David Healey - Red Sniper

He kept the rifle steady and settled the crosshairs on Barkov. It was a long way off, but he had been lucky in the first two shots. He felt good about three out of three.

There was almost no wind, so Cole placed the crosshairs directly above Barkov’s head to account for the drop of the bullet.

Hitting the head was too much to hope for—instead, he was trying for a body shot.

Everything launched into the air eventually fell back to earth, after all—baseballs, footballs, even bullets. They all fell at the same rate, thanks to gravity, but the speed of the object determined how far it traveled before falling to earth. To compensate for the pull of gravity, a marksman aimed above his target when taking a shot. The farther the target was, the higher you aimed.

Given time, Cole could have walked his bullets in. He did not have that option. He had one shot.

He had almost forgotten that his finger was on the trigger. It nearly surprised him when the rifle fired.

There was a stab of flame, and the cool, still air actually rippled as the hot gases caused by the rapid burning of gunpowder geysered from the muzzle. Traveling at nearly 3,000 feet per second as it left the muzzle, the 152-grain bullet exited the barrel spinning like a drill bit. The still, clear air welcomed the bullet and wrapped itself around it, guiding the projectile like it was on rails. A full second later, the bullet completed its arc and punched through Barkov’s rib cage.

One rib attempted to deflect the more than two thousand foot pounds of energy and was snapped in half for its trouble, resulting in splinters of bone joining the bullet as it churned through Barkov’s liver. Barkov’s body cavity was massive, big as a steamer trunk tipped on its side, and the bullet lost its way and wandered downward, nicking his stomach here, tearing out chunks of bladder and prostate there, before exiting just above the hipbone opposite where it had entered. Having lost its momentum, the bullet tumbled to rest in a snow drift just a few feet away.

Barkov was such a big man that the energy of the bullet did not knock him down, although it would have knocked down most men. He felt no pain at first. Just an odd sensation as if his insides were being stirred with a large metal spoon. He looked down to see where the bullet had gone in, and then reached down to feel for the hole where it had come out.

He even looked behind him and saw the gouge in the snow that the spent bullet had made. Some detached part of his mind thought, “Ah, so that it where it went.”

His body was not so detached as his mind, however. The interior of his torso was now a raw stew of torn tissue, blood, bone, bile, and urine. Barkov’s knees buckled. He dropped his rifle. He went down.

Through the scope, Cole watched the Russian collapse.

The impact put Barkov down. He knew too well that a bullet was a small thing, and yet despite its small mass the slug was moving at supersonic speed that increased its energy exponentially.

How many times had he watched a bullet wreak havoc on someone else?

Now, his own turn had come.

He got to one elbow and coughed up some blood. There was little pain, but only a numbness. Barkov tried to get up, but somehow could not will himself off his hands and knees. His body simply would not obey.

He heard footsteps on the snow behind him, and looked up to see Dmitri trotting past him. The boy paused long enough to snatch the nagyka whip from where it was tucked into Barkov’s belt. The young fool was running straight for the American.

“Wait! You must help me!” Barkov shouted, but the youth did not stop. Barkov cursed him. “Traitor! Coward!”

Barkov thought that he had shouted the words, but then realized they had only been in his head. His lungs no longer had the volume for shouting.

He looked into the distance, but the American sniper had vanished, like a ghost.

Barkov’s body, strong as it was, drifted into shock. He thought he heard shooting far away, but couldn’t be sure. Mercifully, he lost consciousness.

Toward nightfall, Barkov came to his senses again. As he regained consciousness, he was surprised by the simple fact that he was still breathing. In Stalingrad, he had seen men miraculously survive terrible wounds. Maybe he would be one of those lucky ones. He ate some snow and felt better.

The day stretched on toward dusk. In the gathering gloom on the taiga, he caught a glimpse of something moving. Maybe it was that ingrate Dmitri returning to help him, after all. Barkov felt a glimmer of hope. Another shape flicked past in the gloom. Maybe it was another group of soldiers, coming to find him.

Barkov heard something in the snow to his right, and turned painfully toward the sound.

A large gray wolf stood there, head down, studying Barkov with its deep brown eyes. Measuring him.

Barkov cursed at the wolf, and tried to crawl away. His arms worked all right, but he felt like he was dragging a sack of broken crockery that had been dredged in warm lard—the sack being the rest of his body.

The wolf followed in the wake of Barkov’s progress. Coming closer.

Panting from the effort, Barkov stopped trying to crawl. He reached for this whip, then remembered that it was no longer there. When the wolf was close enough, he shook a fist at it, driving the animal back.

“Son of a whore!”

The wolf retreated. But then another wolf appeared on its flank, and the first wolf advanced. Barkov couldn’t keep an eye on both of them.

Barkov swung his fist again, but his strength was depleted. Propped up on one elbow, he flailed weakly at the wolf.

The two wolves moved closer, growling, jowls curled back from sharp white teeth. He raised his arm to protect himself.

The wolf darted forward and grabbed his arm. The second wolf went for the bloody wound near his hip.

This time, Barkov screamed.

Whitlock and the others spent the rest of the day on the move. Having lost so much weight in the Gulag camp, he couldn’t seem to get warm and his teeth chattered constantly, giving him a headache. For Inna, each step was a small agony, but like a good Russian, she did not complain. Honaker and Vaska plodded along silently. Vaccaro bitched enough for everyone else.

From time to time, they looked over their shoulders for Cole, but there was no sign of him. They had heard the rifle shots in the distance, and then nothing but the Russian wind and the squeak of snow under their boots. The silence revealed nothing about Cole’s fate.

The sun was low and shadows stretched toward the horizon when they spotted the rescue party waiting for them at the Finnish border. Two Jeeps and what looked like six men. Through his rifle scope, Vaccaro saw that they were clearly Americans. They were all armed, weapons ready, as if they knew the Russians were just out of sight.

“I’ll be damned,” Vaccaro said, lowering his rifle. “There’s a sight for sore eyes.”

“I can’t believe it,” Whitlock said. “We made it!”

Inna made a happy sound.

They picked up the pace, all of them trotting now. Inna was limping as she ran, but she didn’t let that stop her. After days spent crossing the taiga, having run out of food—having fought off wolves, for God’s sake—it was hard not to be thrilled at the sight of the rescue party. Only Honaker lagged behind, bringing up the rear.

Nobody noticed when he stopped and leveled his rifle at their backs.

“Hold it right there,” he said.

Something in the tone of voice stopped them in their tracks. They whirled around to see Honaker with his weapon aiming at them.