Sniper One

by Roy F. Chandler

  Next would be the car engine. The truck rumbled along a hundred yards behind. Hell, those soldiers might deploy before he got his shooting done. It would not make any difference. By the time they got to the hide he would be far away.

  Clicker relaxed, breathed in, then out, and began his squeeze. The Barrett bucked hard, and the report tore at his hearing, but the big rifle dropped back almost on the target.

  Bell did not study his first shot. He aimed for the car's radiator and drove two rounds into it as fast as he could recover. Doors opened and figures tumbled from the automobile, but he could not tell if Tex was among them. All took cover behind the car. The .50 caliber could punch through the meager protection, but Bell was forced to ignore them.

  The truck had halted and figures were scrambling from the rear and fanning out left and right. They flopped on their bellies right out in the open, the way they had practiced on some drill field, he supposed. There was no cover. Man-o-man, if he had the need he could get them all.

  Clicker placed his fourth and fifth rounds inside the hood of the truck. After all of the years, he still found his recoveries swift and sure. He had never expected to shoot a Barrett again, and there was comfort in the heavy rifle's familiarity.

  There was steam coming from the engine of the Mercedes, but not from the truck. Clicker drove two more rounds into the truck's engine compartment.

  Then he had steam, and a lot of it. Bell took the moment to change to a full magazine.

  The soldiers were popping away with their Kalashnikovs, and Bell saw the dust of their rounds striking about halfway up the draw. Time to move. The snipers and their jeep were still out there.

  Clicker left the hide for the last time—he hoped. The Barrett was a bear to run with, but his legs and lungs were in good shape, and his arms were strong from the months of steady training. The question was, where were the snipers?

  If they had heard the firing, the jeep would have halted and the snipers might be coming in from whatever angle they happened to be facing. Most likely that would be from his left flank, but they could have had orders to cut him off from the rear.

  First, the flank. A long draw paralleled the one used by the Mercedes and the truck. The jeep would be there, but how far along, Clicker could not know. He ran hard for the mounded ridge separating him from the next draw.

  Clicker bounded toward the higher ground that would be the ridge crest and was suddenly over the top and in clear view. Holy Hell!

  Someone shot at him. He heard the snap of the bullet past his head and the report of the rifle, and he was instantly back on the safe side of the ridge, on his side, heart pounding, eyes glaring, astonished by the quickness of the enemy, and cursing his own reckless hurry.

  But he did not lie there to recover. Bell exploded to his feet and, protected by the ridge, he raced to the west. He sprinted as if the devil were on his heels, and in his mind he saw an enemy sniper doing exactly the same on his own side of the ridge, expecting to get in a flanking shot on an enemy who would be lying there watching the crest right in front of him.

  Bell went almost two hundred yards before he began to really tire. It had to be enough. He turned to the right, bent almost double, panting hard, and hustled to the ridge top. This time he eased the last few yards, stretching his neck to see before being seen.

  One of the Iraqis had the same idea, but he had lacked the speed or the fear of being caught. The man had covered barely one hundred yards.

  Clicker knelt and allowed his breathing to settle just a little. He wished he had his Mannlicher's low powered scope. With ragged breathing, a kneeling position, and short range, the big ten powered Unertl would wobble all over hell's half acre.

  Clicker edged ahead on his knees until he caught a glimpse of the sniper's bobbing head. He rose to one knee, but the earth was high, and he could not settle his elbow on his knee. He had the enemy's upper body in view, so he held on the man's chest, squeezed quickly, accepting his wobble, and the Barrett roared like a cannon.

  A bullet does not move a human body, but the sniper collapsed as if deflated. His drop had the fluidity of death, and Bell had seen it before. The eye of his mind had even recorded the bullet kicking up dirt after it had passed through the sniper's body. The solid jacketed bullet had probably barely slowed as it executed.

  Bell moved his mind ahead. The jeep driver would not matter much, but where would the other sniper be? Waiting, of course, but where? Should he maneuver again? Which way? One thing was sure. He would never fire a second shot from the same position. The enemy marksman would be waiting for that.

  A dozen yards away an irregular outcropping had resisted the winds of centuries. Clicker crawled to it and, with hat removed, peered cautiously around the shadowed edge of the lump.

  The jeep stood abandoned near the center of the draw, but where was the enemy?

  Then Bell saw them, and his tension fled leaving him weakened but vastly relieved. The sniper and the driver were running. They were sprinting like Olympic champions back down the draw, arms pumping and not looking back.

  Clicker laid down, got comfortable, and drove three rounds into the jeep's engine. At closer range he could see the hits. Metal flew, the hood bounced and rebounded, and something went "pop." That should finish it, but to be sure, Bell put a round into a wheel hub. The massive bullet broke off metal chunks and fragments blew out the tire.

  Now Clicker's hands began to shake, and he felt too weak to get off the ground, which forced him to do exactly that. He checked to see that the sniper was still leaving. The Iraqis were down to a walk. They had surely heard the destruction of their jeep, but they were not looking back. They had quit and were out of it

  Drained of fighting energy himself, Clicker forced his suddenly quivery body to trot to his ATV.

  The Kawasaki started as smoothly as usual, and Bell turned onto the Colonel's trail. Now he wanted the night. Dark, he really wanted dark. Radio communications might be flying from the truck, the car, or the jeep, and who could know what patrols the Iraqis would send after him.

  Through the night he would navigate with his own GP locator, and he would meet Maynard across the Jordanian border; just like they had planned.

  +++

  The bullet that hit the Mercedes windshield came without warning. It actually ricocheted from the automobile's hood, but it barely rose and more or less followed the line of the hood to where it connected to the windshield. The .50 caliber slug went through the glass, through Todd Gilroy's arm, and killed a man in the back seat.

  The windshield blew glass shards into Gilroy's face, and a forehead gash poured blood into his eyes making him believe his sight had failed.

  Still, Gilroy escaped the car and, mostly by feel, knelt with others behind the automobile's frail protection. By the time he cleared his vision and used his handkerchief as a compress to stop the worst of the bleeding, the fight was over.

  Fortunately, the English speaker lived, but it was long before he paused to explain anything to the American. When he did, the news was not good.

  The army was coming, but they were not in any hurry to help. Gilroy's faction of the Iraqi royal family was now in extreme difficulty over what they had attempted.

  Todd Gilroy immediately decided that he would answer all questions with absolute truth. He would claim that he was being paid to direct people he did not know to an old military hide. Why he did not know, and he had thought that he was being helpful to the Iraqi regime of President Saddam Hussein.

  Why would he not think that? He did not speak the language. He was met at the airport, and he had been escorted by military vehicles with Iraqi soldiers.

  Maybe, Gilroy believed, he might live to spend what he had earned.

  Then, Gilroy remembered his letter. If he could not reach a telephone within a few days his lawyer would deliver the damming letter. If that happened, Todd Gilroy would become a wanted man. So would Henri Deladier, but what good would that do Gilroy?

  Steeping
in his misery, Gilroy thought about it. He knew without evidence who had been waiting in the hide. It had to be Bell. Bell, who had pretended to go to California. There was no one else that could have known, could have found the hide, or who would have waited like a dusty spider for him, Todd Gilroy, to arrive. The first bullet had been aimed at him, and that clinched the certainty.

  If he lived, Gilroy vowed he would spend the rest of his life squaring with Clicker Bell.

  Chapter 14

  The flatbed truck carrying the two Kawasaki ATVs was stopped just beyond the airport limits, and Bell and George Patton drove the four wheelers through the General Aviation gate with the truck following.

  The idea was to prominently announce the return of the often seen ATVs so that their presence would be accepted as absolutely normal—and therefore unremarked.

  The short convoy entered the Lear's hanger, and adventurous tales of roaming the southern Jordanian desert were spread among anyone willing to listen. Bell was already at work inside the Lear.

  The hideaway created for the Shield of the Great Khan lay between the aircraft's wing roots. Bell rolled back the lightly glued carpet and began drilling out a number of rivets. Most of the rivets on the innocent looking panel were only glued-in rivet heads. Only the few that Bell drilled away actually held the aluminum in place.

  Beneath the flooring lay a hole large enough to hold the shield. Balanced between the wing roots and packed in blankets, the shield could travel undetected even by the pilots manning the aircraft. Next, came the transfer of the shield to the aircraft without detection.

  The team waited until interest in the explorers had died. "Hey" and "You" positioned the flatbed truck so that it disguised Bell's work on the ATV. With the Jordanians' help, while Maynard and Patton hung about to divert any unexpected arrivals, the work went rapidly. The tank was opened, and the still blanket enshrouded shield was hustled aboard the jet aircraft and plumped into its new burrow.

  First things first. Clicker carefully reclosed the ATV gas tank and partially filled it with gasoline. He fed in only enough fuel to smell or feel right to any probing, but he was careful to keep the fuel level well below the silicone-filled seam. Until the silicone hardened, the gasoline could eat it away. The ATV was gently rolled aside and its ignition key pocketed. That vehicle would not be jarred or jolted for at least a few hours.

  While Clicker worked within the Lear, "Hey" was given the task of gathering dust and making the ATV's newly applied touchup paint look as if it too had endured the desert ravages. "You" offered critical advice throughout the process.

  Bell replaced the aluminum plate in the Lear floor with complete rivets in every hole. He scattered carpet dust from the plane's Handi Vac until he believed even a close examination would reveal nothing. This time the carpet was thoroughly glued to the floor as it should have been originally. Clicker used rubber glue but worried that the glue odor might remain detectable for longer than he would have preferred. Greg Maynard sprayed the Lear's interior with "New Car Scent" until he could no longer safely breathe. Then he fled while the "Scent" settled and dominated any possible glue smell.

  A night flight seemed practical, and believing that sooner could be safer, quick departure was probably advisable. The pilots were notified, and the team stood down until their arrival.

  "Hey" and "You" were to have the ATVs, and they would mount them on the flat bed following the plane's departure.

  Patton informed his helpers that if they had happened to have kept any of the Golden bells for themselves, they would be wise to keep them out of sight for a number of months. The Iraqis, he reminded them, would be looking for those who had shot up their search party.

  The Jordanians admitted nothing, but the Americans agreed that it would have been remarkable if their help had not snatched a souvenir or two. Who cared? Earnest archeologists might, but no one from this crowd would mention the possibility of a few bells missing. The mission was a thundering success. It was good that everyone would profit.

  Jordanian customs agents arrived shortly after the pilots, but their attentions were taken by the responsibilities of properly documenting the two valuable ATVs that were to be left in the country. Patton allowed the understanding that his relatives would care for the machines until he returned, that date to remain flexible. The examination of the Lear was cursory because Maynard and Patton were giving gifts of appreciation for services rendered near the hanger entrance, and no one cared to be overlooked. Not bribes, of course. King Hussein had been adamant that bribery not be part of Jordanian custom and his son, King Abdullah was equally determined to be Western in such matters. But, Americans were all rich, and gifts were not bribes, exactly. Maynard and Patton saw that everyone was remembered.

  In early dusk the Lear departed Amman for Rome where it would refuel before aiming for England. By dawn, the Shield of the Great Khan would be over America and bound for the Sixplex landing strip.

  The long flights allowed time to properly discuss what had happened, and Maynard was insistent that he learn every detail. George Patton listened avidly as if a word missed would destroy his feast of information.

  Patton had the right to know. He had been one of them since they had straggled from the desert those many years earlier. Without his help, the recovery of the shield would have been a hundred times more difficult. It would be best that Patton hear how it really had gone, rather than knowing only the exaggerations and distortions that would be provided by his relatives "Hey" and "You."

  Maynard said, "You can't be sure it was Tex down there."

  "No, I can't, but who else would it be?"

  Maynard could offer no probabilities.

  "Do you think you nailed him with the first shot, Click?"

  "No way to tell, Colonel. I held solid, and the other shots seemed to go where I aimed them, but I was busy as hell pumping rounds into the truck, and trying to get both vehicles finished before those snipers jumped on my back."

  "I guess you could have taken out a lot of those Iraqi soldiers?"

  "If those snipers had not been heading for my flank, I could have killed them all, but I never would have done that, Colonel. I just wanted the vehicles down so that they couldn't come after us."

  Maynard mused. "I wonder what they saw that made them maneuver like that?"

  "I wondered myself. They could not have seen me or even the hide opening from that far out. I figure I shot at eight hundred yards, and the jeep vehicle had swung away long before that.

  "If they really thought someone was waiting they wouldn't have come straight on in like they did. Weird, is all I can say."

  "But that one sniper took a shot at you."

  Bell was chagrined. "Yep, but he was shooting at a guy who was diving and hauling."

  Bell was disgusted. "I ran up that ridge like I knew where I was going, and just like that the rise ended, and there I was sticking up like a telephone pole.

  "I think the Iraqi sniper was as astounded as I was. He just cracked off an unaimed shot because I wasn't in view longer than an eye blink. Damn, that was stupid!"

  "You are getting old, Bell." Maynard allowed himself a grin. "Then you out-hustled him and got him looking the wrong way."

  "Yep, I always try to have the enemy looking at the wrong place. If you can do that, you've pitched a strike, and you've also got the next move—which you hope will be the last one."

  "You shot him with that .50 caliber rifle, Clicker?" It was George Patton asking.

  Clicker said, "Yeah, and I doubt the bullet hardly slowed. The other two, one with a sniper rifle and the driver, were high-tailing it out of there. When I blew up the jeep they just kept going. No need to dust them. Once the jeep was down I had only one worry."

  Bell let them ask before he spoke again.

  "My big worry right then was that the Kawasaki wouldn't start. Yeah, I know that they never failed, but if anything can go wrong it will, and at the worst time. You can't imagine how good that engine sounded to my
shell pink ears."

  Maynard turned the subject with his laughter.

  "Shell pink? You are sunburned something awful, Bell. The only thing I've seen worse is when I look in the mirror. Man, my skin is about cooked off my bones."

  Patton was curious. "You had sunblock, Greg. Didn't you use it?"

  "Meant to, but I forgot about it. Same with you, right Clicker?"

  "Pretty much. I finally got some on, but it was too late."

  Patton asked, "What about the guns?"

  "What about them, George? 'You' and 'Hey* know where they are stashed not too far out of their town. Someday they will dig them up and sell them for enough to buy camels."

  Patton laughed. "I think I will come back over and smuggle them out. I'd like to own a .50 Caliber rifle."

  Clicker said, "Yeah, just the thing to shoot jack rabbits with.

  "If you really want a rifle, just contact Ronnie Barrett down in Murphreesboro, or Colonel Rock in North Carolina. They will sell you one. We do have the Second Amendment, George, and you can own a rifle like that, if you want one."

  "Where would I shoot it?"

  Maynard said, "Come out to the Sixplex, George. Bring the rifle and settle in. We'll show you how westerners live, and you will never want to go back to the city."

  Later, Maynard said, "I guess that is it, wouldn't you say, Clicker?"

  "Ought to be, Colonel. There is no prize for the other side to collect, and I may have killed that damned Tex. I hope I did. He tried for me hard enough to deserve it."

  "Tried for you? Hell, he got me, Clicker." Maynard rubbed his chest. "I hope you blew his head half way back to Baghdad."

  "I doubt we ever find out who was running him, though." Bell's voice was concerned. "I'd like to know that because it has to be someone who knows us, and he will still be around."