Sniper One

by Roy F. Chandler

  Now, Gilroy was back. His rifle was clicked in for eight hundred yards and laying beside him. Clicked in—he recalled Clicker Bell coaching him during one of the Marine Corps' intramural matches. Bell was good at that. He seemed to know just what the wind was doing all the way to the targets.

  Sometimes wind could blow one way at the firing line and exactly the opposite down range, but Bell knew when others did not. Well, there was no wind out there today, and Gilroy would not need Bell's tricks. Today, he, Todd Gilroy, would be Sniper One and he would send Clicker Bell straight to hell.

  Gilroy used both binoculars and his spotting scope, switching from one to the other to ease both eyes and body. Ranch employees had been moving around, but there had been no sign of Bell. The Colonel had tramped across the open and was now inside the ranch house. That was encouraging, Bell usually sat with the Colonel, or sometimes with the woman he often took in his truck. Maybe Bell would come in.

  There was activity along the front of the ranch house. Someone inside was opening windows. Gilroy studied the action closely. It looked as if the house was being aired out. All of the windows along the front were opened. One apparently stuck, and an older woman came onto the porch to struggle with the frame. She got it and disappeared inside. Moments later the windows on the gable end facing his ridge began to open, and curtains were drawn back to allow air to circulate. It was probably stuffy inside, and that might encourage Bell to sit outside.

  Clicker drove fast and to Sydney's mind a bit recklessly. He still had not explained everything, but his mind was clearly on getting somewhere swiftly, so she held her tongue, and once they were on a better road, Clicker told the story.

  "You heard what I said on the phone, but I'll go over it so that it will be clear.

  "Your Dad has seen someone laying up in the sniper hide I prepared overlooking the ranch house. The Colonel has a spotting scope on him, and my guess is that Todd Gilroy is back and hunting me."

  "Oh my goodness!" Sydney Maynard felt her senses slip. The whole thing from the camel to the great shield had always seemed bizarre. Now it was swirling out of control and beyond reason.

  In the world of real people, men did not slip around trying to shoot other men, and killers did not lurk on nearby hills waiting to strike, but she did not doubt Clicker's sincerity, and she could not question that he and her father knew about such things.

  Sydney Maynard tried to gather her wits and prepare herself to be helpful. In stories and motion pictures women usually stood by holding their hands over their mouths while their men battled for their lives. She resolved not to be among those helpless females who fell down and turned ankles at unfortunate moments, or had to be helped to run, or didn't leap in when things got desperate. If anything terrible did come at them, she would be ready to move and move smart. She swore she would.

  Clicker said, "I'm going to get closer before I turn this truck over to you. Once I get out, you must drive up to Parker's Knob, which is right up there." Clicker pointed out his window.

  Sydney said, "I know where it is." Bell was encouraged by the strength in her voice.

  "Now Syd, it's important that you go there and stay there. If I need the phone I'll know where to go, and I have to be sure that if Gilroy gets loose from us he doesn't stumble onto you. Which could make matters very difficult."

  "I understand Clicker, and I'll be up there, but how long do I wait, and...?"

  "Stay there until I come for you or it gets dark."

  "Shouldn't we call the police, Clicker? You and Dad shouldn't be handling this by yourselves."

  "Yes, we should call in help, Sydney, but the police would tell us to stay out of it, and a guy like Gilroy, if it is him, will slip past most cops as if they weren't there. Even if they find Gilroy, what can they charge him with? He will swear he was hunting or maybe not even on the Sixplex if they stop him down the road.

  "Then he might come back later on—the way he seems to have done today. I intend to settle this now, and once and for all."

  Sydney felt her stomach knot. It was pretty clear what her man intended to do. If he could, Clicker Bell was going to kill Todd Gilroy.

  How did she feel about it? Sydney remembered her resolve. She gripped Bell's upper arm as he held the wheel and said as strongly as she could manage, "You be careful, Clicker, but you get him—once and for all!"

  Bell's grin was wolfish.

  Clicker braked the truck at a dirt intersection. He unhooked the Rock rifle from its rack behind the pickup's seat. A nylon bandoleer refilled with match grade ammunition hung alongside the rifle, and Bell tied it around his waist the way Gunnery Sergeant Carlos Hathcock had when he fought in Vietnam.

  He swigged long from their water bottle and replaced it on the truck seat before he gave Sydney further instructions.

  "When you get up on the knob take the shotgun and step away into the woods. Find a covered spot where you can see the truck, but make sure your back is protected so that no one can come up on you from behind.

  "If everything went unbelievably foul you won't be just sitting there.

  "Don't shoot unless you absolutely have to, Syd, OK?"

  She nodded, but before she could speak, Bell added, "But Syd, if you do shoot, aim for the center of Gilroy's body and hold solid. If you can still see him after the first shot, shoot him again. That clear?"

  She said, "Quit worrying about me, Clicker. I'll be on the knob and out of sight I won't shoot until he is so close I can count his teeth, and then I'll blow his middle clean over into South Dakota."

  Clicker was impressed. "Love ya, Syd," and he was gone.

  Bell faded into concealment well off the gravel road they had driven along. He spit into clay and rubbed it across his features and the backs of his hands. He tucked grass into his boonie cap band and feared he could do little more. If Gilroy was doing it right, he would be fully camouflaged, and he would not be making unnecessary movement. The ambusher would be hard to see.

  Bell's advantage, if there was any, was his knowledge of the land, and best of all, he knew just where Gilroy was hidden. Now, if the SOB would just stay in place for another hour....

  Gilroy needed a break from the steady observing. No one could observe for hours and then make his best possible shot. Muscles got stiff and tired, and nerves got twangy. The trick was to take breaks when nothing was happening.

  Mostly, he would simply lower his head and close his eyes. That was best because he could be instantly back behind the scope or binocs. Now he needed a little stretch, and as nothing was moving or approaching the ranch buildings, Gilroy decided to ease back behind the crest to where he could stand and move around a little.

  His M40A1 clone lay beside him, and Gilroy hitched it forward to grip the stock at the balance. A last long look across the open to make certain nothing was moving, then Gilroy began to ease back and away.

  Greg Maynard's eyes felt like they were falling from his head. He was not practiced at staring through a twenty power spotting scope, and he knew he looked too hard. He leaned away for a long minute and blinked to relax his vision.

  Where was Bell now? Closing in for sure, and maybe not all that far away. If Gilroy, or whoever the ambusher was on the hill just stayed in place, Maynard expected that Bell would come right up behind him.

  Might there be a spotter resting back over the ridge and providing security for a sniping team? That would be the right way, but this was not a military mission, and he expected Gilroy would be alone.

  Maynard re-positioned himself and looked through the spotting scope. Holy Hell! There was movement, and there was a rifle! Maynard hurriedly shifted to his own bagged-in weapon.

  His rifle's telescopic sight lacked the 20X spotting scope's power, and Maynard could not see as distinctly, but he did not need to. He knew what he had seen, and it was now his job to shoot.

  The camouflaged head rose a little, and Maynard settled his crosshair where the chin ought to be. If he went a little high he would have a h
ead hit. Low would strike the body. His concentration wandered. My God, he was going to kill a man, but he kept on squeezing, and....

  The rifle recoiled against his shoulder, harder than usual, and he felt the scope tube bite his forehead. Cripes, he had stock-crawled almost against the lens.

  Within the house the blast was stunning, and dust drifted from every surface. Maynard sneezed convulsively, but as Bell had directed, he bent low and duck walked away from the rifle.

  He wished to leave the room, to get to another window so that he could look out, but if he opened the door he might change the window's light, and the ambusher might pour return fire in on him. The Colonel waited.

  Loud calling started within the ranch house, and Maynard had to do something before innocent people began peering out windows and perhaps into sniper fire. He got the door open, and staying as wide and low as he could he bellowed back claiming that nothing was happening and that he had just shot out of the window. Women's voices complained before it was again silent.

  Had he killed the ambusher? Maynard felt the shot had been good, but how could he check? He closed the door and did some more duck walking. He snatched his binoculars from the table top, and from deeper within the room shadows he examined the ridge and the sniper's position.

  There was nothing there. The ambusher was gone. Hit, escaping, or charging? Damnation, the man might be coming!

  Maynard bolted from the shooting room, tore down the stairs and into his study. He snatched his favorite pump shotgun from a rack and loaded with buckshot

  He had to do something about his people. Maynard guessed there were two in the house. He called them. Mrs. Manley, and...? Hell, he couldn't even think of her name. He hustled them into the study, sat them down, and explained that there was a killer outside that might try to get in. He positioned his charges on the floor against an inside wall. He locked the doors and finally had time to call Clicker's truck. After a long delay, he got Sydney.

  "Where's Clicker, Syd?"

  "He's gone after, Gilroy, Dad. I am staying hidden back in some rocks, and it takes a while to get to the truck phone. Has something happened?"

  "Gilroy showed a gun, and I shot him. At least I hope I shot him. I can't see anything up there now."

  "Clicker should be getting close, but I haven't heard any shooting. I didn't hear yours either, Dad."

  "The walls would have muffled my shot, but if you hear anything let me know. I've got the ladies and myself tucked away in the study, and I've got my shotgun ready."

  "I should be out there doing something, but going out in the open against a guy with a sniper rifle wouldn't be smart. God, I hope he's dead!"

  The bullet ripped into Todd Gilroy's chest and dropped him flat on his face. There was sudden and excruciating pain in a leg, and the shock and surprise stunned Gilroy into immobility.

  He had been shot. He knew that instantly, but how could that be? Bell, of course ... but how could Bell have seen him or even suspected? Raw fear exploded in the soul of Todd Gilroy, and he shoved himself backward over the ridge and onto the reverse slope.

  He panted as if he had run a great distance, and the burn in his chest was beyond fire. Bell would be coming! Gilroy lunged to his feet and tried to run, but his leg folded, and agony exploded throughout his body.

  A scream of pain and fear burst from his lungs, and Gilroy rolled onto his back clutching his wounded thigh. How? He had been wounded twice by the same bullet, and it hurt with a pulsing agony that he could barely endure.

  Frantically, Gilroy clawed at his camouflaged jacket, tearing his clothing until he could see his chest. Two holes. The bullet had slid in and along his chest to exit near his short ribs. Neither wound bled much.

  Hope flared, he might not be that seriously wounded. But his leg? The bullet had struck there as well. Could he move on it? He had to. Gilroy ripped at his pants leg trying to see the wound. The material was too tough, and he needed his knife. God, but he hurt.

  Gilroy listened as he labored. Bell would be coming. He would come in from a flank or the rear. Only a short way ahead a deep ravine provided Gilroy's best escape route. Once in the ravine, he could run or stagger if necessary until he was only a half mile from his truck. If he could get that far, he could surely make the rest of the way. He had been gripping his rifle by the sling just behind the front swivel, and the piece had come back with him. His other equipment lay in the hide, but he gave it no thought. Distance and time were what he needed now.

  His leg wound also had two holes, and both were ragged and jagged horrors. The bullet had tumbled, and muscle and sinew were ripped and tom. The leg bled some, but the bone had not been broken. The bleeding did not pump, but he knew that the pain would grow increasingly intolerable.

  Despite teeth gritting pain, Gilroy bent the leg, and he guessed he could stand. He would be slow and awkward, but to wait was to be shot by killer Bell—and Gilroy had no doubt that Bell would shoot him as unhesitatingly as he would a mad dog. Fear again lent him strength, and Gilroy began to get up.

  Something moved in the thin woods beyond the ravine. Still on his back, Gilroy froze.

  Bell! How could he be over there? Impossible, but Gilroy could see him clearly. Bell was close, and although angling slightly, he could not fail to see the ambusher lying helpless on his back.

  Gilroy moved fast. He hauled his rifle to his shoulder. The range was under one hundred yards, so close that the ten powered scope was hard to use. Bell was trotting, and the scope's tiny field of view made keeping him in sight extremely difficult.

  Gilroy saw Bell's head turn toward him and knew his time was up. Fighting to hold some sort of aim, he squeezed swiftly. The rifle fired and Gilroy tried to see around the recoil, but Bell had disappeared.

  Had he nailed him? Gilroy did not wait to see. He was on his back without nearby cover.

  Desperately, he slid downhill raising a cloud of needles and dust, but he dropped into the ravine and probably out of Bell's sight.

  Gilroy hit hard, and his wounded leg launched blinding agony. For a long instant, he could not move, but the worst lances of fire faded a little, and he got erect and began moving.

  Down the ravine was the way. Run downhill like all wounded game did. Get as far away as he could, and then ... make a stand? Bell might not expect that. Or he might!

  Bell might not know his enemy was wounded. He might.... Gilroy scrabbled along glancing from one cliff-like bank to the other, using them to stay upright, his rifle banging against his wounded leg with discouraging regularity.

  Clicker knew he was taking chances, but he had been long in getting close to the hide, and he did not want to lose his man.

  Then there had been screaming. It came from ahead, but the exact direction was lost among the trees. What in hell could that be? The sound was human—a hurt-bad human, Bell judged. He slowed and watched carefully.

  There was movement to a side, and Clicker swung on it. A horse! Damn! Unlike most spreads, the Sixplex did not kill its old mounts. Three of them had been retired to roam out their lives, and the animals had settled in among the ranch's nearby ridges.

  Bell jerked his attention back to what he was doing. Ahead lay a ravine that was important to the hide's escape routes. He would have to cross it and work his way up the slope until he could see the hide's position. If he hadn't moved, the ambusher would be on the forward slope, but what had caused the screaming? Was Maynard up here working his own plan? Bell doubted ... his eyes again caught movement.

  The horse may have slowed him a hint or the improbability of the ambusher laying out in the open forest, but Clicker took an instant to realize what he was seeing. Too late he dove for the protection of the nearest tree. Bell felt a bullet's bite, heard the rifle shot, and hit the ground rolling—seemingly all at once.

  Molten fire laced Bell's calf. Shot, damn it to hell! He lay unmoving behind the meager protection of a small tree bole. He heard nothing except his own pounding heart but dared not budge. As sure
as he had been shot once, Gilroy would have his scope on his hiding spot and be waiting for him to move.

  Clicker doubted his cover was that good. A .308 bullet would go through the tree and into him. If he tried to raise his rifle, he would almost certainly expose something. What in hell could he do?

  He had not heard Gilroy chamber another round. It was a little far, and the man was trained not to make noise, but he had his enemy dead to rights, why didn't he shoot? Bell waited.

  There was a great scrabbling from ahead and the sound of a sliding fall. Clicker saw dust drifting on the tiniest of breezes. He thought about it for a minute.

  He believed Gilroy had dropped into the ravine, but the man might be faking him out, and when stupid Clicker Bell looked up, he would catch a bullet in the face.

  There was more sound, and it could only be from someone moving down the ravine. Gilroy running for it? What else could it be? Almost cringing with expectation of being fired on, Clicker popped his head up and down again. No bullet came his way. He cautiously raised his head, and he could see the disturbed earth where Gilroy had slid down and into the ravine. Dumb, but that is what he had done.

  Clicker clawed himself into sitting and tried to examine his leg wound. He had little time. Gilroy was escaping, and if he got loose, everything would have to start over, and next time they could not expect to find him first.

  The bullet had passed through, of course, and the wound was ugly with the exit more crater than puncture. Numbness had set in, but Clicker knew it would not last. He wiggled the leg, and the bottom moved as it should. At least the tibia, the major leg bone, was not broken. He judged the angle of the bullet's travel and suspected the projectile had blown straight through the calf s smaller bone. What was it? The fibula, he remembered. A leg should function without the small bone—if he could bear the pain.

  Using the tree, he hauled himself erect. He put weight on his bad leg, and real agony shot through him causing the world to tilt. Good God, would it get worse?