by James Thayer
Gray knew then the trap he had fallen for. The Russian had placed an impact mine above a likely hide. Trusov had somehow glimpsed Gray but had been unable to get Gray in his scope. Trusov had set off the explosive with a bullet fired from a long distance, causing the nails to blast down at Gray. In effect the mine allowed Trusov to reach around corners. The Russian would have more mines in the bowl. The mine had not been meant to kill him. Trusov would want the purity of a bullet for that task.
Gray slowly brought a hand around to his buttocks. Teeth clamped together, he pulled out a protruding nail, then another. He ran his hand along his shirt and found several more nails in his back, gingerly pulling them out. His back was damp but there was less blood on the ground than he had feared. Gray decided he wasn't badly hurt. Nothing vital had been cut. Several nails were still embedded in his flesh where he couldn't reach, and when he crawled away from the logs the skin and muscles of his back shrieked. But this wasn't going to kill him. Trusov had failed with his first attempt. Gray was almost cheered by the thought.
Then he realized he had been entirely surprised. Not once, not in months and months in the Vietnam bush, had Gray been caught utterly unaware. Now it had happened.
He stilled those thoughts. He checked his canteen. No leaks. His binoculars were scratched, but the lenses were intact. His pack had holes in it but would carry his equipment. The Russian's mine had failed.
Gray concentrated on the best way to make it back to the thicket of trees near the bowl's mouth. He could not cross the glade, not with Trusov out in front of him—at least, that's where Gray thought the bullet had come from, although the blast from the plate mine had masked the sound of Trusov's rifle.
Trusov had been in the bowl at least three hours. Time to prepare many other surprises.
Gray returned east the way he had come, this time even more slowly, his head moving left and right. Moments later he had returned to the mouth of the bowl.
He wanted to circle around Trusov, who Gray presumed was somewhere in the middle of the bowl in the dense trees. Because the north slope was mostly barren, Gray would have to do his circling on the south slope. But between him and that incline were tracts of grass, open killing ground, an artilleryman's dream and an infantryman's nightmare, almost impossible to cross without being observed. The grass began under the trees where Gray stood, and ran toward the south slope.
Gray slid his backpack around so that it hung on his left side, hugged the rifle to his stomach with his left hand, then lowered himself to the ground. His back and buttocks yelped with pain.
Because lying on his belly would flatten more grass Gray stretched out on his right side. A nail in his back ripped his flesh as he stretched out. Leaving the cover of the trees, he began a side crawl into the thick grass. He used his right hand to part the grass in front of him, pushing the grass stems to either side, careful not to snap the stalks. He moved slowly, nothing like the pace of an infantryman crawling under barbed wire but more like a worm where every part of his body was in contact with the earth and was used to push himself along. His motion resembled a swimmer's sidestroke but more constricted and much slower. He traveled only a few inches a minute through the grass and by the occasional blue-blooming larkspur and yellow paintbrush. With his toes he righted stems that did not spring back on their own. This would prevent shining, which occurs when the sun bounces off vegetation that has been pushed down, leaving a bright trail. And the grass was dry from the day's heat, so Gray knew he was not leaving a trail of dulling, a highly visible path where rain or dew has been knocked away.
His passage through the field of grass would have been invisible to anyone standing ten feet away. In Vietnam, Gray had used grass fields many times, not only to move unseen but also as a hide. Grass is a sniper's safest shooting position because there is nothing—no rocks or trees—that an enemy can use to sight or range his gun.
The crest of the grass was a foot above Gray's head. His nose was in the dirt. Had he allowed himself the luxury, he would have reeled from the sensations. The raw scent of the earth, the hot puffs of an idle wind that pushed through the grass, the insistent drone of yellow jackets and bees, and the taste of his own sweat as it slid from his cheek into his mouth were all magnified by his tiny horizon. Twenty feet away, also hidden in the grass, several chukars let loose with their strident chuk-karr, chuk-karr, unaware of Gray's presence. But he had not gone entirely unnoticed. The sunlight flickered, and Gray moved his eyes skyward to see a vulture passing between him and the sun. The bird wheeled over Gray, its oddly tipsy flight distinguishing it from its raptor cousins, then it soared away, apparently deciding Gray was too far from death to be of interest. A tick hopped onto Gray's leading wrist. Gray could not risk the extra motion of swatting it away. The insect burrowed into the skin and its spotted body swelled with Gray's blood. Gray inched along.
There had been no choice between the M-40A1 sniper rifle and his old Winchester 70 that had been delivered by Nikolai Trusov. After he had tended to Adrian and the ambulance had carried her away, Gray approached both weapons, both on the porch leaning upright against the log wall. The Winchester had seemed to leap into Gray's hands like a lost dog. And the instant the Winchester found Gray's hands it seemed to vanish. Over the past several days he had become accustomed to the M-40A1 and was confident with it. But that rifle was still a stranger. Even after all these years the Winchester felt like an extension of Gray's body. His arteries and nerves and sinews continued into the wood and all the way up to the bore. And now, rather than being inert wood and metal, the rifle helped Gray worm his way through the grass, bending and pushing. Gray had not had the chance to zero the weapon, but he trusted it to be accurate. His old friend the Winchester would not allow itself to fall out of zero. And Trusov would want Gray's old rifle to be accurate. It would fit the Russian's notion of fairness.
Gray and his rifle pushed through several tufts of fleabane, and then rather than change direction he let a bull thistle scratch his face as he passed. He pressed himself against the ground as he moved. Dirt and twigs kept finding their way into his mouth, and he quietly spit the bits out as if he were a Pall Mall smoker.
Gray could do nothing better in this world than to move invisibly across terrain. Each small and silent motion was an art, his art. When the rhythm of the crawl came back to him after a while, he found he could pick up his pace a few more feet an hour. The slightest mischance with an errant stalk of grass might send a bullet his way, so Gray constantly reined himself in. He desperately wanted the shelter of the trees. His clothes were sodden with perspiration. He was still leaking blood. Stray pieces of dried grass clung to him, and he began to resemble a scarecrow.
Two hours passed, all the while Gray knowing Trusov was in a hide somewhere in the bowl, searching with his binoculars, occasionally raising his rifle to use the more powerful mounted scope.
Then the sound of a shot rushed over the grass. Gray bit into the ground, flattening himself. The noise echoed around the bowl, washing over Gray several more times. Gray did not hear the bullet passing overhead or through the grass. He allowed himself the slightest smile of satisfaction. Trusov must be nervous. He had fired at a shadow or a bird or a wind-blown branch. When a nail in his back brushed a nerve the smile vanished.
Gray dug his leading hand into the ground and pulled forward, parting the grass, sliding over the ground, rearranging the grass behind him, a smooth mechanical motion impeded only slightly by the spikes of pain in his back. He could smell pine sap and knew he was drawing close to the trees. Maybe another sixty or seventy yards.
Then he smelled something else, a scent entirely foreign in the bowl. For an instant all his nose could detect was some sort of chemical. And then he knew it was gasoline. Next he smelled fire.
Gray could not risk raising his head above the grass, but he could hear the fire ahead of him, spreading rapidly left and right, probably along a line of gasoline Trusov had poured. The Russian had probably left behind a
partly filled can of gas, and had ignited the gas by firing into the can. Trusov must have suspected Gray was in the grass but could not know precisely where.
The fire quickly consumed the dry grass. The wind was easterly but indifferent, only haphazardly pushing the flames, but the cheat grass and bunch grass and nipplewort were hay-dry, and the fire briskly ate into the field, quickly working east toward Gray. Smoke reached him, then tossing embers. Grasshoppers flicked by, fleeing the flames, then mice, one after another, a few crawling along Gray's arm, too frightened to care about the human.
A wind-tossed bit of burning grass landed on Gray's back, but to swat at it would ruffle the grass that hid him. Trusov was surely scanning the field, hoping to flush Gray and put a bullet into him as he tried to escape the fire. The fire was meant not to kill Gray but to flush him. Only a bullet would do for the killing.
The heat reached for Gray, the first blushes of it rolling over him, then subsiding with a quirk of the wind. Then more insistently, a pulse of heat that made him suck air. He looked forward through the grass. Orange licks were blackening and twisting the grass and sending waves of black smoke skyward. Not enough smoke was over him to cover him for a sprint. Gray had no choice but to lie there. From Gray's point of view—his eyes two inches above the dirt—the fire seemed to be sprinting toward him. Bits of flaming grass rose and swirled as smoke billowed. Grass snapped and hissed. A new gust of wind sped the flames. The fire roared as it closed in on Gray.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bite down. No trembling, no thinking, no equivocating. If he rose to flee he would die. If he made a sound or if he made any quick move he would die. He could feel the sweep of Trusov's binoculars, feel the Russian's eyes searching and searching.
To protect his weapon and prevent ammunition in the pack from detonating in the heat, he slowly brought his backpack and rifle to his stomach. He tucked the pack and Winchester under his belly. Walls of heat rushed at him. He crammed his hands under him, squeezing the Winchester's stock, knowing he would need a grip on something.
Embers landed on Gray's shirt and pants, burning through the cloth and into his skin. The fire sounded like an animal tramping through the brush, closer and closer, cracking and bursting, homing in on Gray. Curls of flame came for his cap. The odor of burning fabric filled him. The blaze came on louder, now the sound of an engine.
He clamped his eyes shut and ground his mouth into the soil, filling it with dirt to dampen any scream. The first licks of fire found his face, caressing him then eating into his skin. The cap was on fire and his hair with it. Gray tried to dig his face deeper, deeper into the cool soil. His head felt as if razors were being dragged across it, temple to temple.
An ear caught fire. The fire stitched its way down his neck to his shoulders. It felt as if he were being flayed, as if his skin was being peeled back to reveal his skull and bones. His shirt caught with hissing flame, and the sensation of flaying continued down his back. The fire line advanced past his shoulders and to his back, then along his back, baking his skin, bubbling it with heat. But the quickened wind pushed the flames. The fire ate but did not tarry. A cloud of smoke covered him and he gasped for breath, and in the smoke was his salvation. The smoke was above him now. He had cover.
Marine snipers know that the fastest way to travel from one position to another is the rush. Gray slowly drew his arms to his body with his elbows on the ground, and pulled his right leg forward. He rose by straightening his arms as if doing a push-up. Keeping his grip on the rifle, he dug his left foot into the soil and leaped up, rising in the flame. Gray willed his knees to work. He ran low to the ground.
The blaze leapt and twisted around him. Fire stuck to him, consuming more of his skin. He bolted along the fire line, the only place the smoke was thick enough to hide him, keeping a shroud of black around him. His burns were a straitjacket of pain, and every step squeezed him with agony. He ran along the fire, right along the fire line, running for his life. He could see nothing but roiling smoke.
Then the south slope and its trees appeared before him, blurred by the smoke. His burned skin wrapped him in an agony he could not outrun. A pant leg trailed fire, and Gray could feel the flames chewing into his thigh and knee. He sprinted out of the fire, and carried smoke along with him as he ran uphill, then finally out of the smoke and into the woods. He passed several trees deeper into cover before he dropped the pack and rifle and collapsed at the base of a pine tree. He rolled on the ground, trying to extinguish the flames. He scooped pine needles onto his head, dampening whatever fire remained.
His cap was gone, and so was most of his hair. His mouth gaped open with the pain. When he sagged back against the tree trunk, a thousand needles of pain sank into his skin. He lurched away from the tree, and fell slowly to one side. Behind him, the fire continued across the field. Smoke churned up, then collected in a mushroom before drifting slowly east toward the bowl's mouth. The back of his shirt had burned away, but the sleeves and front were held on by a stretch of fabric at his collar. One leg of his pants was gone.
Gray breathed deeply against the pain. He brought his feet up and bent over into a fetal curl. He shook uncontrollably. His skull was a universe of suffering, the pain blocking other senses, blinding him and deafening him, making him useless in the field. His thoughts were dim pulses. He was safe in the trees, he knew, but he would have to move out, and he had to gather himself. He had to push aside the agony from his back and head and shoulders and leg.
He closed his eyes. Isolate the pain. Move into myself. Cut out every sensation that would not work to defeat the Russian. Concentrate. Push it away. Survive this day.
He opened his eyes. He drew himself upright. He surveyed himself. His left arm was burned from the shoulder to the elbow, resembling bacon. His belly had protected the skin below the elbow. The back of his shirt was gone, burned away, and Gray knew the skin there was scorched, leaving pink and red blotches. Same with his shoulders. His left pant leg had burned away, and the skin below was blistered and red and pink and already leaking. When he gently touched his scalp his head was jolted with pain. A little hair remained in clumps, but most of his scalp was exposed and raw with burns. His left ear was curled by a burn.
He brought his hands up to his face. He curled his trigger finger. Gray's hands were fine, and he now found he could focus his eyes. And he could run. He was still alive and could still work his rifle.
He whispered, "I'm not done yet, you son of a bitch."
But his camouflage had gone up in smoke. He was as pink as a pig. His back and leg and arm and shoulders were a vibrantly colorful target. In the green and brown and gray bowl Gray's raw skin would stand out like a flare.
He had to camouflage himself, and he knew he would have to improvise and he knew it would test him to his limit. Gray opened his pack to retrieve his canteen. He twisted off the cap and allowed himself two swallows. Then he crawled several feet from the tree to a flat patch of ground. The soil had a thin mat of needles and dried leaves and wild straw. Gray poured the water from his canteen onto the ground, shaking the last drops from it. Then with his hands he worked the ground, kneading it like a child making mud cakes. He spread the mud out, making a bed of it.
Gray sat down at the edge of his mud bed, locked air in his lungs, and leaned back onto the mud. The pain was as if a knife was sinking into his back again and again, a red wash of agony. But Gray squirmed on the ground, rubbing his back into the mud and leaves and sticks and straw. And when he thought he might pass out from pain, he forced himself to go on, to continue to writhe until the mud had caked his back.
He sat up shivering with agony, but before his resolve melted with pain, he scooped up handfuls of the remaining mud and dabbed it onto his leg, pressing it onto the oozing red burns up and down his leg. His hand shook with suffering. He pressed more mud onto his shoulders, then onto his face. His teeth were clamped so tightly together his jaw ached. And finally he lifted the last of the leaf and straw and mud mix a
nd crushed it onto his skull. He bucked with agony and his hands faltered. But he pressed scoop after scoop of it on, caking his head with the mud mix.
He gasped with the pain, and he had to will himself upright. He breathed against the suffering, and again focused. He looked at his leg and hands and shoulders. He resembled a bog monster. After a moment he could bend down for his rifle and pack. He put the empty canteen back into the backpack. With the Winchester in one hand and the pack in the other, Gray slowly surveyed his position. The trees offered cover in all directions. He walked unsteadily up the gradual hill into the deeper cover of the forested south slope.
Nikolai Trusov lowered his binoculars and rubbed his eyes. From his hide he had been scanning the grass. He crossed his brow with a hand, bringing away dampness. He had patted mud onto his face and hands, and had stuck small branches into his clothing. His hide was behind a fallen and decayed pine trunk. His arms rested on a sunken portion of the trunk where hooves had chipped away at it over the years, as the tree had fallen across a deer path. His Mosin-Nagant rifle was at an elbow and his pack was near his feet. On his head was a brown wool watch cap. He had camouflaged the cap by pressing fistfuls of pine needles onto the fabric. He wore the cap high, above the caked mud on his forehead. His scar resembled the flat plates on a lizard's back. Only four inches of Trusov's head showed above the log.
He brought up the binoculars again, pressing them against his eyes. Again he stared at the wild grass near the mouth of the bowl, the same carpets of grass he had been looking at for hours. He knew his mine had forced Gray to enter the bowl in the grass. But the grass field was broad, and he had not seen any movement in the field, no twitching grass. Trusov nodded, an acknowledgment of the skill required to move unnoticed through grass. But Trusov had known of Owen Gray's skills for decades.
The blaze was reaching the east end of the field. Fire was almost done with the grass. Yet he hadn't flushed Gray. Gray hadn't bolted. Where was he? Trusov lifted the rifle to use the scope for a closer view of the charred field. Burned clumps of grass, not much else. Impossible to hide in the field because the fire had burned away the grass cover. Where was Gray?