then killed himself. It was a horrible thing, just a horrible thing. Man, that agent trained for that shot his whole life, and when it came, he blew it. A shame.”
“They were in a limo?”
“No. It was the back of a pickup. We got a deal on the limo.”
The Cherokee parked, and various people stopped scuffling about and came over to greet the team. Hatcher checked with technicians, radios were issued and handed out and they took Bob to a blackboard under a lean-to.
“You know, Mr. Swagger, in the past fifteen years, by our computations, law enforcement authorities, federal and local, have taken over eight hundred fifty precision shots. That is, through scopes at armed felons at ranges from between thirty-five and three hundred fifty yards. Do you know what the one-shot stop ratio is?”
“I’d bet it’s low.”
“Thirty-one percent one-shot drops. Hell, just last year in Sacramento, California, a police sniper took a clear shot at an unmoving gunman through the door of an electronics store and missed him completely. The guy shot three hostages to death before they settled his hash. Do you know why?”
Bob thought a while, took his time, and then delivered an answer.
“Some tiny percentage of the misses might be due to round deviation or equipment failure. But I’d bet the most usual cause is shooter failure. In the ’Nam, I missed my first shot. And my second. It takes practice to get used to staying relaxed while taking the trigger slack out on a man.”
You have to find a little cold place and be there by yourself for a while, he was thinking.
“That’s right,” Hatcher sang out cheerily. “So our theory is that if we can increase their confidence factor even by a tiny margin, it’s a great thing. You want that guy on the rifle knowing what he’s got in his chamber’s going to do its job if he does his. And one reason he’llbelieve it, we’re hoping, is because you’ve told him so and showed him how.”
Bob nodded.
“Can I see the vehicle?”
“No. Think of it this way, did the FBI agent see the vehicle any time before he had to fire? No, he didn’t and we want to put you where he was. And we’re not going to tell you the range either, that’s something we’d like you to dope out on your own. No, what we’d like is to put you up there on what’s supposed to be the fifth floor of the Tulsa Casualty and Life Building. It’s October tenth, 1986, and a bank robber named Willie Downing with a cheap Star 9mm and three female hostages is being driven toward Tulsa International Airport where an airliner is waiting, he thinks, to fly him to Africa. You’re Special Agent Nick Memphis of the FBI, SWAT trained, the best rifle and pistol marksman in the office. Sometime in the next few hours, Willie Downing will be before your sights, having killed a policeman and a bank guard and wounded two more, and now demonstrating serious signs of a PCP-induced psychotic episode. Your supervisor has determined that yours is the best shot; you have the angle and the opportunity. The real Nick Memphis was firing a Remington 700 in .308, but without the heavy varmint barrel—”
“Shouldn’t have mattered,” said Bob, “not for one shot.”
“Anyway, we’re going to tie you into a radio net and a lot of the information you’ll be getting is based on the actual transcripts, so you’ll be in about the same situation as Nick Memphis was. I’ll be on the mike down here, reading you the radio commands to play you just the way his supervisors played Nick Memphis. You’ll have plenty of time to set up, just like he did, and plenty of time to acquire the target while you’re waitingfor the green light. So, Mr. Swagger, now that you’ve seen it—do you want to play?”
Bob looked up the teetery structure of rods and lumber. It didn’t seem too damn steady. But it had him. His vanity was pricked. Gould he hit this shot, especially where some federal fool had failed, using up several lives in the
“They were in a limo?”
“No. It was the back of a pickup. We got a deal on the limo.”
The Cherokee parked, and various people stopped scuffling about and came over to greet the team. Hatcher checked with technicians, radios were issued and handed out and they took Bob to a blackboard under a lean-to.
“You know, Mr. Swagger, in the past fifteen years, by our computations, law enforcement authorities, federal and local, have taken over eight hundred fifty precision shots. That is, through scopes at armed felons at ranges from between thirty-five and three hundred fifty yards. Do you know what the one-shot stop ratio is?”
“I’d bet it’s low.”
“Thirty-one percent one-shot drops. Hell, just last year in Sacramento, California, a police sniper took a clear shot at an unmoving gunman through the door of an electronics store and missed him completely. The guy shot three hostages to death before they settled his hash. Do you know why?”
Bob thought a while, took his time, and then delivered an answer.
“Some tiny percentage of the misses might be due to round deviation or equipment failure. But I’d bet the most usual cause is shooter failure. In the ’Nam, I missed my first shot. And my second. It takes practice to get used to staying relaxed while taking the trigger slack out on a man.”
You have to find a little cold place and be there by yourself for a while, he was thinking.
“That’s right,” Hatcher sang out cheerily. “So our theory is that if we can increase their confidence factor even by a tiny margin, it’s a great thing. You want that guy on the rifle knowing what he’s got in his chamber’s going to do its job if he does his. And one reason he’llbelieve it, we’re hoping, is because you’ve told him so and showed him how.”
Bob nodded.
“Can I see the vehicle?”
“No. Think of it this way, did the FBI agent see the vehicle any time before he had to fire? No, he didn’t and we want to put you where he was. And we’re not going to tell you the range either, that’s something we’d like you to dope out on your own. No, what we’d like is to put you up there on what’s supposed to be the fifth floor of the Tulsa Casualty and Life Building. It’s October tenth, 1986, and a bank robber named Willie Downing with a cheap Star 9mm and three female hostages is being driven toward Tulsa International Airport where an airliner is waiting, he thinks, to fly him to Africa. You’re Special Agent Nick Memphis of the FBI, SWAT trained, the best rifle and pistol marksman in the office. Sometime in the next few hours, Willie Downing will be before your sights, having killed a policeman and a bank guard and wounded two more, and now demonstrating serious signs of a PCP-induced psychotic episode. Your supervisor has determined that yours is the best shot; you have the angle and the opportunity. The real Nick Memphis was firing a Remington 700 in .308, but without the heavy varmint barrel—”
“Shouldn’t have mattered,” said Bob, “not for one shot.”
“Anyway, we’re going to tie you into a radio net and a lot of the information you’ll be getting is based on the actual transcripts, so you’ll be in about the same situation as Nick Memphis was. I’ll be on the mike down here, reading you the radio commands to play you just the way his supervisors played Nick Memphis. You’ll have plenty of time to set up, just like he did, and plenty of time to acquire the target while you’re waitingfor the green light. So, Mr. Swagger, now that you’ve seen it—do you want to play?”
Bob looked up the teetery structure of rods and lumber. It didn’t seem too damn steady. But it had him. His vanity was pricked. Gould he hit this shot, especially where some federal fool had failed, using up several lives in the
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