by Dan Simmons
It broke off, just as Dar had thought it would, but not before rocking the entire tree twenty degrees to the right and then back.
Zuker fired twice, the second bullet passing an inch or so over Dar’s head. Then the Russian dropped to straddle the log, hanging on with his left hand until the rocking stopped, trying to steady the pistol with his right arm. He fired again.
Dar had been ready for the sudden motion and kept his balance, even while jumping forward, knife coming around, left hand grabbing at Zuker’s right wrist. The nine-millimeter slug hit him along his left side, sliding off his heavy body armor but knocking Dar off balance. He would have fallen then if he had not dropped and straddled the tree trunk as well.
The two men were inches apart now: Zuker grabbing and holding Dar’s knife hand, Dar desperately gripping Zuker’s gun hand, keeping the muzzle aim only inches away from his forehead. Zuker fired again. The bullet took a tiny slice out of Dar’s left ear. The entire tree-bridge was rocking. Dar could hear the water hitting the sharp boulders sixty feet below and could feel the spray and sweat loosening his grip on the Russian’s right wrist. They were face-to-face now. Dar could smell the smaller man’s breath and easily see the customized, finger-grooved grip on the Kahr nine-millimeter, as well as the fluorescent yellow front sight and ugly orange paint on the rear sight.
The two struggled in sweaty silence. The cool, analytical part of Dar’s mind sent the message—the CAC Customs Arm Kahr has a 6.5-pound trigger pull—while the adrenaline-filled majority of his brain told the useless analytical part to shut up, for Christ’s sake. Dar realized that even though he was slightly stronger than the wiry Russian, Zuker was going to win this game. All the Russian sniper had to do was bend his wrist enough to get the muzzle aimed at Dar’s head, while Dar had to turn the knife around and into full contact. Though he was ducking his head as far forward and out of range as he could, it was time for a strategy change.
Just as the black muzzle opening was rotating steadily toward Dar’s temple, he threw his head and shoulders back instead of forward, ripping his right arm free by jerking it back violently. He almost dropped the knife, but managed to hang on to it as he leaned far back as Zuker fired, creasing Dar’s scalp this time. Then Dar brought the knife around the side, low and fast under the Russian’s blocking left arm, using more energy in the motion than he thought his body still possessed, stabbing toward the belly with a vertical blade and then tugging up as hard as he could, precisely as he had been taught at Parris Island more than two and a half decades earlier.
The Russian said, “Ooof,” as the wind was knocked out of him, but then he smiled broadly, showing poorly cared for Russian teeth—mostly steel.
“Kevlar vest, American asshole,” said Pavel Zuker, and then, having the leverage over Dar in this awkward choreography, he rotated his weapon further. Dar’s slick grasp slipped a little more, until the yellow forward sight was aimed directly at Dar’s right eye.
Suddenly Zuker’s smile faded and he looked thoughtful, perhaps a bit disappointed. Dar remembered the same look on the faces of childhood friends when they were being called in by their mothers just as the playing got good.
Zuker looked down at his belly and at the blood pumping and squirting out over the handle of the K-Bar knife and Dar’s clenched fist. He was frowning in real confusion now.
Dar knocked the Kahr pistol out of Zuker’s suddenly strengthless grip and then grabbed for the Russian’s vest, but Zuker was already tilting, sliding, falling—gone. Dar caught a last glimpse of the Russian’s eyes—still alert and asking an unspoken question even as the blood quit pumping to the sniper’s brain—and then the man fell out of sight into the spray. Suddenly Dar was busy keeping his own balance as the tree-bridge rocked from the energy of Dar tugging the blade free of Zuker’s midsection. Dar drove the knife into the center of the log and hung on with both hands until the rocking stopped.
Panting heavily, his body debating as to whether he should vomit now or later, Dar looked down through the mist at the broken form sixty feet below. The water ran thick and red downstream from the corpse. Zuker’s pale face was still raised, the mouth open wide as if still trying to ask a question.
“Kevlar doesn’t stop knife blades,” panted Dar, answering Zuker’s unspoken question. “Especially blades sprayed with Teflon.”
Might be a good idea to get off the log, the banished analytical part of his mind suggested diffidently.
Dar crawled on all fours the last ten feet. Pulling himself into and up the shallow gully on the other side, seeing the boot-prints where Zuker had hidden behind a fold in the rock before attempting the crossing, Dar was acutely aware that his middle-aged body wanted to call it quits for the day.
He vetoed that idea and crawled slowly up and out of the gully, sheathing his K-Bar knife after wiping the blade on ferns, and then unslinging his M40.
There were four possibilities. He knew that Yaponchik would not be at the sniper’s nest. He was either downhill finishing off Syd, or running for his Chevy Suburban, or in another good position and waiting to shoot Dar. Or executing some combination of the previous three.
Getting slowly to his feet, banishing the daemon of katalepsis that threatened to possess him, Dar held his rifle at port arms and began moving west through the woods.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Y IS FOR YAPONCHIK”
DAR’S SNIPER CRAWL westward was slow and stealthy and according to the manual. He kept his head down, his mental map of the terrain clear, staying aware of the sun’s position, using every bit of cover and natural camouflage available, his rifle cradled in his arms as he slithered forward slowly on his elbows, belly, and knees. The hundred-yard-per-hour advance would have earned him high marks at Quantico, but Dar soon realized that at this professional rate, he would arrive at the cabin about three weeks after Yaponchik had shot Syd and driven off.
He paused to think about this, using the Redfield to scope the high ground to his right and the clearing to his left, when suddenly a burst of SVD fire and another, much quieter, cough of automatic weapons fire helped make up his mind.
For a second Dar thought that the unmistakable double-cough of the poorly suppressed AK-47 meant that there had been a sixth Russian there, but then he realized that he had underestimated Syd. She may have used up her H&K ammunition, but there were at least three AK-47s in the cabin with her, and the Russians had been carrying extra banana clips out the wazoo. Syd was loaded for bear and evidently she had flushed one.
Yaponchik’s suppressed SVD sniper rifle fired again, soft stutters of three rounds each time, and Dar noted the location. Downhill and to his left about eighty yards. The AK-47 coughed loudly back from the direction of the cabin.
Dar actually closed his eyes a second as he visualized the last few minutes. Yaponchik had gone against Dar’s expectations and had moved downhill—which made sense, Dar now realized. The expert Russian sniper had surrendered the high ground, but had put himself closer to his vehicle while choosing a spot that was probably perfect for picking off Dar as he crept along, paying more attention to the hill above him.
Dar knew that Yaponchik would not have revealed himself to Syd’s view from the cabin doors or windows, which meant that Syd had moved outside the cabin—Dar’s guess was that she had headed out the south door, down the hill, and then back up near the parking lot, probably concealing herself in the boulders there. She must have gotten a glimpse of Yaponchik through the AK-47s optics. Dar realized that he would not have been at all jealous if she had killed the Russian son of a bitch for him, but from the sound of the firefight, Yaponchik was still very much alive.
Dar stood up and ran like hell, crashing through underbrush, tripping and rolling once but never losing his rifle or knife, leaping downhill. He could see the boulder that was his destination and estimated that it was uphill and about fifty yards east of Yaponchik’s position. From there he and Syd could put the Russian in defilade and a cross-fire vector without end
angering each other.
Dar slid belly-first behind the boulder as three SVD rounds slammed into the top of it. Yaponchik may not have seen him, but obviously had heard him coming. Good. Dar crouched behind the boulder, ready to fire around its west end if and when Yaponchik returned Syd’s fire. But although the AK-47 coughed twice more, there was no response from the Russian’s sniper rifle.
Shit, thought Dar. He’s disengaging.
There came a burst of SVD suppressed fire from near the parking area, and Dar heard Syd shouting from the distance—“Dar, he’s shooting up our truck and car”—and then more SVD coughs and then silence.
Dar was moving again, sliding downhill, keeping the thicker of the trees between him and the parking area, but trying to flank Yaponchik.
He reached the edge of the cabin clearing and assessed the situation quickly. All of the tires were shot out on the Land Cruiser and Taurus. He could see Syd just west of the cabin, curled behind a protective boulder, but there was no sight of Yaponchik. He whistled once.
Syd saw him and shouted, “He went down the road on foot. I was afraid to come out because I don’t know the range of his weapon.”
“Stay where you are!” shouted Dar. “Keep around the east side of the rock.”
He went to her, moving from rock to tree to rock, sprinting and weaving and dodging through the open areas, hoping that Syd could get off a clean return shot if Yaponchik killed him now.
He made it without getting shot and slid behind the boulder next to Syd. He could see that her face and hands were cut and bleeding.
“You’re hit!” they both said at the same time.
“I’m OK,” they both answered simultaneously.
Dar shook his head and touched Syd’s right arm, looking at the cuts on her wrists and hands. He realized that the lacerations on her face were also much more bloody than serious. “Shrapnel?” he said.
“Yeah. I was behind the door, but there was a lot of steel ricocheting around that corridor when that guy dropped the grenade,” said Syd softly, still crouched low. “There’s blood all over you, Dar.”
Dar looked down at his body armor. “All of this belongs to Zuker,” he said.
“Dead?”
Dar nodded.
“But your side and back,” said Syd. “Turn around.”
Dar did so, feeling the stabs of pain from his right side and the backs of both legs.
“That’s not Zuker’s blood,” said Syd. “It looks like they shot your ass off.”
“Great,” said Dar, feeling suddenly queasy.
Syd actually peeled back some of the rags of his camouflage trousers to look at the wound. “Sorry. It’s a deep graze. The bleeding’s almost stopped. Your ear’s a bloody mess. And what’s with the blood on your side, under your armor?”
“Ricochet,” said Dar. “Just under the skin. Not important. Let’s concentrate on Yaponchik.”
They peered around opposite ends of the boulder, jerking their heads back instantly. No shots. The Land Cruiser and Taurus looked sad sitting there on eight flat tires.
“I think he’s disengaged,” said Dar. “Heading for the Suburban.”
“It’s parked about a half mile down the road…” began Syd.
“I know.” Dar rubbed his cheek, smelled blood, and looked at his hands. He rubbed his right palm against his trouser leg. That did not help.
“If we go after him—” began Syd again.
“Shhh. Give me a second,” said Dar. He closed his eyes, remembering the access road and distances as well as he could. He doubted Yaponchik would be running down the road—the Russian would know that trucks and cars could be driven on their rims, for one thing. Most likely the sniper would be staging a careful, tactical withdrawal, moving from sniper point to sniper point, waiting for any pursuit.
Dar guessed that he still had a few minutes before Yaponchik got to the Suburban. After that, the sniper would be the FBI’s problem. But…
There was one part of the access road visible to the cabin: a hard curve with a steep embankment on the northwest side and no trees on this side. It was about a mile down the driveway, not long before the access road met the highway. A vehicle would be visible in the gap for only a few seconds before turning right back into the trees and then onto the highway. He might have time.
Dar handed his M40 to Syd. “Use this rather than the AK-47 if he comes back.” As he struggled out of his heavy vest, he noticed for the first time that she was carrying binoculars on a strap around her neck. “Where’d you get those?”
“From the Russian whose foot you shot off,” said Syd.
“Is he dead?” The binoculars made sense to Dar now that he thought about it—Yaponchik would want to use as many of his colleagues as spotters as he could.
Syd shook her head. “He’s unconscious and in shock, but I used my belt to tie off his stump. He lost a lot of blood. He’ll be dead unless the good guys get here soon.”
“We can’t call—” Dar began, and then shut up as Syd held up her cell phone. Obviously she had taken time to retrieve her bag from in front of the cabin.
“Warren’s on the way,” she said.
Dar nodded. All the more reason just to hunker down and call it a day. Dropping his heavy flak vest on the ground, he said, “Stay alert. Use my bolt-action if Yaponchik comes back. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
Dar ran like hell—learning that it hurt quite a bit to run with a 7.62mm groove in the back of his legs, more so now that the adrenaline rush had receded somewhat. It was especially painful as he slid down the grassy slope just beneath the cabin, ran under the long porch, climbed to find the trail past the sheep wagon, and slid down the steep hill above the gold-mine entrance to get to the ravine. He could feel fresh blood soaking his tattered fatigue pants as he wheezed and panted his way up the steep trail on the east side of the ravine and then jogged just below the rock-rim ledge to his previous sniper’s roost.
Dar had to pause a second above the trough in the stone, not just to catch his breath but to wonder at the number of ricochets that had scarred the stone where he had been lying. The poncho and rucksack containing his handmade ghillie suit were shot to tatters. At least two of the Light Fifty magazines had been perforated like tin cans on a shooting range. His video monitor had been blasted to shards by a wayward ricochet—which ruled out Plan A. So much for watching to see when and if Yaponchik reached the Suburban.
Dar jumped into the slit and pulled the .50-caliber Barrett Model 82A1 out from under the rock overhang. The Light Fifty had not been hit. Dar quickly filled his oversized pockets with both SLAP and regular ammo magazines and then began jogging back along the rim to the base of the ravine.
He had forgotten how heavy and unwieldy this so-called Light Fifty was. The ten-power telescopic sight did not make it lighter. While in the Marines, Dar had always pitied the radio men and heavy-weapons guys humping their monsters—PRC-77 ass-kicker scrambler/descrambler radios, or their M60 machine guns or M79 “thumper” 40mm grenade launchers. He wondered if all of them—all of them who survived—had ended up with bad backs later in life.
By the time he scrabbled up the last slope from beneath the porch and joined Syd behind her boulder, he was not only bleeding freely again from both wounds but was soaked with sweat. At least he’d had the presence of mind to take the twenty-five-pound body armor off.
“No movement,” reported Syd. “I’ve been using the glasses rather than the scope on your rifle.”
Dar nodded his approval. “No sounds?”
“I haven’t heard the Suburban start up…but then it’s way the hell down the road.”
“But you’re sure it hasn’t passed that open spot?” said Dar.
“I said no movement, didn’t I?” said Syd a bit crossly.
Dar took the Light Fifty and jogged to his left, down the slope a bit, keeping out of line of sight with the woods or road nearby, moving toward a flat-topped boulder just above the last little stand of fir tr
ees before the hillside became grassy pasture. When he had successfully crossed the space without drawing fire, he gestured for Syd to join him.
Dar had set up the Light Fifty on the flat top of the boulder and was lying prone, reading the mil-dot scope reticles and adjusting the wind and elevation settings. The wind was a minor factor today—even out here in the open—with only slight gusts below three miles per hour. But at this distance, Dar knew, even the slightest factors had to be entered into the equation.
“You’re shitting me,” said Syd, staring at the distant patch of open road through her borrowed pair of seven-by-fifty binoculars. “That has to be at least a mile away.”
“I estimate about one thousand seven hundred yards,” said Dar, still working with his settings. “So a little less than a mile.” He tried to get comfortable with the weapon again, getting the spot weld of his thumb and cheek around the stock and slowing his breathing. In the far distance, they heard a V-8 engine roar to life.
“Good,” said Dar. “Unless he’s coming back here, we know where Yaponchik is now. And he has about half a mile to drive to that curve.”
“You’re not seriously thinking of—”
“Spot me,” interrupted Dar. “I only have time for a couple of practice shots.” He peered through the M3a Ultra scope. “I’m going to aim for that boulder on the cut just where the road turns right again.”
“Which boulder? The dark one or the light?”
“The light,” Dar said, and squeezed off a round. The unsuppressed blast and gas recoil made Syd jump.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see the hit point.”
“That’s all right,” said Dar. “I think I missed the whole fucking hillside. Spot me.” He fired two more rounds.
“I see the second strike,” said Syd, excited now. “About thirty meters short of the road. Shall I use meters or yards?”
“Shit,” said Dar, making more adjustments. “It doesn’t matter—meters is fine,” he said, sighting again. He had two rounds left in this clip and he knew that the Suburban would be appearing in seconds. He fired off the last two rounds, made no effort to spot their impact, ejected the clip, and clicked in another magazine of SLAP rounds.
