CHAPTER 18
Von Stenger thought that following the hillbilly sniper’s tracks was deceptively easy, like tracking a rabbit to its burrow.
All that was left to do was club it on the head.
At the same time, he was well aware that Cole was no rabbit. He was something with teeth and claws and fangs. He also carried a high-powered rifle, and he was a very good shot.
Von Stenger could be walking right into a trap.
Cautiously, with his Russian rifle at the ready, Von Stenger began to follow the American’s tracks through the snow. Moving quietly was almost impossible. Every step crunched. A branch cracked underfoot. He paused to listen. Heard nothing. Either Cole had managed to levitate himself and float across the snow, or he was too far ahead for Von Stenger to be able to hear him.
He focused on the trees ahead, but it was hard to see anything except a puzzle of gray and white. Again, he kept his eyes attuned to movement, any flicker that might give his target away.
Truth be told, Von Stenger did not particularly enjoy the woods and fields. While he had spent his share of time hunting — and then fighting — in forests and mountains, he supposed that he preferred pavement. Even the fighting in Stalingrad, as horrible as it had been, had been more to his liking because it had taken place across streets, shattered buildings, and rubble, not snow and trees and rocks. No, he did not love the woods, but he understood the tactics of fighting here well enough.
And this was no nature hike, after all. This hike would end when someone died — hopefully, it would not be him.
He tracked the American to the top of one hill and saw that the tracks ran down the other side of a hill toward a ravine. He carefully scoped the ravine at the bottom — it would have made a good sniper's nest. Then he saw the tracks leading up the next hill. The other sniper was not laying in ambush down in the ravine, after all. He followed the tracks.
The hill was steep, and he was winded by the time he reached the top. He could only imagine what an effort it must have been for the American — the blood stains beside the American’s tracks were clearly evident. Each drop was big enough to leave a coin-sized spot of crimson, the heat of the blood melting down into the snow. The American must be in pain. The loss of blood would weaken him.
The amount of blood in the snow did not increase, however, and it certainly had not slowed him down. The American must have legs like iron.
If Von Stenger had only gotten his shot off faster, there would be no need to track the other man at all. The American would be dead back in that field, shot through the heart.
Next time.
Von Stenger paused at the top of the hill to catch his breath. He scoped the slope of the hill along the path of the sniper’s tracks. No sign of the American, other than the footprints and the blood.
He listened. What was that? Not footsteps in the snow, to be sure, but something that sounded like a splash. He was becoming a bit deaf in his right ear — firing too many rounds from a high velocity rifle tended to have that effect. It was an occupational hazard… much less serious than the other occupational hazard, which was what one might euphemistically call lead poisoning. He cupped his hand around his left ear and listened. No more splashing, but he could hear the sound of running water.
Von Stenger descended the hill as quickly as he dared. At the bottom was a shallow, fast-moving creek.
The American’s footsteps ended at the edge of the creek. That would explain the splashing he heard. He scanned the other side for some sign of where the American had come out, but no tracks disturbed the snow.
Clever, clever. The American was trying to throw him off the trail.
The water looked invitingly cold and clear. Pure. The other sniper was not in sight, so he bent down and scooped a handful of water toward his mouth. It was quite refreshing after his hike, although the water was so cold it made his teeth ache.
Still crouched down, rifle at the ready, he thought about what to do next. The obvious course of action was to follow the stream down and look for where the American sniper’s tracks emerged. He had no doubt that the other man must have moved downstream simply because wading against the icy current would have been quite challenging.
Von Stenger was not about to get in the water. With wet feet, he would not last long in this cold. The hillbilly had taken an awful gamble by wading down the stream. He had thrown Von Stenger off his trail, but at what cost? Frostbite?
Carefully, making each step as quiet as possible, he moved down the bank. His hearing might not be as sharp as it once was, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes. He scanned the creek banks for any sign that the hillbilly had climbed out, but the snow remained undisturbed.
He followed a pattern: step, scan, step…
Slowly, he worked his way down the bank.
Then he saw it — a log sloping down into the creek at an angle that would be just right to walk up. There was just a dusting of snow on the log — not enough to display tracks. If Cole was looking to get out of the water without leaving a trace, the log was the perfect spot.
Von Stenger was sure that if he kept going down the bank, and the American was already out of the water waiting for him, then he would just be walking into a bullet.
The problem, however, was that the American could be hiding anywhere along the stream. He would be waiting for Von Stenger to walk right into his sights.
He stopped to consider his options.
Leap and the net will appear, Goethe said.
He looked across the creek to the hill that rose on the other side. If he could get up on that hill, he would be looking down at the creek to pick up on any movements that the other sniper made.
Von Stenger possessed a cartographer's mind. He constantly charted every hill and tree and rock he saw, creating a running map of vantage points where a sniper could hide — or where danger might be hidden. It was something he did unconsciously, but he could remember miles and miles of territory that he had crossed. Even indoors, he behaved the same way, always sitting with his back to the wall and memorizing the entrances and exits.
He retraced his steps to the point where he had first come down to the creek, then walked upstream until it went around a bend — no sense giving the American a straight shot at him. He soon came to another log that spanned the entire creek from bank to bank.
He walked across the log, keeping his rifle at the ready. He was not worried about leaving tracks — he was the one following the hillbilly, not the other way around.
He then worked his way up the bank, moving slowly and deliberately in an effort to minimize the noise he made crossing the snow. It would be to his advantage if the American was not aware that Von Stenger was on the hill behind him.
As stealthy as he tried to be, it was almost impossible to move without a sound. His feet betrayed him, sinking down through the snow. A branch cracked under foot, although the sound was muffled by the snow. He swore silently under his breath and moved on.
He found a spot behind a fallen log that gave him a clear view of the creek below.
And then he settled down to wait. With any luck, the American’s next move would be his last.
Cole shivered. He could only ignore the cold to a point, considering that his legs were soaked through. His wet feet had gone numb with cold. Considering that the temperature was below freezing, frostbite was a real danger.
Wading into the creek had been a calculated risk. The truth was that he would rather take a chance on frostbite than a bullet from Von Stenger, whose only challenge would be to follow his tracks to his hiding place.