Close Up the Sky (15 page)

Few options were
available to him. It might be possible to crawl deeper into the brush without
being detected and eventually get out of the area, but that would mean
abandoning Williams, and he rejected that choice as soon as it surfaced. On the
other hand, if he kept still the sniper might think he had died in the brush
and leave without making sure. Then he remembered the silencer, and eliminated
that option. The man who had fired the shots was obviously a professional, and
would not leave without making certain the job was finished. Given those
circumstances, only one option remained. He had to fight.

The utility knife
he carried on his belt was the only thing in his possession that would pass for
a weapon. But the knife was useless unless he could get close to the sniper
without being detected, and not knowing the man’s exact location made that
option a poor choice. The only other thing that might be of help was the
emergency flare gun in his pack. The flares would be useless as a weapon at any
distance beyond fifteen feet, but if he could get off a shot it might attract
one of the patrol helicopters. Moreover, it might scare the sniper into
fleeing, or at least into revealing his position. He decided to wait another
ten minutes then try for it. If he stayed where he was much longer, the sniper
was bound to begin searching for him.

When he was
satisfied that enough time had passed, he slowly stretched out his legs and
rotated his body headfirst in the direction of the campsite. He had no way of
knowing how long he had lain in the same position, but his neck muscles had
stiffened painfully. He kept still for another minute, alert for any sound or
movement. When nothing happened, he began
belly-crawling
across the ground. Every few seconds he would stop and listen, but heard
nothing. There was no moon, but the stars stretched across the blackness of
space like the inside of an inverted bowl. Though they were as bright as
jewels, their cold light did little to relieve the darkness. He knew he was
moving in the general direction of the campsite, but there was no way of
knowing how much distance he had closed. Every few feet he reached out with
both hands and felt the ground ahead of him. After what seemed like hours, his
groping fingers came into contact with the dead embers of the fire. He
slithered around the ashes and continued to inch his way across the ground. Within
a few seconds he bumped into one of the supply packs. He let out a long,
relieved breath. Although he had crawled less than a hundred feet, the stress
left him exhausted. In spite of the cold, a fine bead of sweat stood out on his
forehead.

He pressed his
face against the pack and rested, listening to the pounding of his heart. The
material around the neck of the L-suit felt sticky, indicating that he had
opened the wound again. While he rested he considered trying to locate
Williams’s body, but decided against it. There was nothing he could do in the
dark, and if the sniper was still watching he might only succeed in drawing
fire. After a couple of minutes he pushed the pack to arm's length and managed
to open the buckles of the top flap. He reached inside and felt the oblong
shape of a military mess kit and cardboard packets of ready-to-eat meals. He
eased the metal container out of the pack, careful not to rattle the spoon and
fork inside. One by one he gently removed the other items, looking for the
flares. He finally found them in a side pocket. After a few seconds he had one
of the cylindrical objects in his hand. It was shaped like a shotgun shell. Next
he took out the flare gun, and as quietly as possible, loaded it. There was a
little
snap
when he closed the
breech. The sound was inaudible beyond a few feet, but his nerves magnified it
into a thunderclap.

He rolled onto his
back and thought about his next move. If the sniper was still there, he would
only have an instant between the time the flare went off and the man opened
fire. That meant he would have to be ready to run as soon as he pulled the
trigger. He decided to run in a zigzag line directly toward the rise. That
should make him hard to hit, and would provide an opportunity to see where the
man was hiding when he raised up to shoot. The only problem was surviving long
enough to reach him. He oriented himself as best he could and got to his knees.
Though the darkness and black clothing made him almost invisible, he felt
totally exposed. Without wasting time he braced himself, raised his arm, and
fired the flare directly overhead.

He was up and
running before the noise of the explosive charge faded. The flare streaked into
the night sky on a thin column of fire. His eyes were dilated because of the
darkness, so to prevent temporary blindness when the flare exploded, he closed
one eye as he ran. If things worked right, the sniper would be watching the
flare as it went up. That would give him more time to reach high ground before
he was spotted.

Three seconds
later the flare burst into brilliant radiance, bathing the desert in white
light. Leahy opened both eyes and almost stumbled in surprise. Halfway down the
slope, not fifty feet away, stood a man dressed in camouflage fatigues! The man
held one hand across his eyes, apparently blinded by the sudden flash of light.
His other hand held a short rifle equipped with a telescopic sight. Leahy
redoubled his speed in an attempt to reach the sniper before his eyes adjusted
to the light. When he was within twenty feet the man dropped his hand from his
eyes and looked directly at him. He tried to raise the rifle into firing
position but it was too late. Leahy clenched his teeth and hit him at full
speed with a body tackle.

The man grunted in
pain as the impact knocked his breath out. They hit the ground together and
rolled a few feet down the slope, arms and legs entangled. Somehow the sniper
managed to hold onto the rifle as they tumbled. Leahy grabbed the barrel with
his left hand and forced it away from their bodies. He balled his free hand
into a fist and delivered a terrific blow to the man's right temple. The sniper
grunted, shook off the punch, and shoved a forearm under Leahy’s chin, forcing
his head back. Leahy struck two more quick blows to the sniper’s face, but the
swing was too short to have much effect. The sniper was the larger of the two,
and he used his greater bulk to slowly roll their bodies over and get on top. His
forearm slipped from beneath Leahy’s chin and pressed hard on his throat. He
jerked his knees up in an attempt to change position, but the sniper braced his
own legs and held him down, trying to crush his larynx. Blood pounded in his
head as he gasped for breath. He was aware that if the pressure continued it
would only be a matter of seconds before he lost consciousness. In desperation
he cupped both hands, drew back, and slapped them hard over the sniper's ears. The
man screamed in agony as pressure exploded inside his skull. He rolled off
Leahy and staggered to his feet, still grasping the rifle. Leahy scrambled a
few feet away and got to his feet. He faced the sniper in a crouch just as the
flare died, plunging them into darkness. The last thing he saw was a look of
cold hatred on the sniper's face as he raised the rifle. A streak of orange
flame erupted from the gun's muzzle followed by the zing of a bullet passing
within a foot of his head. Miraculously, the sniper had missed him! He jumped
to his left, attempting to avoid the next shot, dropped to his knees and froze,
holding his breath. Two more shots whizzed by him and thumped into the sand a
couple of feet to his right. A few seconds of silence followed, then a muffled
cry from the sniper. Leahy heard something heavy hit the ground, but he
remained as still as death, waiting for the next bullet. For several more
seconds there was complete quiet, then he heard someone moving around. His
breath began to come in small jerks as he waited for the volley of gunfire that
would end his life. Finally, a voice came from the darkness.

“Matt! Where are
you?”

The voice belonged
to Chuck Williams!

L
eahy was too stunned to
respond. He remained motionless for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath. Williams
called out a second time, his voice anxious.

"Over here,
Chuck," he managed to rasp.

It was hard to
tell which hurt the most, his throat or his neck. The cut was packed with sand
from the fight, and the blood had stopped. Williams found him, knelt and placed
a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?”

 
“No
.....yeah
, I
think so. I thought you were dead.”

“For a couple of
seconds I thought so, too. Let’s get back to camp and take a look at you.”

"Where's the
gunman?" Leahy asked, as Williams helped him to his feet.

"Dead. Do you
know who he was?"

"I don't
think so, but I really didn't have time to get a good look."

They started off
in the general direction of the campsite. When they found it Williams opened
one of the packs and took out a flashlight. Using it, they gathered up the
unburned wood from the fire and got it going again. They rested for a few
minutes, then Williams checked Leahy’s wound.

"A nice
cut," he observed, "but I've seen worse. We better clean and bandage
it."

"Don't bother
with it now, Chuck. Unless I miss my guess, help's already on the way."

"What do you
mean?"

"This whole
part of the desert is air-patrolled twenty-four hours a day. One of the
helicopters is bound to have seen the flare."

"You want to
tell me what's going on?" Williams asked in a quiet voice.

"Later. First
tell me why you're still alive. I heard the bullet hit and saw you fall before
I ducked out of the firelight."

"It was the
L-suit. I told you they were tough." He rubbed his chest,
then
opened the suit far enough to expose the bullet’s
impact point. Leahy shined the flashlight on him. A large purple bruise
discolored the skin on the left side of his chest.

"Damn!"
Leahy said. "Skin's not even broken. I know a lot of cops who'd give a
year's pay to have one of these suits."

"Felt like a
sledgehammer hit me," Williams responded. He touched the bruise with his
fingertips and winced. "I think it may have cracked a rib or two."

"I lost sight
of you after you were hit," Leahy said. "What happened after that?”

"You've got
good reflexes, my friend. You moved so fast I didn't have time to say anything.
I couldn't get a bearing on the direction the shots came from, so I just laid
still and waited. I figured whoever it was would come down sooner or later and
I'd get him with this," he brandished the knife. Leahy noted it still had
blood on it.

"I don't mind
telling you that if you hadn't fired that flare when you did, I might have
killed you by mistake. I thought you were
him
prowling
around our campsite. Anyway, after you tackled him and the two of you were
wrestling about on the slope, I came running up behind you. I was almost there
when you broke free and jumped up. Son-of-a-bitch tried to shoot you and almost
hit
me
a second time. Missed me by
this much!" He held up his forefinger and thumb an inch apart.

Leahy could not
help but chuckle. He shook his head and said, “I thought I was a dead man. I
don’t understand how he missed at such close range. I guess you must have
distracted him. How did you manage to take him out?"

"Simple. After
the flare went out I knew he had to divide his attention between the two of us.
You were on his right, so I dodged around in the opposite direction and came up
behind him. When he fired the second time I used the muzzle flash to locate
him. The rest was routine." He grinned and slipped the knife into his
boot.

Leahy remembered
how shocked he had been when Williams had demonstrated the impenetrable nature
of the L-suit by slashing the knife across his arm. The casual manner in which
he spoke of killing the sniper with that same knife gave him a chill. He could
almost feel the long blade slipping into his own body.

"You're a
dangerous man, Mr. Williams," Leahy observed.

Williams laughed. "From
what I saw when the flare went off you're no grandma yourself." His tone
held a note of respect. "That was a pretty slick move, firing the flare. In
fact, I think I'll give you a passing grade in desert survival." They
laughed then sat quietly for a few seconds.

"We better go
check on our friend," Leahy suggested.

They found the
body and Williams shined his light on the man's face. The glazed eyes were
open, staring at the stars. At the base of his throat was a neat puncture wound
where the knife had done its work.

"You
recognize him?" Williams inquired.

Leahy looked closely
at the dead face. The flashlight gave its features an eerie appearance. "No.
I've never seen him before."

They rolled the
body over and checked it for identification. Except for a plastic cigarette
lighter in one of his front pockets, they found nothing. Leahy turned back the
collar of the man’s camouflage shirt. The label had been cut out, leaving only
a thin white strip of nylon where it had been. He tried to pick up the rifle,
but even in death the sniper clutched it tightly. With difficulty he pried it
loose and examined it.

"Shine your
light on this," he told Williams. He rolled the weapon over and checked
the mechanism and barrel. The manufacturer's name and serial number had been
ground off the barrel, making it untraceable.

"Looks like
he went to a lot of trouble to keep his identity secret," Williams
offered.

"Or someone
else's identity." Leahy responded. "If he'd managed to kill us, there
would have been no need to hide his identity since we wouldn't be here to ask
him any questions. He wasn't carrying any identification just in case something
backfired and he was killed or caught. That way we wouldn't be able to trace
him to any accomplices."