Bob slid back farther.
No shots had gone toward the house. For a little while, at least, his wife was safe. He knew she'd have the sense to head to the cellar with Nikki and Sally and lock up and wait.
Meanwhile he had but one choice. That was to low crawl along the ridge and hope that its tiny incline was enough to shield him from Solaratov's vision. Solaratov would realize he couldn't go up or down, he'd never go toward him, he could only fall back around the mountain until he disappeared around it, and could then get up and move to cover and set up an ambush. Solaratov would go up, elevation was power in this engagement. Whoever reigned on high, reigned, because he'd have the angle into a target where the other man would have nothing.
That was the plan: to get out of this area of dangerous vulnerability, move like hell when safe and find a good hide. Solaratov would have to come around the mountain to get him, but he'd come around high. Bob knew he'd get a good shot, maybe only one, but he knew he could make it.
He tried to calculate the differences between his .308 168-grain round and the Russian's 7mm Remington Magnum.
The Magnum flew four hundred feet per second faster with almost a thousand pounds more muzzle energy, it shot so much flatter. The Russian, if he were under five hundred yards, could hold just a bit over him and pull the trigger, not worrying about drop. So he'd have to stay at least five hundred yards ahead, because the slight drop, plus the windage, would be his best defense.
He turned back, squirmed to the lip of the ridge, but could see nothing except the quiet house far below and the ridgeline running around the base of the mountain.
But he was coming. The Russian was coming. The Russian was hunting him.
Solaratov studied the situation. He looked across the horseshoe through his Leica binoculars at the ridge where he'd spotted the other shooter and understood the man couldn't go up or down, for both would expose him and he'd be dead in a second. He could only crawl desperately away, round the flank of the mountain, and try and set up in the mountain's next cove, waiting for a shot.
He shot a laser over and the readout told him the range was about 987 meters. He calculated the drop to be about forty-two inches from his five hundred-yard zero, which was four dots high on the mil-dot reticle. Now that he'd solved the distance, he felt confident. But there was one other thing left to do.
He pulled the rifle down, and quickly unscrewed the BOSS nozzle, which controlled barrel vibrations. He reached inside his jacket and removed an AWC suppressor.
It was a long black tube of anodized aluminum packed with 'baffles,' sound-absorbent material, like steel wool, and washers called 'wipes', it would reduce the 460-dB level of the gas exploding out of his muzzle by trapping it and bleeding it off, down to under a hundred db's, approximately the sound of a BB gun. From long distance, in the cone of the suppressor's pattern, that sound would be not merely significantly quieter but also more diffuse. There'd be no signature to reveal his position.
Anyone on the receiving end would hear only the crack of the bullet as it broke the sound barrier, but nothing from the rifle's muzzle that could pinpoint a location.
That meant he could shoot at his antagonist but his antagonist could not locate him by sound to shoot back. The downside: it changed his zero somewhat. How much?
He'd have to reckon visually and make adjustments as he fired. He still felt that with the range finder, the suppressor gave him significant tactical advantage. He carefully screwed the suppressor tight to the muzzle.
He knew one other thing, because he had studied the topographical maps: that once his antagonist got around the mountain, he would be in for a surprise. The elevation was much steeper. There were no ridges as there were here fronting the valley. He'd have no place to hide. He'd be in the open.
Solaratov knew the wise move would be to scamper upward to gain further advantage of height. As he had the initiative at this point, he probably had a good four- or five-minute window of time where he could ascend, slide over one of the lesser hills of Mount McCaleb, and then shoot down upon his antagonist.
But he also knew that is exactly how the man's mind would work, that's how he'd figure it and he himself, once under shelter, would ascend quickly to try and prevent the Russian from gaining the height advantage.
But none of this mattered. The objective was the woman. The higher Solaratov got, the farther from the woman he got. It wasn't about some man-on-man thing, some sniper duel, some engagement of vanity. That was his advantage. The other man--it had to be Swagger-meant nothing to him. Solaratov's ego was uninvested, what had happened all those years back in Vietnam was totally disconnected from today, and that itself was a significant advantage.
Thus Solaratov made his plan: he would drop back a few yards behind the shield of an enfilade and then descend in freedom to the valley floor. He'd have a dangerous period of vulnerability as he went across the valley floor, but with his snow skills and his understanding of the other man's fear, he knew the other man would be busy setting up a hide in the next fold for a man he thought would ascend to fight.
Instead, the Russian would work from the ground and shoot uphill. He'd find cover in a treeline or behind rocks, he'd scope the distance, and he'd put his silent shots onto the antagonist, precise and perfect.
Swagger would not even know where the shots came from. He'd hear nothing. He'd be driven back until he was out of cover, and then he'd die.
Then, thought Solaratov, I'll backtrack, get into the house and do the women. Witnesses. I'll have to kill them all.
Bob squirmed in a last desperate burst of energy and came around the mountain. There is no lower or more degrading mode of transportation than the low crawl, and he had crawled enough in his time. His elbows and knees ached from the endless banging against the rock. Snow had gotten into his mouth and down his neck. Now at last: some kind of safety.
He paused, breathing hard, feeling wet with sweat. At least Solaratov had not gotten above him to fire down on him as he crawled.
His mouth was dry, his body heaved for oxygen that he could not replenish fast enough. His heart hammered like a drum beaten by a madman. His focus rolled in and out.
But with a surge of will, he settled down. He pulled himself up the mountain and peeked back over some rocks
