Red Sniper

Cole hoped, at first, that it was some trick of the eye that made the Russians seem to be getting closer, like the way that, when you were hunting in the woods at dusk, a tree stump could seem to take on the shape of a bear. Imagination had gotten the better of more than one hunter. So he looked away from the distant silhouettes of the Russians. He gave it half an hour, timed on one of Vaccaro’s wrist watches. Looked again. Definitely closer.

Vaccaro caught him looking. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I reckon they’re going to catch us before the day is out. Inna and Whitlock can’t go no faster.”

“Goddamn.” Vaccaro looked again. “You sure?”

“Well, maybe not catch us, but get in rifle range, which is the same thing.”

“Let me guess, Hillbilly. You are planning on doing something about that.”

Cole nodded. “It ain’t much of a plan at the moment.”

“Need some help?”

“I appreciate that, City Boy. But in the end it comes down to me and Barkov.”

“God help Barkov.”

“Them Russians don’t believe in God,” Cole pointed out. Cole was a believer, if not a regular church-goer. He appreciated a bit of fire and brimstone preaching to set one’s mind right. “They put you in a Gulag if you do.”

Cole thought he might have another couple of hours before something needed doing about Barkov, three at most. Maybe they could even stay out ahead of the Russians until dark.

As it turned out, they didn’t have nearly that long. They had only been on the move for ten minutes when Inna stepped in a hole and twisted her ankle.

She sat on a rock, grimacing in pain, while Whitlock wrapped the ankle with his leather belt and a scarf. Vaska cut her a sapling to use as a crutch.

“Goddamn,” Honaker said, sounding disgusted.

“I am so sorry,” Inna said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Cole said. “It could have happened to any of us.”

Their lead over the Russians shrank while they slowed down for Inna, who hobbled across the snowy frozen ground on her makeshift crutch, clearly in pain. It was only a matter of time before Barkov had them in rifle range.

They walked for another hour. Inna did not complain, but she grimaced with each step.

Vaska pointed ahead. “That is Finland.”

All that they could see was a blur on the horizon where the open plain met forest, like land glimpsed at sea, but they would take the old Russian’s word for it.

The thing was, they weren’t going to make it. The border was still a long way off. The Russians were going to catch them before that border came into sight.

Cole thought it over. Time for a change in plans. Time to settle this business with Barkov once and for all.

Cole looked over at Vaccaro. “You ever see one of them western pictures?”

“Cole, you are such a hillbilly. I know for a fact that the first time you saw a western flick was movie night in the Army.”

“The one I’m thinking of has a shootout on the street of the town between the sheriff and the outlaw.”

“I’ll bet you were rooting for the outlaw,” Vaccaro said.

“The outlaw gets to wear a black hat in them movies. Who the hell wants to wear a white hat?”

“Why the sudden interest in westerns?”

“In the movie, the sheriff stands in the middle of the street with his gun on his hip, and he waits for the outlaw to come to him.”

“This is all very interesting, Cole. I didn’t take you for such a movie buff. Maybe you’ve got a movie projector in your back pocket and you are gonna surprise us all with movie night.”

“No, there ain’t gonna be no movie night, but sure as shit there is gonna be a shootout.”

• • •

Barkov felt happy from his fur cap down to the tips of his felt-lined boots. The sun was out and he turned his face toward it, enjoying the faint warmth. The morning cold was dissipating, but the crisp air made you want to inhale great lungfuls of it. The Americans were almost within his grasp.

He had no illusions that re-capturing the escaped American would do him any good. There would be no medals. He might even find himself tossed into the Gulag. That was life in the Soviet Union for you—one’s circumstances changed like the weather. One learned to take both nothing—and everything—for granted.

The only blot on his good mood was the absence of the Mink. Stopping these Americans was a matter of personal pride. The sniper among them had killed his old friend.

He missed the Mink, who had been the closest thing he had to a friend. But in war, he had learned not to mourn for too long. Some people lived, some people died, some sooner than others.

When he caught up with that American sniper, Barkov planned to flay the skin off him with his whip. It was the least he could do for the Mink.

• • •