The Master Sniper

“There’s no question of funding,” the man explained, “we have access to adequate monies. A subsidiary called Ostindustrie GmbH produces quite a lot of income. Cheap labor from the East.”

“Well, the budget would certainly be a factor in such a project,” said Vollmerhausen noncommittally.

“Do you know this fellow Repp?”

“The great Waffen SS hero?”

“Yes, him. He’s a part of it too. He’ll be joining the project shortly. We’ve given it a code name, Nibelungen. Operation Nibelungen.”

“What on earth—”

“The Reichsfuhrer’s idea. He likes those little touches. It’s a joke, actually. Surely you can see that?”

But Vollmerhausen was baffled. Joke?

The officer continued. “Now, Herr Ingenieur-Doktor, here”—he shuffled some papers—“Vampir’s chief liability, according to the field results—”

“The test was planned for failure. They treated it like a piece of cookware. It’s a sophisticated—”

“Yes, yes. Well, from our point of view, the problem is weight.”

“With batteries, insulation, wiring, precision equipment, a lens system, energy conversion facilities, what do you expect?”

“What does the Vampir weigh?”

Vollmerhausen was silent. The answer was an embarrassment.

“Seventy kilos.” The man answered his own question. “At the very limits of movability.”

“A strong man—”

“A man at the front, in the rain, the cold, hungry, exhausted, is not strong.”

Vollmerhausen was again silent. He glared off into space. It was not safe to show anger toward the SS; yet he felt himself scowling.

“Herr Doktor, our specifications call for forty kilos.”

Vollmerhausen thought he had misheard. “Eh? I’m not sure I—”

“Forty kilos.”

“That’s insane! Is this a joke? That’s preposterous!”

“It can’t be done?”

“Not without compromising Vampir out of existence. This is no toy. Perhaps in the future, when new miniaturization technologies become available. But not now, not—”

“In three months. Perhaps four, even five, difficult to say at this point.”

Vollmerhausen almost leaped from his chair again; but he saw the man fixing him with a cool, steady glare.

“I–I don’t know,” he stammered.

“You’ll have the best facilities, the top people, the absolute green light from all cooperating agencies. You’ll have the total resources of the SS at your disposal, from the Reichsfuhrer on down. I think you know the kind of weight that carries these days.”

“Well, I—”

“We’re prepared to go all the way on this. We believe it to be of the utmost importance to our Fuhrer, our Fatherland and our Racial Peoples. I don’t see how you can say No to the Reichsfuhrer It’s an honor to be chosen for this job. A fitting climax to your service to the Reich.”

Vollmerhausen deciphered the threat in this, more vivid for remaining unspecified.

“Of course,” he finally ventured, with a weak kike smile, “it would be an honor,” thinking all the time, What am I doing? Forty kilos?

* * *

The forty kilos now, months later, were within ten kilos; they’d picked and peeled and compromised and teased and improvised their way down, gram by painful gram. Vollmerhausen could almost measure the past days in terms of grams trimmed here and there, but these last ten kilos seemed impossible to find. After steady progress, the staff had stalled badly and another of Vollmerhausen’s concerns was whether or not Repp had noticed this.

It was a typical career development for him, he thought. He’d done so much good work, so much brilliant work, and never gotten any real credit for it. Meanwhile, once again, everything was coming unraveled over some nonsense that he had no control over.

Tears of black bitterness welled up in his eyes. Bad luck, unfair persecution, unlucky coincidences seemed to haunt him.

For example, for example, what thanks, what respect, had he gotten for his modifications thus far to the STG-44? He’d taken a clever, sound production rifle, albeit one with a hand-tooled breech and barrel, but still just another automatic gun, and turned it into a first-class sniper’s weapon. He solved the two most pressing problems — noise and accuracy at long range — in one stroke, devising a whole new concept of ballistics. The mission specs called for thirty rounds to be delivered silently and devastatingly to a target 400 meters out. So be it: now Repp had his thirty chances, where before he had nothing.

And what had been the response?

Repp had merely fixed those cold eyes on him and inquired, “But, Ingenieur-Doktor, how much does it weigh?”

Today’s meeting was not going well: a bitter squabble between the optics group, most of them from the Munich Technological Institute, and the power group, the battery people: natural antagonists in the weight business. Meanwhile, the people from Energy Conversion remained silent, sullen.

All at once the complexities seemed overwhelming. An incredible restlessness stirred through his limbs, as the eyes of his staff pressed into him, demanding answers, guidance, adjudication. Beyond them, more threatening, he could see Repp. His misery was intense, fiery.

“Gentlemen, please. I believe—” He halted, absolutely no idea what he’d meant to say when he began to speak. That had been happening often too, sentences that began in confidence, then somewhere in the middle veered out of control and trailed off into silence, the ideas they had sought to express vanishing. He felt the impulse to flee mounting in him; it fluttered in his chest like a live thing.

“I believe,” he continued, and was as amazed as they at the finish, “that I’m going to go for a walk.”

They looked at him in bafflement. He’d always been so driven, trying to beat the problem down by sheer intensity of will, flatten it with his energy, his doggedness. He read in several sets of eyes the suspicion that Hans the Kike was finally cracking on them.

“It’ll do us all some good,” he argued. “Get away from the problem for a few hours, get a fresh perspective on it. We’ll meet again at one.”

He rushed from them into the out-of-doors and felt a burst of clean spring air and the heat of the sun. It’s spring, he thought with surprise. He’d lost all sense of time and season, shut off in his exotic world of microns and heat curves and power sequences. Then he noticed how the installation had changed, having become now almost a fortification. He nearly stumbled into a trench that ran between cement blockhouses that were surely new since the last time he’d come this way. He picked out a path around sand-bagged gun emplacements and maneuvered through trellises of barbed wire. Were the Americans close by? It frightened him suddenly. Must remember to ask Repp.

But he wanted green silence, blue sky, the touch of the sun; not this vista of war, which merely stressed his problems. He rushed through the gate and headed down the road to the range a mile or so away; it was the only available openness in the surrounding woods. The journey wasn’t pleasing; the trees loomed in on him darkly, sealing off the sky, and there were spots after an initial turn where he felt completely isolated in the forest as the road wound through it. Not another living creature seemed to stir; no breeze nudged the dense overhead branches, which sliced the sun into splashes at his feet. But then a patch of yellow appeared at the end of the corridor after another turn. He almost ran the remaining distance.

The range was empty, a yellow field banked on four sides by the trees. He walked to the center of it, felt the sun’s warmth again build on his neck. It was March, after all, April next, then May, and May was said to be especially nice in these parts, on a clear day one could make out the Alps one hundred