Point of Impact (48 page)

He raised the bullhorn.

Bob lay atop the hill. He was extremely winded. Below, about four hundred yards or so, he could see the house, Scott in his chair and some officers and several junior officers standing around the pool. Men moved through the trees below.

Suddenly, there came a voice vibrating through the air.

“Bob Lee Swagger. Bob Lee Swagger. You know who I am. Swagger, I wanted you to know before I send the troops up to get you that we found your woman in Ajo, Arizona.”

Shit, Bob thought.

“I sent Payne. Payne will kill her. She may be already dead.”

Swagger sat back from the rocks.

He heard whistles as the troops began to move out.

Payne had no trouble at all. It went so easily, the flight to Tucson, the rental car, the hour or so drive to Ajo. He found the trailer without difficulty. He parked, and went up to the door and knocked.

When she answered he said, “Nurse Fenn?”

“Yes?” She was the kind of woman that Payne had never had. He’d had whores all the world over, listless women with shriveled tits, or young and stupid and poor and desperate. Having sex with them was nothing. It was like doing yourself and in time Payne lost interest in either, unless he was drunk.

This one was classy, somehow. It enraged him that Bob had once had such a fine woman and he’d had nothing like her.

“Aren’t you the one who was with him?” he asked.

“I’m not sure I—”

“You know,
him
. Bob Lee Swagger. Tried to kill the president in New Orleans.”

Her face lost its color; she was not a liar.

“I—Are you with the police?”

“No such fuckin’ luck, lady,” he said, and pulled out the Remington cut-down as he stepped inside. Standing, he felt his force overpower her. He advanced, driving her to the wall, and stood against her, squashing her, the huge 12-gauge muzzle against the flesh of her cheek.

“What is—”

“Just shut up and listen. Your goddamned boyfriend is alive, in case you don’t know, but now he’s dead, I mean really
dead
. Now you just sit down and cool it, or goddammit, I’ll kill you myself. Just shut your mouth and do what I tell you.”

“I don’t—”

“Shut up. Now, we’re gonna hang tight for a time. Don’t you try nothing. Believe me, I ain’t like any guy you ever met, and if I have to, I will shoot you in the head and walk away from it without looking back.”

“I understand,” she said.

“Swagger can’t help you now,” he said. “Some boys
got him on a fuckin’ hilltop and they ain’t got no mercy in their hearts.”

She looked him in the eyes. Then she said, “He’s been on hilltops before, you fool. Don’t you understand it yet? He
loves
hilltops. It’s where he belongs.”

The images were grainy, hard to make out. Soldiers, burning huts, people running every which way, all of it caught in the jumpy, ill-framed haste of the inexperienced cameraman.

Dobbler swallowed.

Then he saw Colonel Shreck and Jack Payne and a third man, a Latino officer, in a black beret with mirror sunglasses. All wore exotic camouflage uniforms and were heavily armed.

They were conferring over a map.

Dobbler hit
FAST FORWARD
.

The images hurtled by at warp-speed, made ridiculous, like vaudeville. The soldiers were burning the huts and it looked like the pictures he’d seen taken in the Ukraine in 1943, where the SS men had burned the villages as they retreated. But it was so different, because these soldiers were young and strong and having so much fun.

As the tape rushed along, the troops left the village and seemed to head down a slope. The camera panned and he could see what had drawn them. The village people had escaped to the water. They stood in the torrent of the river, but were blocked at both ends by small knots of soldiers with machine guns. They stood, shivering in the water. He could see that they were mostly women and children.

Dobbler watched as the hard young men walked to the water’s edge. His finger went off
FAST FORWARD
.

In real time, he saw Shreck and the powerful Latino officer in discussion.

He heard Shreck say, “Tell them to get it over with. Then let’s chopper the fuck out of here. No rapes. Just finish the job and let’s evac the hell out of here, General.”

The general gave an order and the camera shifted back to the water.

“No,” Dobbler screamed in the office, “no!”

But it did no good.

The machine gun bullets from
Los Gatos Negros
tore into the people in the water, kicking up foam and blood, knocking them down.

“No,” Dobbler repeated over and over, “no, no, no.”

Bob heard a voice.

“I didn’t think you were going to make it up that damn hill, old man,” Nick Memphis said.

Bob swiveled on his belly and saw him slithering toward him.

“Pork, I have a spry step or two left in these old bones,” said Swagger. “Now where’s my—”

Memphis, in his black FBI SWAT uniform with the Mini-14 slung over his back, pushed a long canvas satchel over at Bob. Swagger unzipped it, reached in, then with a flick of the wrist sent the guncase scuttling through the dust as he unsheathed the Remington 700V with its Leupold 12x scope.

His finger snicked off the safety as he drew the rifle to him, knowing it contained five M852 7.62mm match cartridges, each sporting a 168-grain Sierra boattailed hollowpoint.

“Time to hunt,” he said.

Shreck was listening to General de Rujijo.

“I have all my men placed now,
Colonel
Shreck, and I’m going to give the signal to move out.”

“Good,” said Shreck. “Let’s do it.”

De Rujijo turned to his RTO and reached for the telephone mike to bark orders. He was a vivid, powerful man, in slime-and-mud dappled jungle fatigues, face lean and leathery, eyes sealed off behind the reflective surface of his sunglasses, black beret pulled low, Uzi slung rakishly across the front of his camouflage tunic, bright black star on his collar.

Shreck saw what happened next very clearly. The general was speaking decisively in Spanish when the bullet hit him, eviscerating the lower rear
of his skull just above his spine and tunneling through to blow his jaw off.

The spray flumed across Shreck’s face. Shreck blinked as the jawless apparition with the blank eyes toppled forward just three feet in front of him. He felt a stab of shock and in less than a second crushed it to death by sheer force of will and experience. He understood that the next bullet off the mountain was aimed for him. He dropped and pivoted, executing a neat half gainer off the pool deck, badly spraining a wrist, but getting himself out of the line of fire.

The second bullet instead struck de Rujijo’s aide-de-camp, a young major, in the center chest. The third bullet tracked the now fleeing RTO man, hit the radio, ripped through it, destroying it, and carried into the soldier himself, pulling him down to die of shock and blood loss.

Lon Scott saw the three soldiers die in less than two seconds and he watched Shreck’s swift exit from the kill zone. He fell into spastic panic so intense it almost killed him there on the spot. In a split second, he had recovered, hit the toggle on his wheelchair and spun quickly. Too quickly, because he was leaning forward from the shoulders and he realized he’d blown by the center of gravity; he jerked back, but it was too late. The chair spilled, pitching him on the cement of the pool deck, anchored by the deadweight of the useless lower half of his body.

He was helpless. He heard the shots mounting. The fear in him went berserk.

“Aghhhhhhhhhhh!
” he screamed.

Bob lay in the classic prone. Smoothly sliding the rifle around on a hard, flat sandbag that Nick had lugged up to the hilltop, along with the rifle and lots of ammunition, he brought it to bear on the glade of trees where
most of the Panther Battalion troops had assembled and were momentarily confused by the sound of the shots. He laid his cross hair upon another officer talking into a radio mike, and tagged him in the chest. He swung the rifle just a millimeter as he rocketed through a bolt throw, and shot another man. He cocked, fired, cocked, fired, cocked, fired. He killed five men in seven seconds, then, pulling the bolt open, grabbed five brass shells from the case six inches from his rifle, and rolled them into the breach, slammed the bolt home.

In the perfect O of the scope, he became the crucifier. He laid the cross wire of the lens on the forms cowering before him, twelve times their normal size, twelve times more confused and frightened, twelve times more desperate for leadership, and he began to destroy them. They seemed so innocent; it was so easy; they died without protest or awareness that he had come to nail them. But he didn’t care.

He hunted yelling men—sergeants and platoon leaders, heroes—and blew them away. He shot for center body, and in the jump of the recoil, he could still see that instant deflation that signified a hit. If he saw a man, he hit him. If he only had a head to see, he shot that and when he hit a head it snapped back brokenly, leaking and wrecked.

He shot fast to break the charge. He knew if they did he was history. That was their only hope—to move up the slope aggressively, under the doctrine of maneuver and fire, taking casualties in the dozens but closing for the ultimate kill. But not today; these boys had lost their stomach for carnage in the first few seconds, when his bullets unerringly picked and took out their heroes.

A brave corporal slithered lizardlike to a fallen RTO, and Bob broke his spine. An automatic weapons team tried to maneuver to the left to set up a suppressive fire; Bob gutshot the gunner and when the loader tried to
pull the weapon from his stricken hands, Bob shot him low in the abdomen. A private stood to shame his comrades into the advance; Bob rewarded him with 168 grains of hollowpoint delivered at two thousand feet per second.

“Come on, you fuckers,” he yelled hoarsely, as his system loaded itself to the hairline with adrenaline. It was the An Loc all over again, a valleyful of NVA and he was there on his lonesome to take them out. In the circular universe of the scope some men quit; they just settled back and waited in the trees for him to find them; others fled, racing across the road, their rifles abandoned. A few tried to move up toward the cover of enfilades or arroyos, but by now his eyesight was verging on the supernatural; he was into the zone, the rifle so a part of him that it felt organic; he could not remember, ever, not having the rifle, not having a world of targets. He slipped into craziness, the sniper’s twisted identification with an angry God and he shot faster and better still. He shot through the heat and the mirage and when now and then a ragged volley of shots rose toward him, he was incapable of caring. Let them come. Let them all come.

Lon Scott lay with his mouth on the cement, listening to the relentless cracks of the rifle, dry and far away. It was astonishing with what speed the man could fire. In the trees, now and then, Lon would hear a scream or see the thrashing of someone mortally hit. He knew it was only a matter of seconds before there’d be a lull in the shooting, and Bob would swing on back to pot him. With his strong arms he tried to pull himself along, hating the mutilated thing that was his body, hating his father for doing this to him all those years ago, hating his life for the strange paths it had taken. He began to
cry. He had thought he was ready to die, but he wasn’t. He was terrified.

“Help me,” he screamed. But no one helped him.

Oh, please don’t let me die
, he prayed.

Suddenly he heard footsteps. Some fool ran across the naked cement, bent to him, and with incredible strength hoisted him over his shoulder. The man ran, Lon bouncing and clinging, the two of them vulnerable to Bob’s whimsy for what seemed an eternity. But they made it, and with an animal leap, the man jumped from the edge of the deck to the cover in its lee. Lon banged against the bony shoulders and rolled off.

“Oh, Christ,” he said to his savior, “oh, Christ, that was the bravest thing I ever saw in my life.”

Colonel Shreck merely said, “No,” and pointed to the top of the hill. “
That’s
bravery, that sonovabitch.”

Then they heard the sound of a helicopter.

When the helicopter arose from behind the tree line, its hatch door bristling with guns, and began to swoop toward him like a hawk homing on some prey, Bob simply pulled himself from his belly to his knees and found the braced offhand position, his right or strong-side elbow held above the level of the scope as if his arm were a guy wire to brace the rifle. He saw the pilot’s white face blurred behind the windscreen in a split second when the bird pulled from pitched forward, to shield the canopy by the whirring of its rotor, to pitched upward, to shield the fliers by virtue of the armor of the nose cupping them from beneath.

He fired. Fuck you, he thought. Fuck you all.

The bullet hit low in the Plexiglas windscreen; through the scope he saw the sudden quicksilver of fracture smearing the glass and behind it the mortal squirm of a man hit badly and slipping into shock. Bob threw himself down, reset the rifle on its bag, and began
to engage targets downhill, where a group of men who’d broken to the right as he was attending to the helicopter were skipping around the base of the hill, and he took them down like skeet, one, two, three, and four, coming dry on the fifth. He was rolling five new cartridges into the Remington when the pilotless chopper slid back into the trees, gnashed violently as it fought them, then gave up as it whirred to the earth. In another second, it had detonated, throwing a fountain of oily flame high into the sky.

The brilliance of the flash momentarily drained the color from the day, and the bright green trees; Bob didn’t notice. He was looking for targets.

Come on, he was thinking. Come on, fight me. I want to fight some more.

Shreck sat with his back to the action, beneath the deck level of the pool in a niche by the walkway out of the house, breathing hard from his run with Scott. Scott wheezed noisily and might even be weeping, but he took no notice.