Sniper One

by Roy F. Chandler

  "Don't move!" Clicker did not like the idea of the Wagner's reaching for anything. He found it hard to imagine one of these lumps coming up with a hidden gun, but who could tell? Maybe they watched a lot of movies.

  Clicker retreated behind the Wagner's truck and rested the shotgun across the hood.

  "All right, one of you reach under, and you'd better come up with just the envelope or I'll empty this pump gun into you both.

  Lon did the reaching, but Ron had to adjust, then readjust before his brother could grasp the envelope. When Lon came up with it, both Wagner's appeared exultant, as if handing over a lot of money had just solved their problems.

  Lon said, "See, Mister Bell, it has your name written on it."

  Clicker studied the envelope from the safety of the Wagner truck. None of the money part sounded right to him. Perhaps there really was a letter within that could explain why the mysterious Tex was trying for a payoff.

  Lon wiggled the thick envelope and bent it almost double. It's just money, Mister Bell. It's like our envelope only bigger."

  Clicker said, "Go ahead and open it."

  Lon was again fumbly, and Ron Wagner impatiently snatched it. "I'll do it."

  While his brother leaned close to see the money, Ron Wagner slid a finger under the flap and ripped open the sealed envelope.

  The blast was more than a hand grenade. There was no shrapnel or metal fragments, but the concussion would have killed even at arm's length. The explosion whipped through Clicker's short cut hair, and it blew the upper parts of the Wagner twins into garbage.

  Clicker Bell's eyes caught the Wagners' caps flying straight up, and arms were flung sidewards as if their owners were attempting to leap away.

  Bell flinched and instinctively dropped behind the protection of the truck, but there was no need. He was alone in the yard with two dead bodies.

  His heart thumping and his mouth instantly parched, Clicker rose cautiously and did not try to stop himself from studying the house and all of the land he could see. Nothing moved, and his slightly stunned ears heard nothing unusual.

  He heard himself say, "Holy hell!" He moistened dried-out lips with his tongue and stepped carefully approaching the dead men and avoided stepping on anything that could leave marks.

  The Wagners had never known what happened. The explosion had blasted the life from them distorting heads and collapsing chests. Both shirts were mostly gone, and broken ribs stuck from the twisted torsos.

  Clicker could smell the explosive, it seemed a sort of acidy alfalfa smell with ... Semtex, Clicker guessed. That was a special explosive used mostly in Europe, favored by terrorists, very powerful, and obviously flexible because Lon had believed he had held packaged money, and the motion of the envelope had looked right when he had shaken it.

  What kind of a fuse, Clicker wondered? Whoever had manufactured the bomb knew his stuff. Maybe he had gotten the bomb-making skills from the internet or just as likely from armed forces training.

  Clicker Bell had seen death before, but this was unexpected, and there could be no doubt that the bomb had been meant for him. Bell found his thoughts erratic and his physical motions ponderous. He mentally shook himself. What now, was the immediate question.

  First, he would eliminate every trace of his presence. There was no way he was going to try to explain his presence to the police. If he could withdraw leaving no marks, he could claim he had never found the Wagners or gone to their ranch.

  He had to remove the belt that secured the twins' legs together. That was easy enough. What to do with it? There would be explosive residue and perhaps blood on the belt. He would take it far away.

  He entered the house by the back door and racked the shotgun. There would be no evidence of Ron having been grazed by shotgun pellets. Angry at himself for not having immediately accomplished the obvious, Clicker returned to the yard and found the empty shell he had ejected from the pump gun.

  What else? A single fingerprint would destroy his claim never to have been in the place. He had worn the clumsy gloves ever since he had first entered the Wagner house, but he went about wiping his gloved hands over every surface he might have touched.

  He felt no press of time. He doubted the Wagners ever had visitors. He would make sure of everything he could imagine being discovered.

  He used a worn-out broom from the barn to obliterate any marks of his wait behind the rocks. He wiped the dirt a little where he had stood behind the truck hood, and swiped at the print of his forearm on the dusty truck hood where he had rested the shotgun while aiming. The marks he left would be unidentifiable.

  His boot marks? He had surely left prints coming in from the lower valley, but they would mean nothing. The trick would be to change his boot soles enough so that there would be no matches. He would do that at home. Suppose some searcher matched boot prints near the Wagner place with some old marks around his property? Not much he could do about such an improbability, but Bell resolved to run a lawnmower over everything he could find. His marks at the sniping hide? Damn, it could get complicated if a really expert tracker got intense about investigating.

  Clicker stirred the hay thoroughly over the trikes and was ready to leave. A shaley ledge ran from behind the house up onto the ridge. That would be the way. Clicker used it, stayed on the hardest ground, reached his truck and drove away.

  +++

  Greg Maynard said, "So you believe these Wagners from over by Shell did the shooting?" Clicker nodded.

  "So, how are you going to handle them?"

  Clicker cleared his throat.

  "They are already handled."

  "The police have them? Will they confess, do you think?"

  "They're dead, Colonel, and before you ask, I didn't do it"

  "They're dead? Who killed them?" Greg Maynard's eyes had rounded, and there was no doubting his attention.

  Bell said, "I will have to go over it play by play, or you will never get done asking questions, but it is for your ears alone, Colonel. I don't plan on admitting to ever seeing those boys. We'll talk it out now, and then we will not speak about it for a long, long time. Agreed?"

  Clicker took his time, allowing the Colonel to ask his questions. When Bell reached the end, he told how he had taken his belt sander to his boots and had spent the rest of the daylight driving his lawnmower over everything he could reach before wandering about planting new boot prints in all of the logical places.

  Maynard was impressed. "By god, you are thorough, Bell."

  "Not thorough enough if they get a really hungry tracker, Colonel."

  "Why should they be tracking? The evidence that a bomb went off in the Wagners' faces should end serious searching, except for the bomb maker, of course.

  "You going to let the police know they are laying over there? Anonymously, I mean—from a distant phone-disguised voice and all of that?"

  "Nope, seeing that it's known that I've been searching over there, I am going to report that I think some people named Wagner may have done the shooting, but that is as far as I can take it. I'll make the call from my lodge and sound upright and pleased to have discovered something important"

  "When are you going to call?"

  "Have you seen the weather report tonight?"

  "What?" Maynard was not following.

  "Rain, Colonel. A large storm coming down from Idaho. Might drench things. Be real welcome, and it will make the prairie bloom." Clicker was smiling.

  Maynard's own smile broadened. "Yeah, and it will wipe out a lot of tracks won't it, Bell?"

  The Colonel nodded in satisfaction and shifted the conversation.

  "Now we will concentrate on getting that golden shield, and...." It was Clicker's turn to be astonished.

  "Wait a minute, Colonel. We aren't any better off. We still don't know who this Tex is. You aren't fit to go anywhere, we don't know if George Patton will help, even though you've already sent the ATVs to Jordan. Even if we do go, it will be months from now."

  "We
will go in September, Shooter. The weather will be good. Patton will agree. He loved being in on what happened last time. I'll be in shape by then. The Lear will be ready any day. Why should we wait?"

  "Look Clicker, that shield is behind all of this. There is no other reasonable answer. Like one of those Wagners pointed out, Tex doesn't need to have you shot because laying me up delayed everything enough that he and whoever is behind him figures we will be out of it

  "Well, they're wrong, and the best way to get 'em off our necks—yours in particular—is to get that shield into a safe place."

  Bell grumbled, "We could all go on a round-the-world trip and just give them time to find the damned thing. Then they wouldn't be trying to shoot me."

  They were silent, each thinking his own thoughts. Clicker broke the silence. "I think Tex was once a marine."

  "Why would you think that?"

  "His rifle sounds like a civilianized M40A1, and he gave some numbers that could have been M40A1, which no one but a marine would be likely to use."

  "Hell, Click, everybody shoots those kind of rifles. Your old pal Colonel Rock makes them down in Jacksonville, and a lot of other gunsmiths claim to."

  "They said he laid straight behind his sandbagged rifle and not angled like most shooters. The marine rifle team shoots like that."

  "So do some other marksmen."

  "And Tex didn't use a bipod."

  Maynard thought that over. "The army snipers use bipods on their M24's, and nearly every civilian wannabe has a Harris bipod attached. The marines shoot off their packs, don't they?"

  "Yep, they do."

  "You know any former marines that hate you enough to shoot you?"

  "Not more than a few dozen."

  "Good, that narrows the field."

  They were again silent before Maynard said, "I'm increasing my physical therapy. We've got to get over and find that shield."

  Clicker groaned and said, "I really hate that shield. I hope the whole desert has blown away and the damned blue-footed camel along with it."

  "Don't wish that, Gunny. It will just make the search longer. We leave in September."

  "Ay Ay, Colonel. If you are well enough."

  Chapter 12

  August 1999

  "Tex?"

  "Yep."

  "Are you ready to return to Iraq?"

  "We're really going? I'd about given it up."

  "Arranging everything has been very difficult, but it appears that I am going to succeed."

  "So, we can get in, but can we get out?"

  "It will not be 'We', Tex. It will be you, but do not fear. Everything is being arranged."

  "You're not coming? Hell, I don't know anything about Iraq. What can I do...?"

  "Everything will be arranged. All you have to do is ride along and point out the sniper hide. Then, you will be driven back to Baghdad and flown home."

  "You're paying me a lot of money for just pointing."

  "I am paying you for your knowledge. At best, the Iraqi government is nearly impossible to deal with. Fortunately; I am able to influence certain family members to cooperate—at great expense, incidentally. However, it must be a fast in and a faster out before others close to President Saddam Hussein discover our small efforts and descend on us like a locust cloud. Business ventures can be twisted enough to accommodate some of Saddam's family, but I am being stretched to bribe those I have contacted. More expenditures would end the search, and the shield would be lost to us."

  "All Bell found were blue hooves and the little bells. There may be no shield, but I'm sure you have considered that."

  "The shield has to be there. I have invested far too much time and money to fail, not to mention our great risks in America." Tex heard desperation in the man's voice.

  "You're in pretty deep, huh?"

  "You did not come cheap, Tex, but your payment is as nothing to the demands placed upon me by the Iraqis."

  "So, when do I go?"

  "It will be soon. I will call, and you must be ready to fly out within hours."

  "All I do is point out the hide, huh? I won't be digging—which is good, but I would like to be around to at least see the find."

  There was no hesitation on the other end.

  "No, I do not think that would be wise. It will be most safe for us all if you are out of Iraq with any curiosity about an American visitor behind."

  Tex changed the subject. "You read or heard how the loose ends got settled?"

  "You are a hard man, Tex, but that is why I hired you."

  "I would take on one more task, if you'd toss it in."

  "No! Bell is no longer a target. Maynard was shot through the chest. They are out of it. We will have the shield and be gone."

  "Maynard might send Bell in alone."

  "And how would Bell get in, organize a team, arrange for transportation into that remote area, pass through all of the Iraqi paranoid security about Americans, and then somehow smuggle the shield out of Iraq? I don't think so, Tex. Your hunger to shoot Bell blinds your reasoning.

  "I am able to accomplish all of these details only because I do business with Iraq and have for decades. They need my products as much as I need their business. So, a few will cooperate for a single venture—for a vast bribe in cash and special business preferences.

  "Maynard or Bell would never get beyond the airport."

  The chuckle was confident. "And remember, Tex. I will be watching them. If Bell started for Iraq, I would notify Iraqi authorities, and all of his party would disappear into Iraqi prisons.

  "Damn, I would like that!"

  "Do not hold your breath, Tex. Neither Bell nor Maynard is a fool, and Bell has no personal interest in finding the shield. Maynard has resources, but he is down, and it is unlikely that he can ever again seriously consider a search for the shield."

  "After this is over, I may pick off Bell for my own satisfaction."

  "There would be no point to it, but that kind of dangerous reasoning is why you and I will never meet. We will do business, but you will never know who I am. What you do following our agreement is of no concern to me."

  After his employer had hung up, Tex thought about the conversation. The man paid extremely well, but killing people should cost serious money.

  Killing Giacamo had not been as uncomfortable as Todd Gilroy had believed it would be. Giacamo had always been a pain-in-the-ass, anyway, and if he could be paid to do it, punching a round through Clicker Bell would be pure pleasure.

  Sometimes, Gilroy wondered why he hated Bell so completely. He had wanted to hurt the former Staff Sergeant ever since Bell had begun beating him at everything they tried. If he, Gilroy, shot well, Bell shot better. The memory of being relegated to Sniper Two with Bell designated Sniper One all those years ago at Camp Lejeune still ground his gut. When Bell had somehow cheated and had beaten the thermal machine, he had nearly puked.

  Why should he care? He did not know, but he did. God, he would like to shoot Clicker Bell.

  Once he thought he had put Bell away for good, and look how even that had turned out

  When the chopper wouldn't lift, stupid-assed Bell had stepped off the skid to lighten the load, and Gilroy had exulted. Let the Iraqis have him. Still, the damned machine hadn't done more than slide across the sand. So, he had hacked that army colonel across the wrist knocking his hand loose from the door frame and rammed him in the back. Out went the Bird Colonel, and away went the chopper. Good-by Bell, he had believed.

  Instead, Bell and the Bird had surfaced in Israel, and Bell got medals and after retirement a damned good job. Bell was always lucky. It was enough to make Gilroy's head ache.

  Out of the Corps, Todd Gilroy had put Clicker Bell from his mind, but then Giacamo had telephoned and warned that someone unwilling to identify himself had called him about locating the hide they had used in the Iraqi desert, and that he did not like the sound of the offer. Gilroy had been surprised that Giacamo had his number, but Giacamo had been a computer nut, a
nd he could probably find anybody.

  Gilroy did like the sound of the unknown's proposal. Hell, there was nothing terrible about the request. What would be wrong with pointing out an old military position in the middle of the desert? There could be money for their information. And if that information could be his alone?

  Todd Gilroy suggested that Giacamo just sit on the story before he got everyone stirred over nothing. If the unidentified voice called him, he would get in touch with Giacamo, and they could spread the word to the other team members including Clicker Bell. Giacamo claimed that contacting anyone other than Clicker was a waste of time because those guys couldn't find the place if they were standing on top of it. Gilroy thought about that and concluded that Giacamo was right When his call came, Gilroy was receptive.

  As details developed, Gilroy dug out the gold bell that he had rarely worn and fingered it while he listened. The tiny bell reminded him of many things and made him listen closer.

  The voice spoke of a need for hurry, and a fear that others might get to the hide before they could. Money was discussed, but the plan was barely shaped, and Todd Gilroy had much to suggest He didn't give a spit in hell about the shield, its heritage, or its value. Cash money, however, spoke loud and clear.

  It was Gilroy who suggested that Clicker Bell, about whom the voice knew a lot, and Giacamo be neutralized, which would remove the urgency and increase the probability of success. Gilroy loved the term neutralized. CIA probably.

  He suggested a price, and the voice snatched at his offer, but—and it was a large but—Gilroy was not to personally act against Clicker Bell. Gilroy was to be the only surviving team member who could readily locate the hide; he could not be risked.

  Gilroy agreed reluctantly. He saw it as an opportunity lost, but the compensation would be more than adequate.

  Gilroy would arrange for Bell's demise but remain unidentified, as the caller did, and be far away when it occurred. It was then that he chose the nickname, Tex.

  Gilroy enjoyed the arranging, and he upped the price with each additional detail. Todd Gilroy expected that his station in life would be dramatically elevated before this operation was finished.