Red Sniper

Cole scanned the pages. He could pick out words here and there, like landmarks in a landscape, but that was all. The general and the major didn’t pick up on it, but when Cole looked up, he saw that the senator was watching him with new understanding. He was relieved to see that the glance held no judgment in it. Then the man blinked, and absorbed Cole’s secret without saying a word.

“Well, you can see from this report that it’s clear the Russians have some of our men. When the Russians took over former German POW camps, they did not let all of our boys go.”

The thought made Cole angry. “Why the hell not?”

“Stalin wants them for poker chips, that’s why. He wants to make sure we don’t put up a fuss about the Russians grabbing all this territory for themselves. What the Russians have done is wrong, plain and simple. Our government is afraid to act officially, because we’re walking on eggshells here in Europe. Everyone is so damned scared of upsetting the Russians.”

The general interrupted. “The president ought to do something about this. It’s not right.”

Senator Whitlock waved a hand. “Truman is all right, but he’s a weakling where the Russians are concerned. He doesn’t want to start another war. To be honest, nobody in America wants another war. So the president is just going to roll over and do what Uncle Joe tells him.”

Cole was a little shocked to hear the senator talk about the president that way, and the way he said it made it clear that he knew Truman personally. “Sir, what’s this got to do with me?”

Senator Whitlock smiled. “Gentlemen, why don’t you leave me alone with the sergeant for a few minutes?”

The general and major looked at one another. It was the major who spoke up. “Senator, I don’t know if—“

“Go on,” Senator Whitlock said, waving a hand again like he was shooing flies. “The sergeant and I need to get to know one another.”

Whitlock waited until the two officers left, and then closed the massive doors behind them. Then he went over to the sideboard and brought back the decanter to refill their glasses.

“This is fifty-year-old cognac. Wonderful stuff. Why should we let the general have it all to himself, ha, ha! Now let’s get to brass tacks, Sergeant Cole. Any American would be indignant to learn that the Russians are holding our soldiers hostage. It’s only natural. I’m as mad about it as you are. But let me be frank. You see, I have a personal interest in this as well. The Russians have my grandson. His B-17 was shot down in April, at which point in time he was captured by the Germans. I have confirmation that he was taken to a stalag in a part of Germany now held by the Russians. He has since been taken by the Russians and transferred to a remote Gulag—that’s a Russian prison camp, by the way—in northern Russia. Fortunately, it is within a few day’s walk of the Finnish border.”

The senator stopped short of explaining that Gulag was not a proper name, but an acronym for the Russian words for Main Administration of Camps. The Soviets had made their harsh system of more than one hundred forced labor camps sound as innocuous as possible.

“How do you know all this, sir?”

“We have our spies, just as the Russians do.”

Suddenly, Cole understood where the conversation was going.

“You want to get him out of there,” he said. “Why me?”

The senator looked him over. “You know, it’s kind of interesting. Here’s a young man from Appalachia who can’t read, who probably grew up without shoes on his feet, a real nobody. Does that sound like you?” In what was becoming a familiar gesture, the old man raised a hand to wave off the angry response on Cole’s lips. “I don’t say this to insult you, Sergeant. Quite the opposite.”

“I ain’t so sure about that.”

Whitlock went on, “You know what else is interesting? When I had my people ask around to find someone capable for this sort of mission, your name came up. More than once. Here’s a nobody who lands at Normandy and a year later he’s not a nobody at all. I would call that sort of person a somebody. Somebody who is respected. Does that sound better to you?”

Cole didn’t have an answer to that.

“I have to say, it wasn’t always in a good way that you were mentioned,” Whitlock added. “People are a little scared of you. They say you’re a killer.”

Cole had heard enough.

“Why should I do this?” he asked sharply. “Go all the way to Russia to rescue some rich guy’s grandson? It’s crazy.”

Whitlock nodded. He leaned back in the chair and studied Cole, as if reconsidering him. “I can’t order you, simply put. This wouldn’t even be a military mission. It can’t be, not officially. I am asking you because you are the best we’ve got. That, and the fact that the goddamn Russians have taken our soldiers hostage, including my grandson.” The senator pounded the desk so hard that the general stuck his head in for a second to make sure everything was all right, then retreated. “My question for you, Mr. Cole, is what kind of man are you?”

“I reckon I don’t understand the question.”