Red Sniper

The others appeared, carrying their gear and weapons. It had already been agreed upon that Samson would haul most of the extra ammunition. Honaker carried the winter gear intended for Whitlock, along with the bulk of the rations.

Dickey insisted on gathering them one last time on the tarmac, along with the pilot and co-pilot. The C-47 was flying with a bare bones crew—this wasn’t a bombing run, after all.

“All right, men. I’ve said everything there is to say at this point,” Dickey began. “You know that if you fall into Russian hands, you’ll be joining Whitlock in the Gulag—or worse. Nobody is coming to get you.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” Vaccaro said.

“Consider it an incentive not to get caught,” Dickey replied. He paused, as if building himself up to something. “Of course, I doubt that’s going to happen. The four of you would not have been chosen for this mission if you weren’t the very best. Gentlemen, I will see you in two weeks at the border.”

Nobody had much to say after that. Having spent two days together in the Finnish backwoods, they were talked out. Instead, they went about stowing their gear with the easy competence of men who had been on more than one combat mission.

The plane’s two Pratt & Whitney radial engines together generated twenty-four hundred horsepower, giving the C-47 a cruising speed of one hundred and sixty miles per hour. As they gained altitude, the woods and hills disappeared into the dusk below. It took the plane less than a minute to reach cruising altitude before it leveled off and flew east.

Conversation was difficult in the noisy belly of the C-47. There were hardly any creature comforts. They settled themselves into jump seats that folded down from the bulkhead. Looking down from the plane, the countryside below was a dark expanse uninterrupted by a single light. When Cole looked up, he could see the stars illuminating the clear night sky. It was like being on a mountaintop. It all felt more than a little unreal for someone who was used to having his feet planted firmly on the ground. You ain’t in Gashey’s Creek no more, he reminded himself—not for the first time since coming ashore on D-Day.

Cole felt good about the team. He knew he could trust Vaccaro with his life. Samson seemed dependable, and he was sure as hell solid. Honaker had some sort of bug up his ass about being in charge, but Cole could live with that as long as the man did his part when their boots hit the ground.

He glanced around at Vaccaro and Samson, who both looked to be sound asleep. Honaker was peering at a map by the dim glare of a red map flashlight. Being the leader.

Cole closed his eyes. He figured he could let his guard down on the plane—whatever happened up here wasn’t in his hands, but the pilot’s. It was damn cold, though, and he tugged his coat more tightly around him. Maybe winter was just a couple of weeks away on the ground, but it was winter sure enough 20,000 feet up. He nodded off.

• • •

Cole was awakened by a change in the rhythm of the plane. They had been flying smoothly enough, but now the plane seemed to shudder and struggle through the air. What was going on?

He looked around. Samson and Vaccaro still slept soundly. In the dim light he saw Honaker unbuckle himself from the jump seat and make his way toward the cockpit. Cole undid his own seatbelt and followed.

To his surprise, the cockpit was actually quite small—not much room for anyone but the pilot and co-pilot, but Honaker had managed to squeeze in. Cole stuck his head in over the man’s shoulder, and Honaker looked up in surprise. He hadn’t noticed Cole following him.

There was a bewildering number of controls, all dimly lighted. Beyond the windshield, Cole could see the clear unblinking stars. It did not inspire confidence that the co-pilot was busy flicking toggle switches, while the pilot was wrestling with the yoke in his hands. His knuckles glowed white where his fingers wrapped around the controls.

“This don’t look good,” Cole said.

“Yeah, we’ve got a problem,” the pilot said. His voice sounded strained. “We lost oil pressure in one of the engines. There’s over thirty gallons of oil in there, but it must have all leaked out. I can’t understand how it happened. We had to shut the damn thing down.”

“Must be an oil line went bad,” Honaker said. “We should turn back. We’re too far from the drop zone to make it.”

Cole looked out, straining to see the engines. Although the plane still struggled, they didn’t seem to be losing altitude. The other engine sounded strong enough. “Can this bird fly on one engine?”

“Buddy, we are flying on one engine. I think you would be sure to notice if we couldn’t,” the pilot said.

“Then we ought to keep flying,” Cole said. “We’re ready to go. Just get us to that drop zone.”

“Cole, are you crazy?” Honaker demanded. “We need to abort this mission.”