Time to Hunt
( Bob Lee Swagger - 1 )
Stephen Hunter
A Time to Hunt by Stephen Hunter
But all of this action is only a prelude to Donny's subsequent relationship with Swagger in Vietnam. Hunter fleshes out the mythology that he began to create in Point of Impact as readers watch Swagger add to his famed body count and confront his nemesis, Solaratov.
Hunter moves deftly from the mind of Solaratov to Donny and back to Swagger, and in each character finds the core of the Vietnam experience--fear, coldness, sadness, horror, elation.
The last two sections cut to contemporary events and find Swagger married to Donny's former love, Julie. Slowly, the events of the first half of the book begin to merge with Swagger's present history and stories that readers will recognize from Hunter's earlier novels. Swagger uncovers a deep connection between the Vietnam demonstrations of the 1970s, the predatory work of the CIA, and the killer who is after him and his family now. Nothing is as it first seems, and readers of Point of Impact and Black Light will have to revise all their expectations.
"STEPHEN HUNTER IS SIMPLY THE BEST WRITER OF ACTION FICTION IN THE WORLD and Time to Hunt proves it. The action scenes are topnotch, the mystery kept me guessing until the last page and Bob the Nailer is a great character. I doubt that I will read another action thriller as good as this until Hunter writes another book."
--Phillip Margolin, author of The Undertaker's Widow
"If he's not there already, [Hunter's] fast approaching the rarefied air at the top of the genre with the likes of Nelson DeMille, Frederick Forsyth and Ken Follett. Time to Hunt tugs at your heartstrings, then slaps you around. The intensity is so palpable you nearly break out in a sweat."
--The Denver Post
"TIME TO HUNT IS MORE THAN A THRILLER .. .
it's a sweeping novel that ranges from the era of the Vietnam War and the anti-war movement to the present."
--Houston Chronicle
"SURPRISING .. . SATISFYING .. . Swagger is a near-mythic character without peer in mystery fiction. As we revel in his adventures and triumphs, we also experience his pain. It's that pain, simmering below the surface, that keeps Bob Lee on the edge of our consciousness long past the end of this fine novel."
--Booklist
ALSO BY STEPHEN HUNTER
FICTION
Black Light Dirty White Boys Point of Impact The Day Before Midnight Tapestry of Spies The Second Saladin The Master Sniper
NONFICTION
Violent Screen: A Critic's 13 Years on the Front Lines of Movie Mayhem
Published by Dell Publishing a division of Random House, Inc. 1540 Broadway New York, New York 10036
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
Copyright 1998 by Stephen Hunter All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Doubleday, New York, New York.
The trademark Dell is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
ISBN: 0440226457
Reprinted by arrangement with Doubleday Printed in the United States of America Published simultaneously in Canada April 1999
---------- CPL John Burke, USMC KIA, I Corps, RSVN, 1967 If any question why we died, Tell them, because our fathers lied.
--rudyard kipling writing in the voice of his son John, KIA, the Somme, at the age of sixteen
prologue
We are in the presence of a master sniper.
He lies, almost preternaturally still, on hard stone. The air is thin, still cold, he doesn't shake or tremble.
The sun is soon to rise, pushing the chill from the mountains. As its light spreads, it reveals fabulous beauty.
High peaks, shrouded in snow, a pristine sky that will be the color of a pure blue diamond, far mountain pastures of a green so intense it rarely exists in nature, brooks snaking down through pines that carpet the mountainsides.
The sniper notices none of this. If you pointed it out to him, he wouldn't respond. Beauty, in nature or women or even rifles, isn't a concept he would recognize, not after where he's been and what he's done. He simply doesn't care, his mind doesn't work that way.
Instead, he sees nothingness. He feels a great cool numbness. No idea has any meaning to him at this point.
His mind is almost empty, as though he's in a trance.
He's a short-necked man, as so many great shooters are, his blue eyes, though gifted with an almost freakish 20/10 acuity, appear dull, signifying a level of mental activity almost startlingly blank. His pulse rate hardly exists.
He has some oddities, again freakish in some men but weirdly perfect for a shooter. He has extremely well developed fast-twitch forearm muscles, still supple and defined at his age, which is beyond fifty. His hands are large and strong. His stamina is off the charts, as are his reflexes and his pain tolerance. He's strong, flexible, as charged with energy as any other world-class athlete. He has both a technical and a creative mind and a will as directed as a laser.
But none of this really explains him, any more than such analysis would explain a Williams or a DiMaggio: he simply has an internal genius, possibly autistic, that gives him extraordinary control over body and mind, hand and eye, infinite patience, a shrewd gift for the tactical, and, most of all, total commitment to his arcane art, which in turn forms the core of his identity and has granted him a life that few could imagine.
But for now, nothing: not his past, not his future, not the pain of lying so still in the cold through a long night, not the excitement of knowing this could be the day. No anticipation, no regret: just nothing.
Before him is the tool of his trade, lying askew on a hard sandbag. He knows it intimately, having worked with it a great deal in preparation for the thirty seconds that will come today or tomorrow or the day after.
It's a Remington 700, with an H-S Precision fiberglass stock and a Leupold 10X scope. It's been tricked up by a custom rifle smith to realize the last tenth of a percent of its potential: the action trued and honed, and bolted into the metal block at the center of the stock at maximum torque, a new Krieger barrel free-floated after cryogenic treatment. The trigger, a Jewell, lets off at four pounds with the crisp snap of a glass rod breaking.
The sniper has run several weeks' worth of load experimentation through the rifle, finding the exact harmony that will produce maximum results: the perfect balance between the weight of a bullet, the depth of its seating, the selection and amount, to the tenth grain, hand measured, of the powder. Nothing has been left to chance: the case necks have been turned and annealed, the primer hole de burred the primer depth perfected, the primer itself selected for consistency. The rifle muzzle wears the latest hot lick, a Browning Ballistic Optimizing System, which is a kind of screw-on nozzle that can be micro-tuned to generate the best vibrational characteristics for accuracy.
The caliber isn't military but civilian, the 7mm Remington Magnum, once the flavor of the month in international hunting circles, capable of dropping a ram or a whitetail at amazing distances. Though surpassed by some flashier loads, it's still a flat-shooting, hard-hitting cartridge that holds its velocity as it flies through the thin air, delivering close to two thousand foot-pounds of energy beyond five hundred yards.
But of all this data, the sniper doesn't care, or no longer cares. He knew it at one time, he has forgotten it now. The po
int of the endless ballistic experimentation was simple: to bring the rifle and its load to complete perfection so that it could be forgotten. That was one principle of great shooting--arrange for the best, then forget all about it.
When the sound comes, it doesn't shock or surprise him. He knew it had to come, sooner or later. It doesn't fill him with doubt or regret or anything. It simply means the obvious: time to work.
It's a peal of laughter, girlish and bright, giddy with excitement. It bounces off the stone walls of the canyon, from the shadow of a draw onto this high shelf from close to a thousand yards off, whizzing through the thin air.
The sniper wiggles his fingers, finds the warmth in them. His concentration cranks up a notch or so. He pulls the rifle to him in a fluid motion, well practiced from hundreds of thousands of shots in practice or on missions.
Its stock rises naturally to his cheek as he pulls it in, and as one hand flies to the wrist, the other sets up beneath the forearm, taking the weight of his slightly lifted body, building a bone bridge to the stone below. It rests on a densely packed sandbag. He finds the spot weld, the one placement of cheek to stock where the scope relief will be perfect and the circle of the scope will throw up its image as brightly as a movie screen. His adduct or magnus, a tube of muscle running through his deep thigh, tenses as he splays his right foot ever so slightly.
Above, a hawk rides a thermal, gliding through the blue morning sky.
A mountain trout leaps.
A bear looks about for something to eat.
A deer scampers through the brush.
The sniper notices none of it. He doesn't care.
Mommy," shouts eight-year-old Nikki Swagger.
"Come on."
Nikki rides better than either of her parents, she's been almost literally raised on horseback, as her father, a retired Marine staff NCO with an agricultural background, had decided to go into the business of horse care at his own lay-up barn in Arizona, where Nikki was born.
Nikki's mother, a handsome woman named Julie Fenn Swagger, trails behind. Julie doesn't have the natural grace of her daughter, but she grew up in Arizona, where horses were a way of life, and has been riding since childhood.
Her husband rode as an Arkansas farmboy, then didn't for decades, then came back to the animals and now loves them so, in their integrity and loyalty, that he has almost single-mindedly willed himself into becoming an accomplished saddle man That is one of his gifts.
"Okay, okay," she calls, "be careful, sweetie," though she knows that careful is the last thing Nikki will ever be, for hers is a hero's personality, built from a willingness to risk all to gain all and a seeming absence of fear. She's like an Indian in that way, and like her father, too, who was once a war hero.
She turns.
"Come on," she calls, replicating her daughter's rhythms.
"You want to see the valley as the sun races across it, don't you?"
"Yep," comes the call from the rider still unseen in the shadows of the draw.
Nikki bounds ahead, out of the shadows and into the bright light. Her horse, named Calypso, is a four-year-old thoroughbred gelding, quite a beast, but Nikki handles it with nonchalance. She is actually riding English, because it is part of her mother's dream for her that she will go east to college, and the skills that are the hallmarks of equestrian sophistication will take her a lot farther than the rowdy ability to ride like a cowboy. Her father does not care for the English saddle, which seems hardly enough to protect the girl from the muscles of the animal beneath, and at horse shows he thinks those puffy jodhpurs and that little velveteen jacket with its froth of lace at the throat are sublimely ridiculous.
Calypso bounds over the rocky path, his cleverness as evident as his fearlessness. To watch the slight girl maneuver the massive horse is one of the great joys of her father's life: she never seems so alive as when on horseback, or so happy, or so in command. Now, Nikki's voice trills with pleasure as the horse at last breaks out onto a shelf of rock. Before them is the most beautiful view within riding distance and she races to the edge, seemingly out of control, but actually very much in control.
"Honey," cries Julie as her daughter careens merrily toward disaster,"be careful."
The child. The woman. The man.
The child comes first, the best rider, bold and adventurous.
She emerges from the shadow of the draw, letting her horse run, and the animal thunders across the grass to the edge of the precipice, halts, then spins and begins to twitch with anticipation. The girl holds him tightly, laughing.
The woman is next. Not so gifted a rider, she still rides easily, with loping strides, comfortable in the saddle. The sniper can see her straw hair, her muscularity under the jeans and work shirt, the way the sun has browned her face. Her horse is a big chestnut, a stout, working cowboy's horse, not sleek like the daughter's.
And finally: the man.
He is lean and watchful and there is a rifle in the scabbard under his saddle. He looks dangerous, like a special man who would never panic, react fast and shoot straight, which is exactly what he is. He rides like a gifted athlete, almost one with the animal, controlling it unconsciously with his thighs. Relaxed in the saddle, he is still obviously alert.
He would not see the sniper. The sniper is too far out, the hide too carefully camouflaged, the spot chosen to put the sun in the victim's eyes at this hour so that he'll see only dazzle and blur if he looks.
The crosshairs ride up to the man, and stay with him as he gallops along, finding the same rhythm in the cadences, finding the same up-down plunge of the animal.
The shooter's finger caresses the trigger, feels absorbed by its softness, but he does not fire.
Moving target, transversing laterally left to right, but also moving up and down through a vertical plane: 753 meters. By no means an impossible shot, and many a man in his circumstances would have taken it. But experience tells the sniper to wait: a better shot will lie ahead, the best shot. With a man like Swagger, that's the one you take.
The man joins the woman, and the two chat, and what he says makes her smile. White teeth flash. A little tiny human part in the sniper aches for the woman's beauty and ease, he's had prostitutes the world over, some quite expensive, but this little moment of intimacy is something that has evaded him completely. That's all right. He has chosen to work in exile from humanity.
Jesus Christ!
He curses himself. That's how shots are blown, that little fragment of lost concentration which takes you out of the operation. He briefly snaps his eyes shut, absorbs the darkness and clears his mind, then opens them again to what lies before him.
The man and the woman have reached the edge: 721 meters. Before them runs a valley, unfolding in the sunlight as the sun climbs even higher. But tactically what this means to the sniper is that at last his quarry has ceased to move. In the scope he sees a family portrait: man, woman and child, all at nearly the same level, because the child's horse is so big it makes her as tall as her parents. They chat, the girl laughs, points at a bird or something, seethes with motion. The woman stares into the distance. The man, still seeming watchful, relaxes just the tiniest bit.
The crosshairs bisect the square chest.
The master sniper expels a breath, seeks the stillness within himself, but wills nothing. He never decides or commits. It just happens.
The rifle bucks, and as it comes back in a fraction of a second, he sees the tall man's chest explode as the 7mm Remington Magnum tears through it.
PART I
THE PARADE DECK
Washington, DC, April-May 1971
CHAPTER one.
It was unseasonably hot that spring, and Washington languished under the blazing sun. The grass was brown and lusterless, the traffic thick, the citizens surly and uncivil, even the marble monuments and the white government buildings seemed squalid. It was as though a torpor hung over the place, or a curse. Nobody in official Washington went to parties anymore, it was a time o
f bitterness and recrimination.
And it was a time of siege. The city was in fact under attack. The process the president called "Vietnamization" wasn't happening fast enough for the armies of peace demonstrators who regularly assailed the city's parks and byways, shutting it down or letting it live, pretty much unchecked and pretty much as they saw fit. This month already, the Vietnam Veterans for Peace had commandeered the steps of the Capitol, showering them with a bitter rain of medals, more action was planned for the beginning of May, when the May Tribe of the People's Coalition for Peace and Justice had sworn to close down the city once again, this time for a whole week.
In all the town there was only one section of truly green grass. Some would look upon it and see in the green a last living symbol of American honor, a last best hope.
Others would say the green was artificial, like so much of America: it was sustained by the immense labor of exploited workers, who had no choice in the matter. This is what we are changing, they would say.
The green grass was the parade ground, or in the patois of a service which holds fast to the conceit that all land structures are merely extensions of and metaphorical representations of the ships of the fleet, the "parade deck" of the Marine Barracks, at Eighth and I, Southeast.
The young enlisted men labored over it as intensely as any cathedral gardeners, for, to the Jesuitical minds of the United States Marine Corps, at any rate, it was holy ground.
The barracks, built in 1801, was the oldest continuously occupied military installation in the United States.
Even the British dared not burn it when they put the rest of the city to the torch in 1814. To look across the deck to the officers' houses on one side, the structures that housed three companies (Alpha, Bravo and Hotel, for headquarters) on the other, and the commandant's house at the far end of the quadrangle was to see, preserved, a pristine version of what service in the Corps and service to the country theoretically meant.
The ancient bricks were red and the architecture had sprung from an age in which design was pride in order.
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