There would be twenty-six of them, and he had to take them all: twenty-four, twenty-five even, simply wasn’t good enough. The SD report said they came out every night at midnight and played in the yard for about forty minutes. Repp calculated that they’d be bunched in the killing zone, that is, outside the door but not yet dispersed enough to prevent a clean sweep of the job, for about five seconds. He’d take them when the last one had stepped out the door. Fantastic shooting, to be sure, but well within his—and Vampir’s—capabilities.
And what if twenty-seven targets came out, or twenty-eight, or twenty-nine, meaning a nun or a novitiate or two had come along to watch and help? It was entirely possible, even probable. In Berlin they’d been vague and half-apologetic. Perhaps even the Reichsführer, who’d sent millions East, felt queasy about ordering him to shoot a Swiss nun. Yet they chose Repp for his strength as well as his skill and he’d resolved to make the difficult decisions. If a nun had to die in the cause of making the world Judenrein, clean of Jews, then so be it. He’d kill everything on the scope.
Repp laid down the binoculars as the last of the light died. He clapped his hands, and pulled his jacket tighter. He was cold and afraid of fatigue, which could take his edge. And he was strangely uneasy about all this: so simple, everything had whirred into place. He knew enough to distrust such ease. He shifted an arm and looked at his watch. Almost nine.
Three more hours.
It was almost nine. The drunken lieutenant was explaining but his words kept dissolving into giggles. He was under the impression Roger was an officer and he seemed to think the more he giggled the more trouble he was in, which meant that he giggled even harder.
“The tank carrier, sir, uh, he stripped his gears trying to get her outta the mud, uh, or he thought he would, uh, sir, he put her in reverse and she jumped the road and—” The remainder of the communiqué was lost in a seethe of giggles. The lieutenant was trying to explain why the flatbed truck, designed to transport tanks, lay angled across the road ahead, garish in the light of a dozen purple flares. Around it clustered a group of Americans—they’d drawn duty on VE night and someone had a bottle and whatever they were supposed to do just wasn’t going to get done.
It had been like this most of the way since Schloss Pommersfelden. Nuremberg still lay somewhere in the distance, mythical like Camelot, and to get there they’d have to pass through more of what they’d already seen: drunken joyous men of all nationalities, accidents, honking horns, flares, small-arms fire. And women. In the small town of Forchheim—“Fuck-him,” in GI argot—through which they’d just pushed their way, the nonfraternization law had broken down totally, and young officers were the most audacious offenders. College boys mostly, with no real military careers on the line, they’d turned the town into a fraternity party or prom night. The Jeep had been laid up at a corner behind a column of stalled vehicles before Leets, in a frenzy of rage, had gone forward to find two staff cars hung up on each other in a minor crash, and in the back seat of each a couple necking hotly while around them MP’s argued and screamed. Leets went back and they’d pulled out of line to try an alternate route, but almost ended up in the Regnitz River and did in fact become lost until a studiously inebriated British major of the Guards, elaborately polite, had pointed them back in the right direction.
“Well, Jesus, how long, Lieutenant?” Leets demanded, leaning across Roger. Something in his voice must have startled the youngster. He stepped back abruptly and began to speak in an oppressive imitation of sobriety. “There’s a maintenance vehicle from the motor pool in Nuremberg on the way, uh, sir.”
“Christ,” said Leets in disgust.
He climbed out of the Jeep and pushed by the lieutenant to the truck. The fucking thing was hopelessly locked in, its double-axled set of rear tires having slipped off the roadway into a culvert, hooking there, and as the driver had pulled to free himself, he’d actually twisted the huge flatbed up and out into the air; it looked like a drawbridge stuck halfway, blocking the road completely. It would take a heavy tow truck or perhaps a crane to move the thing.
Up ahead loud voices clashed off one another. Leets looked into the circle of vivid pink light from the flare and saw two men facing each other. They were about to begin throwing punches.
“Hey, what’s going on here?” he yelled.
“Asshole here dumped his fucking truck in the middle of the road, now he won’t move it so I’m gonna move him,” said one.
“You just go on and try it, sucker,” said the other.
“Knock it off, goddamn it,” Leets ordered.
“There’s broads up in that Fuck-him place,” said the first man, “and goddamn I mean to get a piece of ass tonight.”
“All right,” said Leets.
This son of a bitch and his fuckin’ tru—”
“Knock it off, goddamn it!” Leets shouted.
“Captain,” said Roger.
“Shut up, Roger, goddamn it, I got enough—”
“Captain. Let them have our Jeep. We’ll take their car. Everybody’s happy.”
“What are you driving?” Leets asked.
“Ford staff car,” the man said sullenly. “I’m General Taplow’s driver. But, hey, I can’t let anything happen to that car.”
“More pussy in Fuck-him than you ever saw in one place in your life,” said Roger. “Some of them German women are walking around bare-tit.”
“Oh, Christ,” said the man weakly.
“Harry, you’re gonna get us all in a lot of trouble.”
“Bare-tit?”
“Some of ’em even have these little pasty things on.”
“Oh, Jesus. That I gotta see.”
“Harry.”
“Look, you’ll take real good care of that car, won’t you?”
“You know where the Nuremberg airport is, Grossreuth Flughafen?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“That’s where the car’ll be. All locked up.”
“Fine,” the man said, “fine and fine again.” Then his excitement beached itself. “Uh. Didn’t see you was an officer. Uh, sir.”
“Forget it. No rules tonight, that’s the only rule.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get the major and our stuff,” Leets told Roger, who’d already started.
The two groups of men filed by each other in the fading light of the flares. One of the drunken GI’s suddenly looked up at the three fellows passing him, and saw them grave-faced, a trifle solemn, grumpy with their automatic weapons. “Jesus,” he said, stunned at the vision, “you guys know where there’s a war or something?” But he got no answer.
As Leets climbed into the Ford staff car, he forced himself to check his Bulova. He didn’t want to but there were a lot of things he didn’t want to do that night that he knew he was going to have to do anyway, and the easiest of them all was to look at the watch.
It was almost ten.
It was almost eleven. Repp felt sluggish from his long wait in the cold rocks. During this time he had closed his mind down with his extraordinary self-control: he had willed out unpleasant thoughts, doubts, twinges of regret. He’d put his mind in a great dead cold place, letting it purify itself in the emptiness. He wasn’t exactly sure what happened in this trancelike state and he’d never spoken of it to others. He simply knew that such an exercise in will seemed to do him a great deal of good, to generate that icy, eerie calm that was the bedrock of the great shooting, the really fantastic shooting. It was something he’d learned in Russia.
But now it was time to bring himself up, out of the cold. He began with exercises, pedantic physical preparations. He rolled to his belly and entwined his fingers, clamping them behind his neck, elbows straining outward. Then, slowly, he lifted his torso from the ground, chin thrusting high on the strength of his stomach. He rocked, stretching, feeling the pain scald as the muscle tension rose; then, sweetly, he relaxed. Up, hold and relax: three sets, ten each. Then the shoulders and upper chest: this was difficult—h
e didn’t want to do a classic press-up because he didn’t want to deaden his touch by putting his weight on his palms. He’d therefore evolved an elbow press-up, planting them on the ground, gathering his fists before his eyes. Then he’d force the fists down, levering his body on the fulcrum of his elbows—a painful trick that soon had the girdle of muscles around his shoulders, chest and upper body singing. But he was hard on himself and pushed on, feeling at last the sweat break from his body and its warmth come bursting out his tunic collar.
He lay on his back and thrust his arms out above him; he twisted them, clockwise, then back, each as far as he could, forcing the bones another millimeter or more in their casings of gristle and meat. He could feel his forearms begin to throb as the blood pulsed through and enlarged his veins. He struggled against the pain, knowing it to be good for him. His hands he opened and closed rapidly, splaying them like claws until he felt them begin to burn and tremble.
Repp lay back, at last still. His body felt warm and loose. He knew it would build now in strength and that when his heart settled down it would be deadly calm. He stared up through the canopy of firs at the stars blinking coldly in the dead night. He stared hard at the blackness above him. It was impenetrable, mysterious, huge. Repp listened for forest sounds. He heard the hiss of the wind among the needles, forcing them to rub dryly against themselves. He felt it to be an extraordinary moment: he felt he’d actually become a part of the night, a force in it. A sensation of power unfolded in him like a spasm. He felt himself flooding with confidence. Nothing could stop him now. He envisioned the next few minutes. In the scope, the buildings would be cold and blank. Then, a moment of blur, of blitz almost, as the warmth from the door opening dissipated in the cool night air, molecules in the trillions swirling as they spread. A shape, shivering, iridescent, would tumble across the screen, almost like a one-celled creature, a germ, a bacillus, a phenomenon of biology. And another, and another, out they’d tumble, buzzing, swarming, throbbing in the inky-green color Vampir gave them, far away, and Repp would count … three, four, five … and with his thumb slip off the STG’s safety and begin tracking … thirteen, fourteen, fifteen … Vampir’s reticule was a black cross, a modified cross hair, and he’d hold it on the lead shape … twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six …
And then he’d fire.
The sound of an airplane rubbed the image from Repp’s eyes. He rolled over to his stomach and slithered up the rock to the rifle. He felt calm and purposeful, a force of will. He did not want to draw the rifle to him yet and have to hold the shooting position too long.
The airplane had faded.
He glanced at his watch.
It was almost midnight.
Plenty of time.
It was almost midnight. They’d been in the air nearly an hour now and Roger may have been more miserable in his life but he wasn’t sure when. In the first place, he was scared. He’d never been scared like this before because he’d never jumped into battle before. He was so scared it hurt to breathe.
Following close upon this terror, indeed making it keener, richer, was his bitterness. He was ferociously bitter. The war was over! That fact linked up with the other one: he was going into combat!
Next, working down his taxonomy of misfortune, he was uncomfortable. He squatted in the hull of the Mosquito, which was rocketing along at about 408 miles an hour but a Mosquito, a twin-engine fighter-bomber noted for speed and maneuverability, was a three-man kite, and Roger, after the pilot and Outhwaithe beside him in the bubble cockpit up top and Leets forward in the Perspex nose cone, was the fourth man. All they had for him was a crappy little seat, typical British junk, wedged into the tunnel between nose and cockpit, and he had to squat like some nigger shoeshine boy. He was also jammed with equipment which made the small space harder to bear, the parachute for one, a supremely ridiculous M-1 Thompson submachine gun, eleven pounds of gangster’s buddy, for another. Worst of all, the hatch, through which, sometime soon, they’d all take the Big Step, didn’t seem sealed too well and rattled around loosely just a foot away from him, cold air just crashing through. But then what didn’t rattle in this crate? It really was wood—plywood, glue and canvas, just like the Wright Brothers’ Dayton Flyer or a Spad. And just as cold. And it smelled of gas, and the engines, big enough to drive a fucking PT boat, were hung off the wings just outside the hull on either side, Rolls-Royce 1680’s, and they pulsated crazily, filling Roger’s young bones with dread. He had a headache and no aspirin. He felt a little sick and not too long ago he’d peered down the tunnel to Leets—it wasn’t far, six feet—and seen, over Leets’s hunched shoulder, white. White? Snow, you dope. Then he’d felt the plane banking and sinking, his stomach floating for just a second, and he’d realized they were in the Alps. They were knifing through the Alps.
Suddenly, Tony hung down and then was beside him, having descended from his perch in the bubble. He roughly butted young Rog aside as though he didn’t count for bloody much, and sprang the hatch. Cold night air rushed in, inflating under Roger’s coat. Goose pimples blossomed on his pale skin and he began to shake.
What’s going on? he wondered.
His nigger’s place in the aircraft wasn’t even equipped with an intercom jack. The three big shots must have been merrily chatting away all this time, and here he was in this dark tunnel in the guts of the plane, unable to see, not knowing what was going on, and suddenly this: hatch open, Outhwaithe checking his gear. Roger realized they must have found it. He felt Leets, who’d crawled down his tunnel, next to him. Leets gestured wildly. He seemed unhealthily excited. Roger felt numb, even tired, under his fear, disgust and chills.
Leets pressed Tony’s earphones onto Roger and spoke into his own throat mike.
“Rog, we think we’ve found it. We’re going around again, he’s going to try and put us down in a field just west of the place. Tony first, then me, then you. When you land, you’ll see it off behind a wall, very ornate, four stories—”
“Chickies, chickies, Mama Hen here, thirty seconds off your drop,” said the pilot, a calm steady young voice, over Leets.
“He’ll be shooting from the mountain beyond, down into the courtyard. Around back from where we’re coming in. Thing to do is to get into that courtyard before those kids get there. Got that?”
Roger nodded weakly.
“We’ll be going out at six hundred. And don’t forget you gotta pull the rip cord on that chute, no static lines.”
Roger, in horror, realized that though he was jump-qualified he’d never pulled a rip cord in his life, there’d always been a nice panic-proof static line to pop the chute for him. Suppose he froze?
“Ten seconds, chickies.”
Tony looked at them. His face was smeared with paint. His wool commando watch cap was pulled low over his ears. He gave them a thumbs-up, a very WWII gesture. But WWII was over.
“Go, chickies, go!”
Tony pitched forward. Leets followed.
Roger stole a glimpse at his watch. It was still almost midnight. It occurred to him for just a fraction of a second that he could sit tight and go back to Nuremberg with the guy up there. But even as he was considering this delicious alternative, his legs seemed to acquire a heroic will of their own and they drove him to the hole in the bottom of the plane. He fell into silence.
It was time to shoot.
Repp was very calm, as always, now when it was only himself and the rifle. Its slightly oily tang, familiar amid the odor of the forest, rose to meet his nose, and he took the sensation as reassurance. His breath came evenly, smooth as soft music, feeding his body a steady flow of oxygen. He felt marvelously alive, focused, his nerves tingling with joy. A great yearning had passed.
He set himself on his elbows, belly, loins pressing against the rock, legs splayed for support, and drew the rifle to him. He laid the butt-stock against his shoulder. He palmed the pistol grip; the metal and plastic, cold as bone, heated quickly in his hand.
He rocked the weapon on
its bipod, feeling its quick response to his guidance. It seemed alive, obedient. Repp had a special feeling for weapons; in his hands they were animate, almost enchanted. With his other hand, he reached up and plucked the lens cap off Vampir. He clicked on the auxiliary battery. He let his trigger finger search the curve of the trigger; then, finding it, drop away.
Repp eased the bolt back. It slid through oily stiffness, making a show of resistance; then he felt it yield with a snap and he freed it to glide home, having taken the first of the subsonic rounds off the magazine and seated it in the firing chamber, simultaneously springing open the dust cover on the breech. A whole system orchestrated itself to Repp’s will—gas piston, operating rod and handle, bolt camming and locking units, pieces moving and adjusting within the weapon itself—and he took great pleasure in this, seeing the parts slide and click and lock. He checked the fire-control switch: semiautomatic. He thumbed off the safety.
A kind wind took Tony. Leets felt like he was descending in molasses and could see the Englishman a hundred feet below and three hundred feet away, his white canopy undulating in the wind, and he could see nothing else. The Mosquito drone was a memory. Leets fell in heavy silence, still a minute from touchdown when he saw Tony’s chute collapse as it hit the ground.
Leets landed in a bundle of pain. Lights flashed behind his eyes on impact and his leg began to throb. He’d tried to favor it, a mistake, throwing himself off, and he hit on his butt and shoulder and lay there for a second in confusion, senses shaken by the hit. He could make out Tony’s silk flapping loosely across the field, unconnected to any other thing. Climbing to his feet—leg hurt like hell but seemed to work okay—he popped his own harness toggle, and felt it fall away. He shook himself loose of it.
“Shit!” someone said close by, concurrent with the thud of meat and earth colliding. He looked and could see Roger scrambling up, struggling with his shrouds.