David Healey - Red Sniper

Cole, however, hardly ever talked about growing up. In fact, it was hard to think of Cole as a kid—except maybe a smaller version that was just as lean and rangy, with the same serious expression on his face. He did know that Cole’s daddy had been a mean drunk. He knew that Cole had never really gone to school. Beyond that, Vaccaro knew better than to ask.

Cole handed him another sandwich. “Just like a Sunday School picnic,” he said.

“Did your Sunday School teacher bring beer along, too?” Vaccaro wondered. “That’s my kind of religion.”

They sat in the grass and ate the sandwiches and drank the beer, soaking up sunshine. It was the best that Cole had felt in a long time, but he realized it wasn’t because they were playing hooky from the Army. It was because he had finally gotten a chance to do some shooting.

The beer made them both lazy in the warm afternoon. They shared the knapsack as a pillow, both of them stretched out in opposite directions. They had done this by necessity in the war; now it just felt companionable. Cole was starting to drift off when he heard the whine of an approaching Jeep. He sat up.

“Aw, hell. We done made somebody nervous.”

The Jeep was being driven by a couple of MPs, distinguishable by their white armbands and the white bands on their helmets.

Cole and Vaccaro weren’t making any particular effort to hide, but the road was far from the edge of the field. One of the MPs stood up in the Jeep and waved at them.

“If we run, they’re not gonna catch us,” Vaccaro said.

“Shut up, Vaccaro. You ever try to outrun a Jeep?”

Instead, they packed up and headed toward the Jeep, fully expecting to be get in hot water for disturbing the peace.

The MP was a big, thick-necked fellow.

“Are you Cole?”

“Well, I reckon I am.”

“You are wanted at HQ, sir. You’re late for a meeting. We’ve been looking for you since this morning. One of your buddies said you might be out here testing a rifle. We heard the shooting and figured it might be you.”

“A couple of regular detectives,” Vaccaro said.

“Who are you?” the MP asked.

“My name’s Vaccaro.”

“Nobody said anything about you, Vaccaro. But we’ll give you a ride back, if you want.”

They got in the back of the Jeep.

“What’s this about?”

“Nobody told me, sir.”

Cole was getting confused about this “sir” business from the MPs. “Listen, I’m only a corporal.”

“That’s not what I was told. I was ordered to find Sergeant Cole. Apparently, you’ve been promoted.”

“That’s news to me. How can I get promoted and be late for a meeting I didn’t know about in the first place?”

The MP grinned. “That’s the Army for you. You’re always the last to know.”

Somehow, despite the fact that the war was ending—or maybe because of it—new uniforms were in short supply. The replacement troops sent to occupy Germany were the only men with new uniforms, and as a result, they stood out in stark contrast to the combat veterans.

Cole had to make do with the fatigues he’d been wearing since before the Battle of the Bulge. They had been washed, but the uniform was badly worn and patched in places. He did take some time to give his boots a quick polish and to comb his hair.

Cole glanced at himself in a mirror. That’s the story of my life. Always trying to make do with worn-out clothes and a sliver of soap. After living on C rations and cigarettes for months in the field, he had put on some weight during their occupation duty, and filled out the uniform better. Nobody would describe him as beefy.

“How do I look?” he asked Vaccaro.

“Just about right for a court martial.”

Vaccaro wished him luck. The MPs had waited outside for Cole to get cleaned up, and they gave him a ride to HQ. Cole couldn’t tell if they had been sent to keep in an eye on him, or to actually assist him.

A dozen thoughts ran through his mind, the chief one being why he had been summoned to HQ. Vaccaro’s comment about a court martial scratched at the back of his mind. Had disobeying orders back at the Elbe by ferrying refugees across finally caught up with him? Was there some other infraction he could only guess at? It would be just like the Army to promote him just in time to bust him down to private.

Headquarters was located in a grand old mansion. You could count on the generals to find the fanciest digs around. The MPs had to stop for yet more MPs at the gate, who reviewed their orders before letting them through. The entry gates were topped by a couple of hideous-looking beasts straight out of some story intended to scare children. Gargoyles, he’d learned that they were called. Judging by how many he had seen, Europeans seemed to be fond of them. You just didn’t see that kind of thing in the States. It was a reminder that there was something dark and ancient running through the heart of Europe.

Inside, it looked to Cole like the mansion had been stripped of anything valuable, like a house gone up for auction by the bank. He was brought through a set of tall carved doors into an office the size of his squad’s entire barracks. A small fire burned in the fireplace. It might be warm outside, but the mansion’s stone walls felt cool and chill.

Three men stood around the fire. Two wore uniforms, but the third man did not. He was an older, snowy haired man, with high cheekbones and a sharp nose that made him look like a hawk. All three looked up as he walked in. To Cole’s astonishment, one of the officers wore general’s stars.

“Sergeant Cole,” said the general. “Glad you could make it.”

“Yes, sir.” Cole did his best to come to attention. He saluted. Military pomp and circumstance never had been his strong point, but you were never wrong to salute a general.

The older man spoke up. “No need for that all that, Sergeant. We are an informal bunch here today.” He stuck out a hand. Cole stared at it for a moment before it registered that he was supposed to shake.

“Yes, sir. The MPs told me I was a sergeant now.”

“Yes, well, we needed someone with some rank for what we have in mind,” the older man said.

“I don’t want to be in charge of nobody,” Cole said defiantly. Like most mountain people, Cole didn’t like anyone telling him what to do. At the same time, mountain people had no interest in giving orders to anyone else.

The older man gave him what Cole could only think of as a kindly look. “Why don’t we sit down and discuss it? Major, pour us all a drink.”

He seemed to have taken charge, never mind the fact that there was a general and a major in the room. Who the hell was he?

They went over to a massive carved desk that must have belonged to some German millionaire, or maybe to a baron. The general took a seat behind the desk. The major was busy at a sideboard, filling glasses. The older man pulled his chair closer to Cole, so that they were almost knee to knee. He smelled of good cigars and aftershave.

“You’re probably wondering who I am. My name is Harrison Whitlock. You can see that I’m not a military man. However, I am a United States senator, for whatever that’s worth.” The way Whitlock put weight on the word “senator” made it plain that it was worth a great deal.

“All right.” Cole took the crystal glass that the major handed him. Sipped. The liquor went down as fiery and smooth as lava, and seemed to go straight to his head. Cole already felt a little dizzy. He was out of his element here among these men, and none of it made any sense.

“Now you know who I am, and let me share what I know about you . The general here tells me that you grew up hunting and trapping, and that you know just about everything there is to know about surviving in the woods. You are one of the best snipers in the United States Army.” The senator paused. “Word has it that you are also one tough son of a bitch when the need arises.”