Possibly two hundred meters at the longest. The rifle holds to four inches at two hundred meters and I always shoot for the chest, never the head. The head shot is too difficult for a combat situation."
He was fully dressed. He wore a ghillie suit of his own construction, and was well tufted with a matting of beige strips identical in color to the elephant grass. His hat was tufted too, and under it, he'd painted his face in combat colors, a smear of ochre and black and beige.
"Sundown," came a cry from above.
"It's time," said Him Co.
The sniper rose and threw a large pack over his back, the rifle strap diagonally over his shoulder, and with a soft swaying as of many different feathers, like some exotic bird, he walked to the ladder and climbed out of the tunnel.
He rose in the dusk, and Huu Co followed him. It was but a few hundred feet to the treeline and the long crawl down the valley toward the American firebase.
"You have this planned?" Huu Co asked.
"I need to know for my report."
"Well planned," said the Russian.
"They'll go out just before sunrise, over their berm and through their wire. I can tell you exactly where, because it's the one place where they're higher, there aren't any subtle rises in the ground. They'll continue in the rising light on a north-northwest axis, then turn to the west. When the sun is full, they'll have a last few hundred meters to go through the grass toward the north. I've examined their own after-action reports. Swagger runs his missions the same each time, but what varies is where he'll operate. If he's headed south, toward Kontum, he'll go toward the Than Quit River. If he heads north, toward the Hai Van Peninsula, then he'll go toward Hoi An. And so forth. In any event, that small rise out there, that's his intersection. Which way will he turn from there? I'm betting tonight it's toward the north, because he worked the west when he headed out toward Kham Due. It's the north's turn. I'll set up behind him, that is, between himself and the firebase.
He'll never expect shots from that direction. I'll take them both when they come out from behind the hill. It'll be over quickly, two quick rounds to the body, two more when they're down. Nobody from the base camp can reach me by the time I'm back here, and I've got a good, clean escape route with two fall backs if need be."
"Well thought out."
"And so it is. That's what I do."
There was little left to say. The sappers gathered around the banty little Russian, clapped him on the back, embarrassing him. Night was coming quickly, all was silent, and in the far distance the firebase stood like a sore on the flank of a woman.
"For the Fatherland," Huu Co said.
"For the Fatherland," chimed the tough sappers.
"For survival," said the sniper, who knew better.
The last briefing was at sundown. Donny faced himself.
Or rather, the man who would be himself, a lance corporal named Featherstone, roughly his own size and coloring.
Featherstone would wear Donny's camouflaged utilities, carry his 782 gear complete to Claymores and M49 spotting scope, and the only M14 that could be found in the camp. Featherstone, and Brophy similarly tricked out as Bob Lee Swagger, were bait.
Featherstone, a large, slow boy, was not happy at this job, he had been volunteered for it by virtue of his similarity to Donny. Now he sat, looking very scared, in the S-2 bunker, amid a slew of officers and civilians in various uniforms. Everybody except Featherstone seemed very excited.
There was a kind of party like atmosphere, long absent from Firebase Dodge City.
Bob went to the front of the group, as they sat down, and addressed the primary players: Captain Feamster, who was CO here at Dodge City, an intelligence major who represented the Marine Corps's higher interest, in from Da Nang, an army colonel who'd choppered in from MACV S-2, an Air Force liaison officer, and a civilian in a jumpsuit with a Swedish K submachine gun who radiated Agency from all his pores. A map of the immediate area had been rigged on a large sheet of cardboard, reducing the clearing around Dodge City to its contours and land-forms and the base itself to a big X at the bottom.
"Okay, gentlemen," Bob started, and no officer in the room felt it peculiar to be briefed by a staff sergeant, or at least this staff sergeant, "let's run this through one more time to make sure everybody's on the same page in the hymn book. The game starts at 2200, when Fenn and I, dressed in black and painted up like black whores, head out. It's approximately thirteen hundred yards to what I'm designating Area 1. That's where, based on my reading of the land and this guy's operating procedure as the files from Washington reveal, I think he's going to operate.
Fenn and I will set up about three hundred yards from his most probable shooting zone. I don't want to get too close, this bird has a nose for trouble. At 0500 Lieutenant Brophy and Lance Corporal Featherstone roll over the berm at the point designated Roger One."
He pointed to it on the map.
"Why there, Sergeant?"
"This guy has eyeballed Dodge City, believe you me, and maybe from as close as this bunker. He's been here.
He knows where the best place to get quickly into this little dip here is"--he pointed--"which gives you close to half mile of nearly unobserved terrain."
"Do you know that for a fact?" asked the leg colonel.
"No, sir, I do not. But before this problem came up, it's where I took my teams out ninety percent of the time, unless we choppered somewhere. He'll know that, too."
"Carry on, Sergeant."
"From there, the lieutenant and Featherstone follow the route I have indicated." He addressed the two of them directly.
"It's very important you stay there. He can't get a good shot at you, because he can't get close enough, but he'll know you're there. He'll start tracking you about five hundred yards out, but you're still too far out to shoot. He don't have a rifle that he can trust to make that far a shot, plus, he wants you out of sight of camp when he hits you, so that he'll have time to make his get-out."
"How do we know he just won't take them out, then fade?" asked the Air Force major.
"Well, sir, again, we don't. But I been all over that ground. I don't think he can get a shot when they're in the gulch. That's why they have to be right careful to stay there, to move slowly. Now, about one thousand yards out, you got a little-bitty bit of hill. It's Hill Fifty-two, meaning it ain't but fifty-two meters high. It's hardly a tit.
You wouldn't give it a squeeze on Saturday night."
"I would," said Captain Feamster, and everybody laughed.
"I may go do it now, in fact!"
After they settled down, Bob continued.
"Sir, when y'all git behind that hill, you go flat. I mean, you dig in, you stay put. He's going to watch you come, he'll be set up on the other side, where you come out to high ground and make your decision which way you're going to turn the mission. You stay put. Now, it may take some time. This bird's patient. But, you disappearing suddenly, he's going to get annoyed, then irritated. He'll move. Maybe just a bit, but when he moves, we put the glass on him, I quarter him and waste his ass."
"Sergeant Swagger?" It was Brophy.
"Sir?"
"Do you want us to move out in support after you engage him?"
"No, sir. I don't want no other targets in the zone. If I see movement, I may have to shoot without ID. I'd hate it to be you or Featherstone. Y'all just go to earth once you get behind that hill, then move back under cover of the choppers, if we have to call in choppers."
"Sounds good."
"This sucks," Featherstone whispered bitterly to Donny.
"I'm going to get smoked, I know it. It isn't fair. I didn't sign up for this shit."
"You'll be okay," Donny said to the shaky man.
"You just walk, then dig in and wait for help. Swagger's got it figured."
Featherstone shot him a look of pure hatred.
"Anyhow," continued Swagger at the front of the bunker, "I take him when he rises to move. If I don't get a solid hit o
r if I get a miss, that's when I signal Fenn, who's sitting on the PRC-77. You've checked out the radio?"
"Of course," said Donny.
"At that moment I signal, Fenn's on the horn with you Air Force boys."
It was the Air Force major's turn.
"We've laid on a C-130 Hercules call-signed Night-Hag-Three, holding in orbit about five klicks away, just off Than Nuc. We can have Night Hag there in less than thirty seconds. The Night Hag brings major pee: four side-mounted Vulcan twenty-mm mini-guns and four 7.62 NATO mini-guns. It can unload four thousand rounds in less than thirty seconds. It'll turn anything in a thousand square yards to tenderized hamburger."
"That's better than napalm or Hotel Echo, sir?"
"Much better. More accurate, more responsive to ground direction. Plus, these guys are really good. They've been on these suppression missions for years. They can pinwheel over a zone just above stalling speed like a gull floating over the beach. Only, they're pumping out lead all the while. They bring unbelievable smoke. The snake eaters love them. You know the napalm problem. It can go any way, and if the wind catches it and takes it in your direction, you got a problem."
"Sounds good," said Bob.
"Sergeant Swagger?"
It was the CIA man, who'd brought the Solaratov documents.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Nichols?"
"I'm just asking: is there any conceivable way you could take this man alive? He'd be an incomparable intelligence asset."
"Sir, I should say, hell, yes, I'll try my damndest, and we'll share whatever we git with our friends who've cooperated with us. But this bastard's tricky and dangerous as hell. If I get him in the scope, I have to take him out. If he gets away, we go to gunships. That's all."
"I respect your honesty, Sergeant. It's your ass on the line. But let me tell you one thing. The Sovs have a new sniper rifle called the Dragunov, or SVD. He might have one."
"I've heard of it, sir."
"We've yet to shake it out. Even the Israelis haven't uncovered one. Be very nice if you brought that out alive."
"I'll give it my best, sir."
"Good man."
Donny was supposed to get a last few hours of sleep before he geared up, but of course he couldn't. So much ran through his mind, and he lay in the bunker, listening to music coming from the squad bays a few dozen meters away
CCR was banging out something from last year on somebody's tape deck. It sounded familiar. Donny listened.
Long as I remember, the rain been coming down, Clouds of mystery falling, confusion on the ground, Good men through the ages, trying to track the sun, And I wonder, still I wonder, who'll stop the rain?
It had some kind of anti-war meaning, he knew. The rain was war, or had become war. Some of these kids had known nothing but the war, it had started when they were fourteen and now they were twenty and over here and it was still going on. It was coming for them, they'd get caught in the rain, that's why the song was so popular to them. Kids had picked it up in DC last year and it was everywhere. He knew Commander Bonson had heard it.
He thought of Bonson now.
Bonson came back to him. Navy guy, starchy, duty-haunted, rigid, black-and-white Bonson. In his khakis. His beard dark, his flesh taut and white, his eyes glaring, set in rectitude.
He remembered the look on Bonson's face when he told him he wasn't going to testify against Crowe. Man, that may have been worth it, that one moment, let Solaratov grease my ass, it was worth it, the way his jaw fell, the way confusion--no, clouds of mystery, confusion on the ground--came into his eyes. He could not process it.
He could not accept that someone would turn his little plan over. Someone would actually tell him to go fuck off, derail his little train.
Donny had a nice dream of it all, the moment of soaring triumph he'd felt.
Oh, that's just the beginning, he thought. I will get back to the world and we will see what became of Commander Bonson, what his crusade got him. What goes round, comes round. You put shit out in this world, somehow you get it back. Donny believed that.
Now, sleep was impossible. He rose, restless, bathed in sweat. He had another three hours to kill before they mounted out.
He rose, left the bunker and wandered for a bit, not sure where he was going, but then realizing he did in fact have a destination. He was in grunt city, among the line Marines, the proles of 2-5-Hotel, who really were Firebase Dodge City.
He saw a shadow.
"You know where Featherstone would be?"
"Two hootches back. Oh. You. The hero. Yeah, he's back there, getting ready to get his ass wasted in the grass."
The anger Donny felt surprised him. What the hell was this all about? Why was everybody so pissed at him? What had he done?
Donny walked back, dipped into the hootch. Four bunks, the fraternity squalor of young men living together, the stink of rotting burlap, the shine of various Playmates of the Month pinned to whatever surface would absorb a tack and, of course, the smell, sweet and dense, of marijuana.
Featherstone sat amid a dark circle of fellow martyrs, all stoned. He was so still and depressed he seemed almost dead. But it was clear he wasn't the ringleader here, another Marine was doing all the talking, a bitter rant about "We don't mean shit,"
"It's all a game,"
"Fucking lifers just getting their tickets punched," that sort of thing.
Donny butted in.
"Hey, Featherstone, you wanna go light on that stuff.
You may have to move fast tomorrow, you don't want that shit still in your head."
Featherstone didn't seem to hear him. He didn't look up.
"He's gonna be dead tomorrow. What difference does it make?" the smart guy said.
"Who invited you here, anyhow?"
"I just came by to check on Featherstone," said Donny.
"He ought to pull himself out of this funk or he's gonna get wasted, and if you guys claim to be his buds, you ought to help him."
"He's gonna get zapped tomorrow, no matter what.
We who are not about to die salute him."
"Nothing's going to happen to him. He's going to go for a walk, then hide in the bush. A plane will come and shoot the fuck out of a zone
250 yards ahead of him. He'll probably get a Bronze Star out of it and go back to the world a hero."
"Nobody cares about heroes back in the world."
"Well, he just has to keep his head. That's--" "Do you even know what this is all about?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"I can't tell you. Classified."
"No, not the shit about the Russian sniper. That's just shit. You know what this is really about?"
"What are you talking about?"
"It's about the championship."
"The what?"
"The championship," said the man, fixing Donny in a bitter, dark gaze.
"Of what?"
"Of snipers."
"What?"
"In 1967, a gunny named Carl Hitchcock went home with ninety-three kills. The most so far. Now along comes this guy Swagger. He's in the fifties till that stunt you pulled off in the valley. They gave him credit for thirty-odd kills. I hear he's up to eighty-seven in one whack.
Now, he gets six more, he ties. He gets seven more, he's the champ. It doesn't mean shit to me and it doesn't mean shit in the world, but for these lifers, let me tell you, something like that gets you noticed and you end up the fucking command sergeant major of the whole United States Marine Corps. So what if a couple of grunts get wasted to get you your last few kills? Who the fuck cares about that?"
"That's shit," said Donny. He looked at his antagonist's name, saw that it was one Mahoney, and then recalled, yes, another college guy, Mahoney, always riding the line, dozens of Article 15s, angry and pissed off and just desperate to get out of there.
"It's not shit. It's how military cultures operate if you knew anything about it at all."
"I've been with Swagger in the bush for six months.
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I've never, ever seen him claim credit for a kill. I record the kills in a book, as per regs. I have to do that, it's the rule. The sniper employment officer writes up the kills. I just write down what I see. Swagger's never asked me to claim kills for him. He doesn't give a shit about that. On top of that, the number thirty-seven or whatever is completely made up, he had eighty rounds, he probably hit seventy-five of those, if he missed at all. The record doesn't mean a thing. That's a load of crap."
"He just likes the killing. Man, he must like to squeeze that little trigger and watch some gook dot go still. It's as close to being God as you can get. There's something so psychotic about it, you--" Donny hit him, left side of the face, hard. It was stupid. In seconds, h& was down, pinned, and somebody kicked him in the head, and his eyes filled with stars. He squirmed and yelped, but more body blows came, and he felt the pressure of many hands pressing him down, and still more punches driving through. At last someone pulled his antagonists off him. Of course it was the pacifist Mahoney.
"Settle down, settle down," Mahoney screamed.
"Man, you'll get lifers in here, and we are cooked!"
Donny's head flared. Someone had really nailed him.
"You assholes," he said.
"You fucking crybaby assholes, you're going to get your buddy wasted for nothing except your own sense of victimization. You have nothing to be sorry about. You made it. You're golden."
"All right, all right," said Mahoney, holding the swelling that distended his face, "you hit me, they hit you, let's call it even. No one on staff has to hear about this."
"Man, my fucking head aches," said Donny, climbing to his feet.
"You're not going to tell on anyone, are you, Fenn? It was just tempers. We all get fucked if you tell."
"Shit," said Donny.
"My goddamn head hurts."
"Get him an aspirin. You want a beer? We have some Vietnamese shit, but I think there's a couple of Buds left.
Get him a Bud. Good, cold Bud."
"No, I'm all right."
He looked at them, saw only dark faces and glaring eyeballs.
"Look, let's forget all about this shit, but just get him"--Featherstone, who still sat, zombie like on the cot--"straight for tomorrow. Okay? He can't be fucked up out there, he'll get killed."
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