He's got me, he thought, listening as the crack of the bullet snapping the sound barrier arrived.
But where was the muzzle blast?
There was no muzzle blast.
Suppressor, he thought. The motherfucker has a suppressor.
The sniper could be anywhere. Bob lay behind his rack of stones, waiting. No other shot came. Clearly he was completely zeroed but not quite visible enough for a good body or head shot.
Bob was almost paralyzed. No place to run, zeroed, completely outfoxed. Completely faked out.
He tried to run through the possibilities. Clearly Solaratov was not at one of the three places that Bob had determined. He'd gotten around somehow, and Bob believed him to be below, given the one shot that had ricocheted off the stone that shielded his head. The round had struck from downslope. If Solaratov were above him, it would be all over. The Russian had out thought him by descending into the valley and was now shooting upward.
Bob tried to remember what was down there, and recalled a little patch of snow-packed forest. Somewhere the sniper was down there, but without a sound signature to locate him, he was effectively invisible.
Do something.
Sure: but what?
Move, crawl.
He has you.
If you move he kills you.
Checkmate. No moves possible. Caught in the rocks, trapped.
Then he realized that the Russian was but a few hundred yards from the house where the undefended women hid. After he killed Bob, it would take him five minutes to finish the job. Since it would be close-range work, he could leave no witnesses.
It was almost over now.
The Russian could see the man cowering behind the rocks and could sense his fear and rage and the closing in of his possibilities.
He filled with confidence. He had not fired twice but three times. The first shot landed about four feet above his target. That was the new zero. Swagger had not even noticed it. Quickly he dialed in the correction, fired again.
He hit him! The next shot barely missed him. But he knew: he had him!
It occurred to him to move ever so slightly, find a better shooting position and try and drive the killing shot home. But he had such an advantage now, why worry about it? Why move, not be able to shoot, just when the man is so helpless, has already been hit, is presumably leaking blood and in great pain.
The rifle rested on the tree trunk, he was comfortable behind it, sure that he was invisible from the ridge. The reticle was steady, he knew the range. It was merely a matter of time, of so little time.
What can he do?
He can do nothing.
Bob tried to clear the rattle from his head.
In the field, what would I do?
Call in artillery.
Call in smoke.
No artillery.
No smoke.
Throw a grenade.
No grenade.
Fire the Claymore.
No Claymore. The Claymore was in the case three thousand feet up the mountain. He wished he had it now.
Call in a chopper.
No chopper.
Call in tactical air.
No tactical air.
But a word caught somewhere in his mind.
Smoke.
No smoke.
It would not go away.
Smoke.
