Point Of Impact

later the world dissolves; this time it’s under the torrents of air that the standby medical chopper radiates as it settles with lazy urgency out of the sky. The camera shifts to it as paramedics and stretcher teams race over to Flashlight and the Alpha team. Screams, shouts, confusion. It reminded Nick of a pickup game of basketball, all frenzy and nonsense.

And then he had it, what was weird about the shooting.

“Could we go back to the hit?” he asked.

“What are you, a ghoul?”

“Come on, Hap, let me see the hit.”

There was some grumbling but Hap rewound the tape, then punched PLAY, and the drama reinvented itself up there on the screen, the lurch of the old man, the sudden, stunning, boltlike arrival of the bullet, the sleet of bone and tissue, and Nick was thinking about his own shooting.

I overcompensated, he thought. I knew the bullet, traveling downward, would drop farther. That’s the effect of the angle. So I overcompensated, missed high, and hit Myra. Now this Swagger, he knows shooting like he knows his own two hands and the smell of his own sweat. He knows where the bullet will strike. That means the bullet drift is going to be vertical. He’ll hit high or low on a vertical range; if he’s shooting at the president’s armpit, if the bullet goes too high it hits the president in the neck or head; if it’s too low it goes into his ribs or hip.

But this shooting error was lateral. It was on the same damn level as the president’s armpit, for the man was kneeling…but it was a lateral error, an aiming error, which had nothing to do with the shot’s most difficult aspect, the play of the downward angle over the long eight hundred yards to the target. Could a gust of wind have just nudged it off target?

He remembered that March 1 had been an unusually calm day, with the wind under five miles per hour. It was possible but not probable.

It suddenly occurred to Nick that the shooting error made no sense at all. He would shoot over the president, he would shoot below the president; he would not miss to the right. Not this boy.

Nick swallowed. He’d arrived at a place he didn’t want to be: it could only be that Bob Lee Swagger was shooting for the archbishop all the way.

And then he realized what bad news this was for everybody: currently the only theory available to unify the events was that that mean-ass, sullen, pissed-off Dixie whiteboy Swagger was shooting the president. It made sense. It held together – but only if Swagger were shooting for Flashlight.

If Swagger wasn’t shooting for Flashlight…a dizzying realm of possibility opened up.

Nick had a weird moment here, as his whole life traveled its fucked-up way before him and he suddenly saw that he was about to diverge from the path.

Because he now knew Swagger was innocent, and that the reason he saw compassion in the sniper’s eyes as he stood above him with the big Smith was because the sniper was still, by his own lights, a moral man, an honorable man – a man who did not shoot the innocent and Nick, stupid and bumbling, had been of the innocent.

“Nick?”

It was Howdy Duty.

“Nick, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to see me sometime today. All right?”

Oh, shit, thought Nick.

The cow was not frightened of Colonel Shreck.

Her eyes were placid and dull, though huge. There was something tenderly stupid in them.

The cow chewed her cud, occasionally scuffed one hoof in the straw, or bent her great, gentle head down to seize another bunch of hay from her bale.

“Shoot her,” said Colonel Shreck.

Hatcher kneeled, squinted, then found what he was looking for. He raised a 9mm Beretta 92 and shot the cow in the chest, hitting her square in a painted spot.

Dobbler winced at the report, even through the high-decibel soundproof earmuffs; and he thought he’d be sick, though he’d been feeling woozy since the event. He forced himself to look back at the animal. He’d never seen anything die, much less anything so huge and warm-blooded.

But the cow didn’t seem interested in dying. She’d twitched just once when the bullet drove through her and a tiny track of blood opened up from the black pucker of the entrance wound. But her head came back up, she continued to chew and to gaze at her audience benevolently.

“Of course she has one great advantage,” said Hatcher, rising. “She has no conceptual ability. She cannot understand what has just happened to her. Swagger, of course, saw the gun, and knew what happened. Thus his collapse and initial response to shock. But physiologically, that’s it. That’s the shot on Bob. Same range, same ammunition, same angle, through the center chest.”

Dobbler studied the animal. The animal appeared to study him back until he bored her. Then she lowered her head for another thatch of hay. He thought he would puke. He struggled to keep his focus, but could feel the sweat running down his face.

Dobbler watched as Shreck stared at the creature. The colonel seemed bent in some furious, one-pointed crusade to absorb all the life from the animal, his dark eyes gobbling up her destruction with no remorse whatsoever, only great curiosity. She paid him no attention.

“She’s hit and the bullet has gone down through her thoracic cavity and exited the other side,” said Thatcher. “But it’s not stopping her. It’s not even irritating her. This happens all too frequently. You may recall the famous ‘Miami Shootout’ of May 1987, where a creep named Michael Platt was hit ten times, once through the lungs, mostly with Winchester 9mm hollow-tips and kept firing long enough to kill two and wound five FBI agents.”

“I thought the point of a hollowpoint bullet,” said Colonel Shreck, “was to open up and rip the shit out of the tissue and organs.”

“It didn’t open,” said Hatcher. “If it had, he’d have never made it to the car, much less dumped that FBI agent. We know because Payne’s report says he saw blood on the back of the shirt. It had to go through without opening up.”

“Why didn’t it open up?” Shreck asked.

Finally, Hatcher answered. “In our research, we’ve found that most of the stopping problems with 9mm Silvertip came with first-generation ammunition. They first started manufacturing it in the mid-seventies. The real bad stopping problems took place then; subsequently they changed the circumference of the cavity and the composition of the copper sheathing the lead, and since then the results have been much better, up to about seventy-three percent one-shot kills. But Timmons had to draw his ammo from police sources. Otherwise, there’d be reason to suspect some kind of frame-up. And we think the police issue was an older lot, purchased back in 1982. But we had to go with police issue, because if he used an unauthorized load it led to very dangerous ground. We simply trusted him – or Payne, who insisted on doing the actual shooting – to place a mortal round. If he’d hit the heart, it wouldn’t have mattered. If it had opened up and he missed the heart, it wouldn’t have mattered. Unfortunately he missed the heart and it didn’t open up.”

“Shit,” said Shreck. “And why did Payne miss the heart?”

“You’d have to ask Payne, Colonel Shreck.”

“I did.”

“Bear in mind, sir,” said Hatcher, “that in the expanse of the chest, the heart is a fairly difficult target. It’s much smaller and to the right of where people think it is. I talked with him about anatomy, but in the dark, and the crisis of the second, he…”

Hatcher let the sentence end.

“You’re a doctor, Dr. Dobbler. What’s the medical prognosis?”

Dobbler cleared his throat. He’d researched this.

“Swagger could die of blood loss or infection. But it’s possible that the bullet just rushed through doing minor tissue damage and left him largely intact. If he was smart enough to stanch the bleeding right away – and clearly he was, having been wounded before – he’ll heal up and if he doesn’t get infected, he’ll be good as new in two weeks.”

Shreck looked as if he were going to laugh.