The pilot patted a deep pocket. “I brought my binoculars. You need a spotter, don’t you?”
“It might be too late,” Cole said. “I don’t know how much longer we can hold out.”
The pilot crawled toward Cole, making a face as he moved through the dark-colored guano. “Listen to me, Hillbilly. You know what I’m good at? Flying an airplane.”
“Good to know. You got one of them in your pocket, too?”
“Don’t I wish. But right now there’s a shortage of airplanes around here. You know what you’re good at? Shooting. Everybody says what a good shot you are.”
“Easy to say and hard to do.”
“I’ve seen you in action, Cole. Don’t sell yourself short.”
“If you say so.”
The pilot pointed. “You see all those people fighting down there? They are desperate, Cole. But some of them saw you heading in here with your rifle and you know what, it gave them some hope. They know you are a tough, mean son of a bitch. You scare them a little, maybe more than a little. They’re not like you, Cole. If anyone can change how things are going in this fight, it’s you and your rifle.”
“I’m sure glad they all think that,” Cole said bitterly. “Makes it all sound real easy, like I can make the world change all because I pick up a rifle.”
Lieutenant Commander Miller shook his head. “Be honest with yourself, Cole. Deep down, you know it’s true. Things do change when you start shooting. Now, pick up that rifle, you goddamn hillbilly. That’s an order. I am an officer, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Cole studied the rifle propped against the wall, but didn’t yet reach for it. Against the backdrop of the dusty old stone walls, the battered stock had seen better days and the well-oiled metal of the action and the barrel were concealed by camouflage wrappings.
“You still got them binoculars handy?”
“Right here.”
“Good. In that case, you can help me shoot these bastards.”
On the hilltop, Wu was busy searching for new targets using his vintage German binoculars. He wanted to make sure that his snipers eliminated the officers and non-commissioned officers in order to leave the enemy without leadership.
“You missed your last shot!” Wu complained, grinning at Deng with a broad smile. Deng had been aiming at the American sniper, who had moved at the last second, causing the shot to go wide. The sniper had then scrambled for cover. If the sniper had not known they were on the hill, then he did now.
Deng nodded warily. He knew that with Wu, a smile often meant the opposite of showing pleasure. “The range is very long, sir.”
“You are a sniper! Do what you are trained to do. If not, I will give that rifle to someone else.”
“Yes, sir. I will do better,” Deng said through gritted teeth. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Anger would not do him any good if he wanted to hit his next target and satisfy the major.
“Shoot them!” Wu snapped.
While Deng turned his attention back to the rifle, Wu glassed the fortress wall below. The defenders were still putting up a strong fight, managing to stall the battalion. This must not be allowed, he thought. The longer that the Chinese force remained exposed in the open without moving into its hiding place for the day, the more likely it became that they might be attacked from the air. The delay also gave the Americans more time to reinforce the main line that the Chinese were determined to push back.
Wu and his snipers must do their part to sack this fortress, sooner rather than later, and they were in a perfect position to do just that.
Through the binoculars, he saw an American soldier carrying a rifle with a telescopic sight scramble into the watchtower in the center of the fortress wall. It was the American sniper again! Would they ever be rid of that man?
Wu directed Deng to shoot at the sniper, but the enemy soldier scrambled behind cover like the rat that he was, leaving Deng’s bullet to strike the now-empty wall where the sniper’s head had been a moment ago.
“Shoot him through the arrow slits.”
Deng did not answer, but squeezed off another round. Debris flew from the edge of the opening. They were so intent on the sniper that, too late, they saw another man scramble into the tower.
Deng fired again. This time, Deng’s shot seemed to go right into the narrow window.
Wu imagined the bullet bounced around inside there like beads in a baby’s rattle.
Wu smiled.
Through the scope, Cole studied the hilltop occupied by the enemy. He spotted the man-made geometry of a rifle barrel, clearly standing out against the rough-hewn landscape. He was a little surprised that the rifle wasn’t wrapped in some sort of cloth in order to camouflage it, as his own rifle was. Anything that broke up the outline of your rifle or your body helped a sniper to blend into his surroundings. A small bit of camouflage went a long way toward hiding him from the enemy — and keeping him alive.
For the enemy sniper, the failure to disguise his rifle was about to become a fatal mistake.
Cole moved the crosshairs slowly up the length of the barrel until they settled on the head of the shooter, which was the only part of the enemy sniper visible.
Nearby, Miller was glassing the hill with the binoculars.
“Maybe you’re right,” Miller said. “That’s a long way to shoot. Nobody can hit anything that small at that distance.”
Cole didn’t reply. His universe had shrunk down to the circle of magnification that he could see through the scope. In the vastness of the Korean landscape, it was only this circle three feet wide that mattered.
Now, he did what came so naturally to him. He let out a breath. His shooter’s mind did a million subtle calculations, purely by instinct.
He nudged the crosshairs to the left and held high.
Never mind that a bullet smacked into the wall nearby. Never mind that a mortar shell arced over the wall and exploded in the supply area below.
As if in a trance, Cole ignored the deadly chaos and carnage around him. Gently, his finger took up tension on the trigger.
The rifle fired, sending a spiraling bullet from the watchtower to the hilltop in the same span of time in which a butterfly’s wings might beat once, twice.
Through the binoculars, Miller saw the spray of blood as the top of the Chinese sniper’s head flew off.
“A little high,” Cole muttered.
“Holy shit,” Miller replied, his voice tinged with awe, and maybe a little fear of the man next to him. It was one thing to engage in a dogfight and shoot down an enemy plane. There was even an element of single combat to a dogfight that went back to the days of knights errant. But what Cole had just done … this was killing. The brutality of it shocked him.
“Look around and find the others,” Cole said, working the bolt of his rifle. The spent brass casing spun away and clattered into the guano. “In case you ain’t noticed, it’s them or us.”
Miller did as suggested, searching the hilltop with the binoculars, which had a much broader field of view than the rifle scope. To his surprise, he spotted something. “How do I let you know where to look?”
“Just like in the air,” Cole said. “Pretend it’s a clock face.”
“Two o’clock,” Miller said.
Cole shifted his rifle and saw the other sniper now. Again, the man didn’t seem to know enough to wrap the barrel of his rifle, but he was well hidden. All that Cole could see was a splash of face and a single eye.
He put the crosshairs on the eye and fired.
The enemy sniper slumped, his rifle clattering among the rocks.
“One shot. Holy moly. I can’t believe it,” Miller said. “You nailed him.”
But the dragon still had claws. A bullet tore through one of the narrow arrow slits and ricocheted around the inside of the loft. Miller ducked, as if that would do any good.