Another shot kicked up the dirt near Leo's feet.
Rohde wondered who was shooting, and what the shooter was trying to hit.
There came a third shot. Again, it kicked up dirt at the boy's feet.
"What the hell, Cole? Are you trying to kill that kid?" Through the binoculars, Vaccaro had seen the dirt erupt where the bullet struck.
"Where did I hit?"
"Four o'clock and five feet short of the boy," Vaccaro said in a strained voice.
Cole worked the bolt. Fired.
"What the hell are you doing? You're gonna kill that kid."
"High or low?" Cole asked.
"Neither," Vaccaro said. "That bullet hit at three o'clock about two feet from the kid. Jesus, Cole. What the hell are you doing? Don't shoot that kid."
In his mind's eye, Cole kept the sight picture of where the crosshairs had been for the last shot. He imagined just where a taut rope would be, running from the boy to a stake in the ground.
This wasn't aiming. This wasn't even hoping. This was more like a daydream of a shot.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cole took a breath. He could not see the rope securing the boy, but he could imagine it there. He let his finger put tension on the trigger.
Traveling at 2700 feet per second over a distance that would take a man 15 minutes to walk across, the bullet cut the taut rope like a knife.
Through the scope, he saw the boy jump up and run.
Rohde watched in amazement as Leo ran like the wind, right toward the arms of an American GI who had materialized out of the woods and stood there waiting for the boy.
Rohde stared in disbelief before it dawned on him that the shot he had just heard had not been random at all. It was intended to cut the rope keeping Leo tethered to the stake. Who could possibly make such a shot? And from how far out?
He raised his rifle. Instantly, the post sight settled on the boy. He started to squeeze the trigger.
"Cole! I saw the son of a bitch,” Vaccaro said.
“Tell me where he's at."
"I don't — hold on, hold on. There’s a kind of ditch down there if you look real hard. It’s in front of that clump of bushes.”
Cole screwed his eye tighter to the telescope. “Yeah, I see it now. I don’t see him, but I see where the field’s been dug up.”
It was a long way to shoot, but Cole's bullet hit close. It would be enough to rattle Rohde.
A bullet zipped past Rohde’s ear, causing him to flinch just at the moment that his own rifle fired. Damn, but that was close!
An involuntary shiver ran through him, as if the bullet had set off shock waves in the air. He glimpsed the boy being caught up in the arms of the American on the other side of the field, and both of them scurried to safety.
Rohde kept very still, waiting for another bullet. There was just one shot. That was the trademark of a sniper. Hugging his belly to the dirt of the trench, Rohde considered that he’d heard only the distant report of a rifle. Whoever had fired that bullet was very far away. Could it possibly be the American hillbilly sniper whom Rohde had hoped to lure with his trap? There was no telling without catching a glimpse of that helmet with its Confederate flag.
If it was the American sniper, he was a damn good shot.
His heart hammering, Rohde began to wonder if he’d gotten more than he had bargained for. He had imagined himself having the upper hand, but not the other way around.
There was no going back now. He must use his wits to survive this, and to shoot the American hillbilly in the bargain.
Instantly, Rohde made up his mind. He could have shot at the retreating GIs, but the American sniper had somehow spotted him. His first sniper's nest was compromised.
Betting that all eyes were on the GIs trying to get to safety, Rohde used the shallow ditch he had cut to wriggle backward out of his hidey hole. The ditch led to the sort of hunter's blind he had created 20 feet away. With any luck, the American sniper would make some misstep, and Rohde would pluck him off from the safety of his second hide.
He rolled out of the ditch and slipped behind the screen of multiflora rose and brush. He kept his movements to a minimum, trying not to attract any attention. He paused, holding his breath, but no one was shooting at him.
The only thing that he didn't like about this second hide was that it provided concealment, rather than cover. This was a fundamental from sniper school. Concealment kept one hidden. It was like standing behind a curtain. Cover actually stopped bullets. It was like standing behind a brick wall. The hole in the ground had provided both, and he had been able to fire from the position as well. The hunter's blind that he had made offered concealment alone. Clumps of bushes were not going to stop a bullet.
“There he is again! He’s back in that bush.”
“That wild rose bush?"
"Do I look like a goddamn gardener to you?"
"All right, now there's lots of bushes in that field. Is it that bush with them little white flowers on it?"
"Yeah, yeah, that’s the one. Dead center of that bush, about three feet up, not down on the ground.”
Cole fired again.
Somehow, the American had spotted him.
One moment, Rohde had considered himself safe, and the next, a bullet seemed to reach out of the air and grab at his uniform jacket, plucking at the fabric. He cursed again. This sniper must have eyes like an eagle!
With a final burst of speed, Rohde ran and pitched forward into the hedgerow itself, burrowing deep within until he reached the rocky shelf that he had cleared.
Heart pounding, he threw himself down on his belly, got his elbows under him, and began scanning the far edge of the field for any sign of the sniper.
But those shots had sounded so far away. It didn’t make sense. He played his scope even farther out, looking for a tree or hillock that could have provided a vantage point for the enemy sniper.
Where, where, where—
He scanned a few trees, and just as quickly dismissed them.
With the scope, his field of view wandered even farther out. Finally, he focused on a church steeple on a slight rise far beyond the field. He recognized the church as Église St. Domini, which he had passed often enough in his Jäger missions.
The church presided over a village crossroads, appearing as ancient and neglected as the last apple on the tree after the frost. The church was high enough to have a commanding view of the field, although at that distance, any men in the field would appear to be hardly bigger than ants. As the Americans measured it, the distance would be 1000 yards.
Realization slowly dawned on Rohde that the American sniper must be in that church steeple. There was no other possibility.
Several thoughts ran through his mind. First of all, he was shocked that any man could shoot that far with any accuracy in combat conditions. At that distance, a shooter would need the eyesight of an eagle, with nerves as steady as a marble statue.
While Rohde felt reasonably confident about shots at 400 meters, anything much beyond that was like whistling in the wind. And yet, Rohde was himself an impressive marksman.
A tremor of fear and awe ran through him. Could it be the hillbilly sniper? No one was that good with a rifle.
His own scope was not strong enough to pick out any details of the church, so he reached for the Zeiss binoculars in his pack. They were far larger and more precise.
At that distance, he thought, the sniper must surely have a spotter who had a strong pair of binoculars to help the shooter pick out targets.