burdens will be your hydration unit and Ghillie suit. Cletus will carry your rations and such, as well as a lovely Steyr AUG A3 rifle.”

  “A who?” Clete asked.

  “Darling little weapon, the A3. .223 caliber, eight hundred rounds per minute on full auto, and in a bullpup configuration. That gives it an eighteen inch barrel and only a twenty-nine inch overall length. Forty-two round, detachable, transparent box-type magazines, and a pull-through trigger system. It fires semi-auto to a halfway point on the pull, then becomes full automatic when the trigger is squeezed all the way back. Adaptable to a number of Picatinny rails. Clete’s night vision, infrared, and telescope optics will all be mounted on the rifle itself. Total weight, with optics, will be less than seventeen pounds. Five magazines, loaded to forty rounds each, I should think. Carrying his gear, and a portion of yours, will still put Cletus at less than sixty pounds of dead weight. Distributed carefully, he should remain quite mobile.”

  “Shit,” Clete said. “While we got all this stuff, why don’t we go take Cuba?”

  “That’s a hell of a lot of firepower,” Crockett said.

  “Log walls will barely slow your Browning rounds down, Crockett. And Clete’s lovely little A3 is reasonably accurate out to four hundred yards. Talent and tools, lads. Talent and tools.”

  They spent three days at Goody’s, familiarizing themselves with the weapons, the communication system, and getting back into working as a team. At the end of it all, Goody was quite pleased. Cletus and Crockett, as with their first journey into Goody’s world, were numb and exhausted.

  The morning after they arrived back at Ivy’s, Goody outfitted Crockett for the mission. First came a lightweight camo coverall. Over that was Crockett’s six quart hydration backpack. An additional quart to be carried in each of two collapsible packs, one on the front of each thigh. Attached to his belt and depending down the side of each thigh were two more packs to carry the total of ten loaded magazines for the M-107. A fanny pack secured necessities such as toilet paper, caffeine pills, eyewash, a backup GPS unit, and such. Like their original foray into the field, a first aid kit was attached to Crockett’s manmade leg. His Ghillie suit and cape were stashed in a loose pack to be carried over whatever shoulder was not supporting the rifle.

  “Anything else?” Crockett asked. “Kitchen sink, troop of Cub Scouts, lawnmower?”

  Goody smiled. “Feeling a bit burdened are we?”

  “Oh, no!” Crockett said. “This is about how much I’d weigh on Venus, isn’t it?”

  “Suffering in silence not your cup of tea, lad?”

  “Not so far.”

  Goody chuckled. “The vocal venting of negative emotion can be quite therapeutic, I’m told.”

  Crockett grinned. “Now what, you brutal old bastard?”

  “A bit of a jaunt to get everything adjusted properly, I should think. Ghillie up and go for a walk. A nice long walk. An hour or so should prove to be efficacious. Not necessary to take the rifle.”

  “That’s a hundred pound relief,” Crockett said, shaking out the Ghillie suit and looking around for his boonie hat.

  A little over an hour later, Crockett, feeling much like a cedar tree with feet, entered the newly rebuilt atrium, festooned in all his equipment and camouflage. Satin regarded the rag-encrusted apparition casually from a chair beside the door.

  “Hey, Crockett,” she said, “fresh coffee in the kitchen.”

  Refusing to be baited by such a stoic reception to his outrageous appearance, Crockett didn’t answer. He turned away and began his hike to the elevator in the foyer. As he passed the kitchen, Carson walked into his line of sight carrying a cup of coffee. She looked at him calmly.

  “Some twinkle lights and a few ornaments,” she said, “and you could be very useful during the holidays.”

  Crockett ignored her and continued his journey.

  Jesus. Those women were spending way too much time together.

  After Crockett divested himself of his Ghille accoutrements and cleaned up, he became so sleepy he could barely focus. Nearly staggering, he went to his room. The connecting door was open, and he could see Carson covered in a sheet as she snoozed on her bed. So as not to wake her, he quietly closed the door and crashed. In moments he was asleep. About an hour later, he jerked awake and sat up. Sweating slightly and trembling, he wandered down toward the kitchen in search of coffee. Clete and Stitch were sitting at the atrium table, looking at satellite photos.

  “You’re up,” Clete said.

  “More or less.”

  “You look like shit, dude,” Stitch said, peering at him.

  “Strange nap,” Crockett said, flopping into a chair and supporting the weight of his head with a hand under his chin. “I feel like hell. Weak. A little sick at my stomach.”

  “What’s the matter, Man?”

  “This whole thing is getting’ to me, I think. Walking around in all that gear just kinda brought it home, or something. I don’t know if I can do this, guys.”

  “Do what?” Clete asked.

  “This,” Crockett said, nodding at the photos. “Ruby’s dead. She’s as dead as Abraham Lincoln. Whichever of those guys that actually killed her is dead, too. I can go out to South Dakota and shoot two hundred more of those dirty bastards, and she’ll still be just as dead as she is right now. Nothing can change that.”

  Stitch shot Cletus a look. Both men remained silent and waited.

  Crockett shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe I’m too old, or too smart, or too dumb, or too scared, or too something. I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I should do it. I mean, who am I to go out there and shoot a bunch of people? I’m not God. It ain’t up to me.”

  “Maybe it shouldn’t be up to you, man,” Stitch said, “but it is. Fuckers like this Metzger cat, and those killers that work for him, can’t be left runnin’ around loose. Somebody has got to do somethin’ about people like that. Somebody has gotta step up and put a stop to those kinda fuckers, Crockett.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Crockett said. “But why me?”

  “’Cause you got the talent and tools, man! Cause you got the balls and the brains! Cause you’re the one that can, dude.”

  Crockett stood up and tottered into the kitchen. He was adding cream to a cup of coffee, when Carson walked in carrying an envelope. She was white as a sheet. Crockett put an arm around her and helped her settle into a chair. She sat, her hands between her knees, trembling as she stared at the floor. Crockett took a seat beside her.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  Carson continued to stare at the floor for a moment, then lifted her head and looked at him. She seemed surprised to find him next to her. She cleared her throat.

  “I, ah…I just saw Ruby,” Carson said.

  Instantly, Crockett was cold. “Where?”

  “In my room. She, ah…she was standing by the side of my bed when I woke up. She looked just like she did before she got abducted and lost her eye.”

  Crockett’s mouth was dry. “She say anything?”

  Tears leapt to her eyes. “She told me to go to her room, Crockett. She told me to go to her room and look in the right side of the top drawer of her chest under a black blouse.” Carson held out the envelope she carried. “I found this.”

  Crockett accepted the envelope. It was heavy with a lump in one corner. Written neatly on the front side was one word. “David.”

  He tore open the envelope and shook the lump out into his hand. It was the engagement ring Ruby had given him at Goody’s. The same one that he’d asked Clete to return to her as she lay in a coma after the Boog Jeter incident down on the Spring River.

  Nearly numb, Crockett slipped on the ring. As with the first time he put in on, the weight disappeared the instant the ring settled around his finger.

  “Aw, Jesus,” he said, slumping back into his chair.

  Cars
on leaned into him. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “Ruby gave me this after I asked her to marry me. I gave it back when we got her out of that cave. Guess she got the last word, huh?”

  “She wouldn’t be Ruby is she didn’t,” Carson said, and began to quietly cry.

  Crockett held her for a few moments. At length, Carson collected herself and stood up.

  “I need to be alone for a while,” she said. “You understand?”

  Crockett smiled and watched her walk out toward the foyer.

  He sat for a couple of minutes more, then collected his coffee and returned to the atrium. As he took a seat beside Clete, Stitch grinned at him.

  “Nice lookin’ ring ya got there, dude.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Ol’ Ruby’s been around, huh, man?”

  “Yeah. Told Carson where to find it.”

  Clete looked at the ring and flinched. “What?” he said.

  “Carson just had a visit from Ruby. She told her where to find my ring.”

  “Yer tellin’ me that Ruby showed up, jawed with Carson, an’ told her where the hell that ring was?”

  “That’s what Carson said,” Crockett said, trying not to smile.

  “See? Now that there is just the kinda shit that I doan need ta know, Goddammit!”

  At that moment, Nudge appeared out of nowhere, landed on the tabletop, and slow blinked at Clete.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” Clete muttered. “First Carson, then you, an’ now this big ass cat. I doan need this shit, Crockett!”

  Stitch jumped in. “I ever told ya how ol’ Nudge an’ me was friends about thirty years ago when he was half that size and named Freaky?”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!” Clete blurted, rising from the table and backing away. “No more haints, goddammit. Once was enough. No more haints, no more smellin’ perfume that ain’t there, nothin’. Bunch a goddam bullshit!”

  With that, he turned on his heel and left the room.