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 — he 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.
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
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,
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
