The Sniper and the Wolf

66

After agreeing to separate, Gil left Dragunov and moved carefully from cover to cover toward the south, allowing Kovalenko to catch glimpses of him but not enough to risk getting shot. He knew the Chechen was in the tree line on the far side of the valley, so, relatively speaking, the bullet would take a little bit longer to reach him. This extra bit of time would be measured in tenths of a second, but it was enough for Gil to leap between rocks or trees without having to worry about Kovalenko forcing a shot that could potentially expose his position. The biggest risk was that he might anticipate Gil’s movement, firing a split second before he made his dash, thus delivering the round in time to intercept him. For this reason, Gil had to be very careful to keep his movements jerky and unpredictable. It was a dangerous game, and if he played it too long, he would certainly be killed.

The plan was for Gil to draw Umarov’s men southeast of Dragunov’s position. This would put their backs to Dragunov and allow him to start picking them off without immediate danger from Kovalenko. And this would force Kovalenko to make a choice: either let them escape or begin maneuvering against two different sniper positions at the same time. Gil had no doubt he would choose the latter.

The bulk of Umarov’s men had reached the stream by this time, and it was apparent from the size of the force that additional reinforcements had arrived. There were at least a hundred men maneuvering through the trees and around the boulders. The fighters at the front of the advance had spotted Gil’s movement, and they took the occasional potshot at him as he darted from cover to cover.

After traveling a few hundred meters around the eastern rim of the valley, Gil was forced to pause, having arrived at a particularly wide gap in the trees, where a large fissure cut down through the slope like a firebreak. The fissure was four feet across and five feet deep. He could leap across it easily, but the jump would give Kovalenko time enough to blow him away. He crouched with his back to the rock and thought about the Chechen sitting in his hide across the valley, undoubtedly licking his chops as he waited for Gil to make the obligatory leap of faith.

He envisioned himself in Kovalenko’s position, eye to the scope, watching the left side of the fissure for the first hint of movement, then squeezing the trigger, delivering the bullet at the same instant Gil landed on the far side.

Gil darted halfway from behind the rock and pulled back quickly. A bullet struck the rocky ground on the far side of the fissure, kicking up dust, and Gil lunged forward again, throwing himself across the fissure and diving onto his belly behind another rock. A second bullet nicked the heel of his boot as he pulled his legs to safety.

Kovalenko would be cursing him now, and Gil stuck his middle finger up over the rock for a half second and pulled it back. A third round stuck the rock and ricocheted with a whine.

“Good, you’re pissed,” Gil muttered. “Wait till you find out Ivan’s still alive.”

The first group of Umarov’s men had arrived within effective AK-47 range about a hundred yards down the slope, and it wasn’t more than ten seconds before Dragunov’s first shot rang out across the valley, cutting down a man in the midst of shouting orders to pick up the pace.

Gil scrambled from behind the rock into the trees, where the cover was more substantial. Dragunov fired again, and another Chechen toppled over about seventy yards downhill, shot in the small of the back.

Gil hunkered in with his own SVD. He placed the PSO-1’s unique T-shaped reticle on the face of the next Chechen in line and squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck the man in the left eye and blew out the back of his head. The body spun a tight pirouette to the ground, and the sight had a chilling effect on the rest of the skirmishers, sending them scrambling for cover behind rocks and in shallow depressions. Nothing demoralized infantry like sniper fire.

Gil now had a good estimate of the angle from which Kovalenko was firing, and he knew he would be safe behind the tree until Kovalenko could displace for a better shot. He concerned himself with a pair of Chechens who’d taken cover in a shallow defilade a hundred yards downslope. The two men were pouring AK-47 fire into the trees off to the left. He placed the reticle on the forehead of the first guy, allowing for the drop of the bullet, and squeezed the trigger, blowing off the top of his head. Then Gil shifted a hair to the right and shot the second one through the center of the face. The head snapped back and then forward again, smacking against the ground.

Another, braver pair of Chechens attempted to maneuver uphill through a dense copse of trees, and Gil was about to squeeze the trigger when Dragunov — who must have worried that Gil couldn’t see them — shot one through the pelvis. The Chechen went down screaming, and Gil shot him through the head.

The other guy panicked and darted from the trees on the far left side, where Dragunov would not have a shot at him. Gil led him six inches and squeezed the trigger, hitting him in the left temple and blowing out his eyes. He swung back to the right and shot another man in the face just as he was stealing a peek from behind a boulder. The body fell from behind the rock, and an arm reached out to grab him. Gil shot it off at the elbow.

“Looks like you’re gonna need some help with those ketchup bottles from now on, partner.”

Bullets splintered the tree limbs just above him, and he marked the shooter two hundred yards downslope behind another rock. The rock wasn’t very large, but Gil could see only the barrel of the rifle and the top of the shooter’s camouflaged cap. He squeezed the trigger. The round hit the forestock of the AK-47 and ricocheted into the Chechen’s eye.

The wounded man jumped up and ran away downhill.

Gil let him go, knowing his bloody retreat would have a detrimental effect on the morale of the men farther downslope.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Two more rounds before I take this show back on the road.”

A bullet passed through a two-inch gap in the rocks to Gil’s right, tearing a chunk from the tree just beyond his nose. It was a round that could have come only from Kovalenko. “Fuck me!” he said, pulling back. “Time to go!”