Red Sniper

It wasn’t long after they had been ambushed by the two Americans that Barkov found the signs in the snow of where the others had started out that morning. He counted six sets of tracks. He knew that two of those sets of tracks belonged to Inna Mikhaylovna and the escaped American pilot. But who else? He felt a twinge of apprehension, not knowing exactly whom he was chasing.

“Not so far ahead of us now,” he said.

Even so, they might have missed the campsite if Dmitri had not stopped to relieve himself, and being shy, had moved into the woods away from the others.

“Over here!” the boy called, frantically buttoning himself up. “There is blood all over the snow!”

Barkov could see that Dmitri had found where the Americans had set up a rough camp and built shelters. Barkov was more astonished to discover that the camp had been the scene of a battle—or so it seemed. It was just as bloody as any skirmish site he had seen during the war, but he quickly saw that this had been a battle between man and beast. The snow was trampled. Blood flecked the drifts. He saw a dead wolf, and a dead dog. He was sure that not all the blood belonged to the animals.

The Mink walked up next to dead wolf. It looked nearly as big as him. The beast’s eyes stared sightlessly, and its jaws gaped open, revealing sharp white teeth.

“When we return, we need to organize a wolf hunt,” the Mink said. “These wolves need to be taught fear.”

Barkov grunted in agreement. He did not like wolves.

It was disturbing that the wolves had attacked, and yet it was not terribly unusual. The war had all but eliminated hunting because there simply had not been any hunters in Russia—they had all been off fighting in Finland or on the Eastern Front. Sure, there were a few old men around like that village hunter, Vaska, armed with ancient rifles, but someone like Vaska did not actively hunt wolves. You could not eat a wolf, and the pelts had little value.

Stalin had seen to it that few people had weapons of any kind. An unarmed people were more easily controlled by a dictator. He had left his own people defenseless. As a consequence, the wolf packs had grown larger and bolder. It wasn’t unusual to hear of a child being snatched from the edges of a village. Some of the bigger, and hungrier, wolves even attacked adults.

Which was just what had happened here.

“May the devil take them,” he said, and spat.

The men spread out to explore the campsite. There was not much to see. He did have to allow some grudging admiration for the work the Americans had done. Their shelters looked snug.

Except for one. He could see the damage where a wolf had dug into a shelter, then forced its way between the branches of the roof. Someone had been sleeping in there, and the wolf had gone after him. Or her.

In spite of himself, Barkov shivered.

One of the men gave a shout, and Barkov saw that he was waving. He had found something. A cigarette pack was speared on a stick.

The soldier reached out to pull the pack free, perhaps hoping that a cigarette had somehow been overlooked inside.

Barkov’s warning came too late.

There was a snap, a swish, the sound of something heavy shifting overhead. Instantly, a log above the solder’s head gave way. The man’s scream was cut short as the log struck him.

Dmitri hurried over and struggled to get the log off the other man, who was quite still beneath it. Barkov shoved Dmitri away, then reached down with two big hands and tossed the log aside as though it were a matchstick.

But it was too late for the soldier. The falling log had struck with enough force to break his neck.

It wasn’t even noon, and he had already lost two men today—one in the trap just now, and the other in an ambush.

“Come on,” he said gruffly. “Let’s see if we can finish this business before the day is out.”

• • •

They needed food. Meat. It had been two days since they had eaten any real food. They wouldn’t make it another two days. Cole decided to take a chance and double back to check the snares that he and Vaska had set that morning. He left Vaccaro as the rear guard.

He didn’t backtrack, but moved in a circle to give the Russians a wide berth. Vaska had offered his snowshoes, but the snow was only about six inches deep—not really enough snow to slow him down, and definitely not deep enough to make strapping on the cumbersome snowshoes worthwhile. He would be able to catch up with the others, if he double timed it on the way back. With luck, he would be gone for an hour at most, maybe two.

Earlier, he and the others had heard the gunshots that would have been Samson’s and Ramsey’s last stand. An ominous quiet followed.

Part of him burned with a desire for revenge. It was just how he was wired: eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Anyone who grew up in the mountains lived by that code. Vengeance ran through the mountain people like a vein of ore. The fact that he had known Samson and Ramsey for just a few days didn’t matter.