David Healey - Red Sniper

Then he set about building a fire. Cole could build a fire just about anywhere, short of it being in the middle of a blizzard or a hurricane. There was almost always some dry wood to be found, if you knew where to look.

He got a nice blaze going—a real fire to keep the cold at bay. He had to admit that the heat was welcome. The smoke trailed up into the sky like a banner, which was exactly what he had in mind. He tossed on some green spruce boughs to thicken the smoke.

Once the fire was going, he skinned the rabbit. He supposed that this was technically a hare, but if it hopped and had long ears, it was enough to call it a rabbit. He skewered the rabbit on a sharp stick, which he propped beside the fire so that the indirect heat would roast the meat. With a fire that size, the cooking wouldn’t take long. Goddamn, that smells good , he thought as the meat began to sizzle.

Satisfied with the fire and the rabbit, he knelt beside Ramsey and got to work.

One way or another, Ramsey was going to have his revenge.

Barkov was the first to spot the smoke. He was surprised. So far, the Americans had shown a great deal of discipline in avoiding any sort of fire. Maybe they had finally gotten too cold, or maybe they had something to cook. Any number of possibilities ran through Barkov’s mind.

What the Mink said in Russian was the equivalent of, “Can you believe they would be so stupid?”

Barkov told the other three men to stay put, and he and the Mink went out to check on the source of the smoke.

They could see flames flickering through the tree trunks—the fire was no stingy affair. A delicious smell reached them. That explained the fire. The Americans were cooking meat.

They crept forward, using the trees and brush for cover. Barkov made a motion that signaled far enough and quiet all in one. The two Russians studied the scene before them.

Much to their surprise, there was just a lone figure hunched over the fire. An American sniper rifle with a telescopic sight was propped up within the sniper’s reach. It was hard to see the sniper’s face, because his neck and the lower part of his face were wrapped in a scarf against the cold. A cigarette hung from his lips. They had expected an entire group, but not one man. Looking around through the scope at the sniper’s feet, they could see what was clearly a body wrapped in a blanket. There was no mistaking it. They had seen enough of those over the last few years.

“So that is the American sniper,” the Mink whispered. “He’s not much bigger than I am. What is he up to, do you think?”

“It looks to me like he is cooking his dinner.”

The Mink gave him an annoyed look. “Over a big fire like that?”

“Maybe he does not think we are nearby. Maybe he thinks we gave up. Maybe he just does not give a shit anymore.”

The third possibility was plausible. They had seen so many strange things. Soldiers who lost their minds and threw away their weapons and stripped off their clothes in the middle of a battle. A schoolteacher who sat down to read a book as he froze to death. One could only believe what one saw, which was what they were seeing now. One of the Americans sat by this fire, cooking a rabbit, with a dead man rolled in a blanket nearby. Who was the dead man? Nobody—he was dead. It was not an elaborate scenario.

“What are you waiting for?” the Mink asked.

Barkov lined up the sights and shot the sniper through the head. The body sagged.

The Mink stood up. He uncorked his flask of vodka, took a drink, and handed it to Barkov.

“Good shooting.”

“I expected more from this one,” Barkov said. “In the end he was nichevo . Nothing.”

Barkov took a drink, handed back the flask.

“I want his rifle,” the Mink said. He grinned. “And there is no point in letting that rabbit go to waste. Are you coming?”

Barkov clapped him on the shoulder. “You go ahead. I will start back toward the others, so that the cowards don’t run away. I would not care, but we may still need them yet. Catch up to us when you can, and bring me some of that rabbit.”

Cole waited for what seemed like an eternity, holding himself very still and barely breathing. But he was a patient man. He just hoped that the rabbit didn’t burn. He would have had time to turn it, too, because it took an hour for the Russians to find the fire. By then he felt cramped and cold, despite the fact that he was wrapped tightly in a blanket, but he ignored the discomfort.

He was positioned with his arms in front of him. His hands held the Browning 1911 pistol.

He neither heard nor saw the Russians approach. He only knew that they had arrived when a single shot ripped out and hit Ramsey square in the head. The sound made Cole wince. It didn’t seem possible to kill a dead man any deader, and yet Barkov had done just that. Ramsey’s body slumped to the snowy ground just at the edge of Cole’s limited field of view.

Now came the tricky part.

He tightened his grip on the pistol.

What happened next depended on what sort of cards he had been dealt. If one or two of the enemy approached, he had a chance. More than that, and this blanket was going to be his shroud.

He waited, his heart barely making a murmur, which was a good thing—it was so quiet in the forest that the flutter of a bird’s wings sounded like a hurricane wind.

He had left a gap in the end of the rolled blanket so that he could look out. The problem was that it reduced his world to a narrow field of vision. It was essentially like looking through a tube. Like a rifle scope, as a matter of fact. He felt cramped as the tobacco inside a hand-rolled cigarette.

Cole had positioned himself carefully. A ring of bushes surrounded the camp—nothing too obvious, but there was a gap through which anyone approaching the fire would naturally walk. It was this gap that the open end of the blanket faced, like a rifle barrel.

As for the waiting, it was simply part of the game. He was very good at being still for hours. He just hoped that these bastards came along before he froze to death—or his supper burned to a crisp. His belly rumbled. It would be a damn shame to waste that rabbit.

It was a sign of the Russian’s own skill that Cole never heard him approach. He felt him instead; some inexplicable pressure in the air. He was impressed that the big Russian could move so quietly, until he saw that it wasn’t the big Russian at all. In a single glimpse as the man passed through his field of view, he saw that it was the smaller Russian. The one that Ramsey had called the Mink.

Everything depended on the Russian stopping cautiously a dozen feet away, coming through the gap in the bushes directly in front of Cole, so that he could get a clear shot.

But without pausing, as if he didn’t have a care in the world, the Russian walked right up to the fire.

Too fast to get off a shot.

Then the Mink was gone. Out of Cole’s narrow field of view.

Cole couldn’t move the gun or even see him at all. He heard him pick up the Springfield rifle and grunt with satisfaction. At any second, the Russian might get suspicious and put a big, fat slug into Cole. He held his breath.

The Mink stepped closer. Too close. But at least some part of him came back into view. Cole could see the man’s boots, his legs to his knees, and that was it. Cole began to understand the fault in his plan. His heart beat faster.

Then, he saw the Russian toe the body with his boot.

In another second the Mink was going to realize that he had not shot a sniper, but that he had shot Ramsey all over again. Cole couldn’t take that chance. He aimed at the Mink’s shin. His hands shook from the strain of holding the pistol so long. He was aiming at the leg just eight feet away, but still far enough to miss.