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Lately, the world seemed to have taken a sort of tilt. Things that had always been were disappearing and new, usually unexpected, situations were dropping into place. Shooter spent a lot of time thinking about them.
Nine-Eleven in 2001 had been the mighty change, of course. Terrorism loomed like an evil cloud over everything these days. Hunger to die for a religion was foreign to civilized ways; that kind of insanity harked to the Middle Ages, back into the Dark Ages, actually.
Shooter found fault with the commonly accepted terrorist label. What they were in looked like a flat-out religious war to him. As Galloway saw it, civilization fought Islamic extremism. Reason battled religious fanaticism, and the almost universal effort to label conflicts as fighting terrorism diluted and diverted the efforts and made success more difficult.
There was little to get hold of in this kind of warfare, with few governments to hold accountable. Responses were necessarily crude, prevention was clumsy and often draconian, but almost everyone was trying.
Galloway blamed Bill Clinton for not slapping Bin Laden down when he could. That would not have ended it, of course, but martyrdom would have seemed less appealing to fanatics and zealots without the fall of the Twin Towers to measure by.
Because of temporary calls to active duty, Shooter had lost his platoon. Colonel Bowen had moved him to Battalion S-3, which most would consider advancement, but Galloway wanted a command. Being in charge of plans and training sounded important, and he supposed it was, but Shooter wanted to lead. That, he believed was what an officer was for.
At least Major Saltz had moved on, but Colonel Bowen would retire soon. Reserve promotions were slow these days, and Galloway’s hoped for captaincy could still be years away.
So, First Lieutenant Gabriel Galloway had applied for active duty. He had, in fact, requested active duty three months in a row, but it was US Army policy to activate entire units, not individuals, a policy with which Galloway agreed, but there were troops working in Bosnia and . . . Galloway wanted to be part of it.
The hell of it was that the Clinton administration had squeezed all of the muscle out of the military, and President Bush’s rebuild was slowed by lack of catch-up funding, uncertain goals, and a bunch of don’t-rock-the-boat desk warriors unable to accept that modern war had changed decisively and forever.
A fanatic with a sword or a pistol was annoying and dangerous, but the same suicidal fool armed with a bomb vest or something even worse could upset a civilization.
Gabriel Galloway did not intend to sit out whatever was coming. He wondered, upon occasion, if the Marine Corps would take him back as a Staff Sergeant or at least at his old grade of three-striper?
Then, old Gus Showalter had died.
Emma found Gus slumped in his living room chair looking as if he were merely sleeping, but Gus was gone, and they all adjusted to his loss.
While the rest pondered, Emma announced what she would like to do.
Emma said, “Gabriel, I am an old woman, but I do not want to go to a nursing home until I absolutely have to, and it might be that the Lord will take me just as he did Gus without any need for moving around.”
While Shooter was searching for words, Emma went on. “What I would like to do is stay on here, helping where I can, and I would like you to hire a woman to take Gus’s place and help me with whatever needs doing. When I must go, she will be in place and ready to take over.”
Emma did not leave a lot of maneuvering room. Shooter felt as if he should pop to attention and salute.
She said, “I have a nice young woman in mind, Gabriel. She is a college graduate and she is a registered nurse. She can cook, and she can keep house.”
Shooter said, “Well, Emma, . . . “ but he got no further.
Emma said, “Hannah York is a niece—once or twice removed, that is. Best of all, she is a writer and needs a quiet place to live and work while she is making up her stories.
“Living here will be exactly right for her and for us, Gabriel. I just know that you will like her.”
Emma bustled off to her kitchen humming comfortably in apparent satisfaction over a matter already settled.
Dan Grouse had come up from the city, and Shooter turned to him, but Grouse threw up his hands in resignation. “Don’t look to me, Shooter. This is your place and your household. I’m just passing through.”
Gabriel said, “Damn it, Dan, what am I going to do with another woman around this old place. It’s about to fall down, and I’ve been thinking of building a new house—one that I would like, with central heat and air, with an attached garage, with a big back porch that just might hook onto a nice shooting house made out of those Elder-house logs laying out there.”
Grouse said, “A housekeeper won’t make any difference to any of that, Shooter. You will need somebody to help Emma, and she will need more help every year from now on. If Emma likes this woman, and if she doesn’t cost too much, you would be making out like a bandit.
“You’re gone most of the time, anyway. If you aren’t on duty at Carson Long you are down in Mechanicsburg with the reserves.”
The lawyer thought about it. “A nurse could be handy as Emma gets along, and a writer should be a quiet person that would want a lot of time to herself. Maybe I’ll take her, if you don’t.”
Hannah York was twenty-six years old and shaped like a young Marylyn Monroe. Her hair was blonde, her eyes blue, and Gabriel Galloway was in love from the moment she stepped from her car.
Not that he let her know, of course. Shooter Galloway was a man with an unfinished mission. He had three Elders to kill and probably a war to fight—judging from the way the military was gearing up.
But, Hannah York really plucked his heartstrings. If things were different, maybe . . .
It was Saturday and his weekend off from school. The sky was clear and the breeze warm for late winter. He considered inviting Hannah to walk in The Notch. He hadn’t really shown her most of it, but he did not want to start something that he would have to back away from.
He shouldered the Mannlicher rifle without particular thought and considered leaving his vest but decided it was not that warm. He found an old leaf rake to clean out under a rock ledge Woodman’s tree clearing had exposed. There was some old writing scratched into the back wall, but it was so tight and dark back in there that he couldn’t make it out.
A long time back, the half-cave must have provided shelter for deer hunters or earlier Galloways. Shooter intended raking away a couple of feet of humus and see how big the opening would get. The writing could also be interesting.
Chapter 23
Shooter had pocketed a small SureFire flashlight. Barely five inches long, the light, called a Centurion, was favored by law enforcement officers and emitted a dazzling white light. Galloway rarely used it because the batteries alone cost more than an ordinary flashlight, but when you wanted to see, this was the light.
The writing gouged into the back wall of the half-cave was hard to see, and Shooter hoped good light would make it clear. To his eyes, the single word appeared to be a foreign name. Robishikee, it might be, but the date was clear, and if it were legitimate, 1752 preceded white settlement in Sherman’s Valley. That could interest historians, he expected.
Galloway walked with his rifle slung upside down, muzzle forward, on a long sling across his left shoulder, the way he had ever since he and Mop had shot the bad guys out in Montana. The Marine Corps had not been convinced that Sergeant Galloway’s carry was important, but when he instructed, Shooter always mentioned the very-fast-to-shoulder carry.
He automatically sought movement along the cliff edge where the Elders had once positioned their porch, but nothing moved or looked different. It was a grand day for late February, and Elders did not occupy Galloway’s thoughts.
Hannah York did, but Shooter pushed those thoughts aside. Maybe later, but it would be a lot later, and by then...?
Calvin Elder had been waiting long enough to h
ave stiffened up and for the excitement of finally hunting Galloway to dull a little.
John was somewhere down below, and Cal wished they had chosen to use walky-talky radios. John could get a little goofy at times, and the older brother would have been relieved to know for certain that he was in position and was well concealed. There was a real possibility of calls on those radios being intercepted, he had heard, but if they did not use names or describe what they were doing it would have been safe—he thought.
John Elder was well concealed, and there was no way he could be detected until he rose up and let Galloway have both barrels—one after the other, of course.
John hoped Cal was up on the rim and ready because from his hollow along the new road, he would be a little slow getting over to where Galloway usually walked.
John wondered if, after Calvin shot Galloway, they should wait for a quarter of an hour before approaching. That was standard on wounded game. You let them stiffen up and let the pain and bleeding weaken and immobilize the wounded animal. Often, the wait let them die quietly where a quick follow-up could force a mortally hit animal into one last run that could lose him.
Most likely, Cal would shoot Galloway dead, and they would get on back to their truck and away.
Calvin Elder saw Galloway coming. Cal had chosen to shoot from the old porch ruins using an upright foundation re-bar for a front-hand rest. The varmint rifle with its big scope was heavy. He would be shooting at a sharp downhill angle, and a normal firing position was not possible. Cal Elder had hunted mountains all of his life, and he knew to hold a little low for both uphill and downhill shots. The range was about one hundred yards, and he could hit soda cans all day long at that distance. He had no worries.
Elder judged the time it would take for Galloway to move past him and pulled back to rest until the moment was right. He intended shooting Gabriel Galloway smack in the middle of the back, just below his collar line. He would not chance a headshot, although he knew he could make it. A smashed spine would be just as good and more certain. If Galloway somehow lived through such a killing hit, he would be completely paralyzed and he would shoot him again, or John would finish him with the shotgun.
Elder snuck a look, but Galloway had stopped almost directly below and appeared to be studying a young tree planting. Elder eased back down for another short wait.
Now Cal could feel the tension. Despite his willingness, Calvin Elder had never shot at another human—certainly not one who was carrying a rifle and was known to have killed men. Elder swiped at breaking sweat on his upper lip and slowed his breathing as best he could.
Cal took another careful look, and Galloway had moved. Damn! He had moved too far. Branches from the spike-studded walnut were already interfering. Elder would have to move.
He slid back and hustled along behind the protection of the canyon rim. After fifty yards Cal again crept to the edge, and his heart leaped. Galloway had stopped and was leaning his rifle against a tree. The range was unchanged, and Elder got himself set.
The shooting would not be as good, however. There was nothing to grab or to brace against, and the rim sloped back near the top, forcing Elder to raise up and stretch in an awkward kneeling position.
Galloway stepped away from his rifle and knelt before an opening under a low rock ledge that Cal had not noticed before. Galloway’s body went part way in, and light from a flashlight lit the opening’s darkness.
Straining a little to see, Elder decided it would be wisest to wait until Galloway was completely exposed. There was no need to rush, Galloway was far from his rifle, and Calvin’s quick glance showed no one else coming along the creek-side trail.
Elder released his safety and waited. After a moment, Galloway backed out of the hole, pocketed his small flashlight and seized the rake he had been carrying. His back to the cliff, Gabriel Galloway began clawing leaves and humus from the opening he had been investigating.
Cal Elder shouldered his rifle and placed his crosshair on Galloway’s back—or at least he tried to place it there. The strained kneeling position left him unsteady, and he belatedly realized he should have turned his powerful varmint scope down to a really low power.
The 14X varmint scope magnified so hugely that Elder could hardly tell what part of Galloway’s back he was on, and the distortion from excess enlarging also magnified the visible wobble of his rifle.
Unwilling to start over, Elder fought the scope’s uncertain movement, seeking to match wobble to trigger squeeze. The rifle fired, and Cal believed he had done it. The heavy rifle had no real kick, and the crosshairs stayed more or less on target.
Cal saw a bloom of red blood and tissue on Galloway’s back and his certainty soared. He had shot Galloway solidly, and his target collapsed with the bullet’s strike and only feebly attempted to crawl away.
To chamber another round, Elder had to settle back on his heels, and when he again sought his target, Galloway was gone. Not far, Elder knew that for sure.
Cal guessed Galloway had crawled behind the nearest tree, and they could dig him out from there—if he was not already dead from a hit as solid as Calvin’s had been.
Galloway’s rifle leaned against a more distant tree, his rake lay discarded, and the valley was as quiet as a grave. If Galloway moved, Elder would see him. Calvin tried to keep his rifle pointing more or less at the small cave and Galloway’s rifle so that he could be instantly on target if Gabriel appeared, but his kneeling position was strained and he could not hold the rifle to his shoulder for more than a few seconds.
Elder decided that even in the unlikely event Galloway managed to move again, he could safely stand with most of his body hidden and be ready to shoot offhand. He would be able to swing on a moving figure more easily while standing than straining in the awkward kneeling position.
John Elder’s voice rang through the forest like a loudspeaker.
“Cal, did you get him, Cal?”
Calvin Elder’s nerves jumped as if electrified.
“No names, you damned fool! Yes, I got him. Hit him solid, but he’s laying behind a tree, and I can’t get another shot into him.”
“Is he dead?”
“How in hell would I know? He isn’t moving, and if he does I’ll finish him.”
“Shall I come in and shotgun him?”
Calvin thought about that. The quicker they finished and got out of The Notch the better. Galloway was probably dead, but they had to be sure. The shot had certainly been heard, and the yelling might attract someone from the house.
Calvin said, “All right, you work in, but be careful. He can’t get to his gun, but don’t take chances. See him first and shoot the second you see him. You understand that?”
“I’m starting now, and I’ll be careful.”
Calvin felt relief. In another minute or two it would be finished for sure. He picked up the empty cartridge case he had ejected and, still watching carefully, he turned his scope power down to 4X, the lowest his scope allowed. He also checked that the scope’s parallax adjustment was set for one hundred yards. It was not, and Elder cursed himself and corrected another overlooked detail.
Elder aimed at Galloway’s leaning rifle. Now he could see clearly, and he had a huge field of view in case the shot-through Galloway tried to move swiftly. Much better, he lowered the varminter and stood ready to shoot again if he needed to.
The bullet exploded on Gabriel Galloway’s back with an agony that was instantaneous. If he had been able to think about it, he would have wondered because serious wounds usually hurt less than those that were superficial.
Shooter went down on his face, stunned by the impact and the intensity of the pain. He had been shot in the back—he knew that as sure as he tasted the leaf mold crammed into his open mouth.
He saw his rifle not too far away, but instinct told him not to try for it. Instead, he scrabbled his way behind a large tree expecting another bullet before he made cover, and expecting it to come from up on the rim of The Notch. There ha
d been no conscious consideration of angles, but he knew he had been shot from up there somewhere, and his impression was that the bullet had angled down inside him.
Still, he had crawled into some protection because no other shots were fired. Could the ambusher have shot and run for it? Gabriel did not intend to look around the tree to find out.
How bad was he bleeding? His searching hand told him bleeding was bad. His entire left side was already sopping. The agony came from his left shoulder area and down near his waist on that side. Where was the blessed numbness that allowed hard-hit soldiers to battle on for lengthy periods? Not showing up, he decided, and began wondering if the assassin was maneuvering along the rim to find an angle that would give him a decent shot?
A voice shouting from further in The Notch refocused Galloway’s attention. He had not even thought of more than one ambusher and, of course, Calvin would be Calvin Elder, the voice was one of the brothers. Oh man, and there were three brothers. Where was the third?
Shooter Galloway Page 25
