David Healey - Red Sniper

Also, on some deeper level, the idea of Americans being held captive by the Russians, and them lying about it, made him angry. He didn’t need to know Whitlock to be mad as hell about it. It just wasn’t right. Maybe Lieutenant Whitlock couldn’t do a damn thing about getting out of that place, but Cole sure as hell could.

If the food in Finland was lacking, at least the weather was good. It was colder this far north, with skies so blue they seemed scrubbed clean, and crisp nights that made the stars sparkle.

Honaker took the weather as a good sign, and told them so at breakfast the next morning. He was making some attempt at being the leader. “I’m telling you, these blue skies are a sign. It’s going to be a milk run.”

The Finn who knew some English listened to Honaker’s little speech and laughed.

Honaker glared at him. “What the hell is so funny?”

“In our country we have a saying: ‘Don’t praise the day until evening; a girl until she is married off; a sword until it is tried in battle; ice until it has been crossed; or beer until is has been drunk.’”

“I don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean,” Honaker grumped.

“He’s tellin’ us not to count our chickens before they hatch,” Cole said, giving the Finn a rare grin. “That’s what we say in our country. All in all, it’s good advice. Now, somebody pass that reindeer stew.”

Major Dickey gathered them just before dusk on the second day. Despite the Finn’s earlier warning, Cole had almost thought it safe to praise the day, but he changed his mind when Dickey explained that the team was going to make a night drop.

“The Russians don’t have radar stations this far north, at least not yet,” Dickey said. “However, they may have spotters keeping watch for enemy planes. Darkness will give us some cover.”

“Where’s Honaker?” Cole wondered.

“You tell me. He couldn’t have gone far.” Dickey waved at the nearby forests to make his point. “Grab your gear, everyone. You take off in an hour.”

“You’re not coming with us, sir?”

“Not me.” He tapped his head. “If the Russians captured me, there are too many secrets up here.”

“What about what’s in my head?” Vaccaro wanted to know. “Aren’t you worried about what the Russians will learn from me?”

Dickey looked at him, trying to gauge whether Vaccaro was serious. “Not really.”

Cole had already packed and re-packed his gear and cleaned his rifle. He was ready, even eager. He carried his pack down to the C-47 waiting to fly them deep into Russia.

That’s where he found Honaker, sliding down from one of the wings.

“What the hell you doin’ up there?” Cole wanted to know.

“Just checking the plane.”

“You know how to fly one of these things?”

“Nope. Just curious, is all. I thought I saw where some flak damage had been patched, and it looked a little sloppy to me.”

“That plane got us here from Germany,” Cole said. “I reckon it will be good enough to jump out of.”

“I don’t know. Let’s just hope it makes it that far.” Honaker grabbed him by the shoulder in what was meant to be a genial gesture. He grinned. “Look at you, all packed up and ready to go, like a good Boy Scout.”

Cole took a step back so that Honaker’s hand fell away. He didn’t like being touched. And he sure as hell wasn’t Honaker’s buddy. “Dickey said we’re taking off at dusk.”

“Show time, then.” The grin slid off Honaker’s face. “Listen, Cole, you know that Dickey made me the squad leader. The two of us aren’t going to have a problem, are we?”

“Why would we have a problem?”

“Because you seem like the type of fella who likes to do things his way. Just so you know, we have got to work together if we’re going to get home in one piece.”

“You mean, if we’re gonna get Lieutenant Whitlock home in one piece. That’s our mission, ain’t it?”

“Hell, you know what I mean, Cole. Are you going to be a problem for me?”

Cole looked Honaker up and down. He was built much like Cole, so he didn’t really have a physical advantage. What Honaker did have, Cole decided, was that look of someone who was always calculating to get an advantage over you, like a buyer at a lumber mill or a fur dealer. Cole decided then and there that he didn’t trust Honaker worth a damn. He wished he had seen it sooner.

“Somebody has got to be in charge,” Cole said. “I reckon it may as well be you.”

“There. You see that, Cole? Me and you will get along fine.”

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?