David Healey - Red Sniper

“It does feel like more snow, Hillbilly,” Vaccaro said.

“You would be right about that, City Boy,” Cole agreed. “Maybe a lot of snow.”

The heavy gray skies seemed to press upon them, but the snow held off. They covered as much ground as they could, knowing that once the snow started to fall, it would slow their progress.

“Hasn’t started yet,” Vaccaro pointed out. “Maybe it will blow over.”

Cole didn’t answer. Morning blended into afternoon. The miles passed in a blur, with the only stops for water. Nobody even bothered to light a cigarette—they were too winded.

Just before nightfall, fat flakes the size of silver dollars began to float down lazily out of the sky. Within minutes, however, the snowflakes diminished in size and began to come almost straight down. It was as if a million down pillows had been ripped open in the heavens above.

They kept going in the dusky light, hoping to add another mile or two to their progress.

“We ought to stop,” Cole announced. “We’ll need some light to build shelters from this snow.”

Honaker ignored him. “No, we keep going,” he said. “We have flashlights if we need them.”

Gloom surrounded them. A dark shape flashed past, and then another. Vaska’s laika growled, the raised ruff around his neck feathered with snow.

“Did you see that?” Vaccaro asked nervously. “Some kind of animal. A big animal.”

“We ought to stop soon and make shelter,” Cole said. “The Ruskies ain’t the only thing on our trail.”

“We need to keep going as long as there’s any daylight,” Honaker insisted. “For all we know, those Russians could be right behind us.”

Despite the need for shelter, Honaker made no sign of stopping. He acted as if he could somehow leave the snow behind, if only they kept moving.

The landscape was changing. They left the rocky, shrubby terrain and entered a marshy area, with hummocks of grass frosted by snow, interspersed with frozen ponds and pools, their frozen surfaces covered by a neat layer of snow, like a white tablecloth at a fancy restaurant. They were lucky that the temperature was below freezing. The bog would have been impassable in warm weather.

“Stick to the grass,” Cole warned. “There’s no telling if the ice is thick enough to cross.”

The trouble was that in the growing darkness, it was hard to find sure footing. In the murky twilight, each step was becoming an act of faith. The grassy hummocks were too narrow in some places for the entire group to pass easily.

Whitlock was crossing one of the frozen pools with Ramsey hanging off his shoulders. The new snow squeaked under his boots. One man might have made it, but the weight of both men was too much. The ice cracked with a noise like a gunshot.

Whitlock felt the ice going, and half-shoved, half-threw Ramsey toward the grassy bridge being crossed by Inna. An instant later, he plunged through the ice. They had a glimpse of Whitlock as he bobbed up and gasped for air.

His hands scrabbled at the edges of the hole, and for a few seconds it looked as if he might get a grip on the ice.

But his hands slipped.

And then he was gone.

It all happened so fast. By the time Inna shouted in alarm, the dark water had already claimed him.

The glacial kettle pool was deceptively deep, because not so much as Whitlock’s head was visible. All that remained was a patch of black water, surrounded by cracked ice.

Cole was the first to react. Water was Cole’s worst nightmare—he had nearly drowned as a boy when he was caught in one of his own beaver traps in a wintry creek. The fact that he had survived the creek and the cold trek home had taught him a valuable lesson about keeping calm. He had often felt since then that if he could survive that near-drowning, he could handle just about anything.

He rushed past Inna and threw himself down on the ice, which crackled ominously. Seconds later, Whitlock’s head bobbed to the surface like a cork. His hands scrabbled for a hold at the slick edges of the ice. Cole grabbed the collar of Whitlock’s coat and heaved for all he was worth.

He had been hoping to drag Whitlock onto the ice, but it was pointless. The ice was cracking apart under him so that he couldn’t get any leverage. The muscles and tendons all along Cole’s arms and shoulders popped with the strain, but Whitlock outweighed him, and now the other man was soaking wet. It was all Cole could do to keep Whitlock’s head above water, never mind haul him to safety.

The ice crackled ominously. Another few seconds, and Cole was going to join Whitlock in the water.

Just then, someone got a firm grip on Cole’s ankles. He heard Samson’s deep voice boom, “Hang on!”

Cole felt a mighty tug on his legs. He glanced back. The others had formed a kind of human daisy chain across the ice and onto the firmer ground of the grassy hummock. Samson was stretched out across the ice behind Cole, hanging onto his ankles. Vaccaro was bent over, holding onto Samson, and it looked like Vaska was, in turn, gripping Vaccaro’s feet. Even Ramsey was doing the best he could, tugging weakly at one of Vaccaro’s legs. Inna stood nearby, hands held to her face in an expression of horror. Honaker simply watched, his rifle cradled in his hands. Cole had the uneasy thought that all Honaker needed to do to take them all out was level the weapon and start shooting. Why on earth would that thought even come to mind—and at that moment, of all times?

Already, the cold sapped the strength from Cole’s wet hands, but he wasn’t about to let go of Whitlock. He forced his grip tighter, imagining that those weren’t hands at the ends of his wrists, but steel traps.

Slowly, laboriously, Cole felt himself being pulled across the ice. He couldn’t even use his elbows, so all he could do was hang onto Whitlock. It was soon clear that steady pressure wasn’t enough. They needed one good yank to get free of the hole, just like you would use to land a fish.

“On the count of three, everybody pull!” Vaccaro shouted. “Cole, hang on! One, two—”

It felt as if his legs were being tugged right out of the hip sockets. His shoulders screamed in protest.

Whitlock came out of the hole and flopped on the ice, water streaming from his clothes. Still, Cole didn’t release his grip. There was another giant tug, and then they were safely off the ice.

They all stood around, panting, hearts hammering, exhausted from the effort.

Cole took stock. Sharp as glass, the edges of the ice had made some cuts on his wrists that stung even worse in the cold, but the bleeding was nothing serious. More troubling was the fact that his hands were just about frozen and he was wet to the elbows, but the rest of him was mostly dry. He’d be all right as long as he kept moving. Whitlock was soaked to the bone. Saved from drowning, he now shivered uncontrollably in the cold.

The narrow hummock in the middle of the bog was no place to make camp for the night. However, a quarter mile off he could see a dark line of trees in the gathering dusk. Solid ground.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s find some shelter in those trees yonder and then get Whitlock out of these wet clothes before he freezes to death.”

“We can camp right here,” Honaker said. “Whitlock might not make it to the woods. It’s goddamn cold out.”

“Then I reckon we had best get a move on,” Cole said. “The trees will block the wind.”

Ignoring Honaker’s protests, Cole grabbed Whitlock’s left arm. Vaccaro got the idea and grabbed Whitlock’s other arm. It was as if they were giving him a bum’s rush. With Whitlock’s own legs working as best they could, they crossed the bog and headed toward the woods. The others followed, with Samson hauling Ramsey in a fireman’s carry.