Cole's hard eyes scanned the desolate scenery. If the Chinese sniper wore one of the dirty white uniforms like his dead countrymen nearby, he would be damn hard to spot against the snowy rocks. But he had to try. He hoped for a muzzle flash, a glint of metal, anything to indicate the sniper's position.
He calmed himself and steadied his breathing.
"Now," he said.
Slowly, Pomeroy raised his helmet, creating a target. Since the sniper had first begun, most of the GIs were now keeping their heads down. Those who had tried to ignore the sniper had paid a heavy price. Some now lay sprawled in various poses of death.
"Nothing," Pomeroy muttered. "He's got to be damn stupid to—"
A bullet kicked up frozen clods of earth at the rim of the foxhole, some of the debris bouncing off the helmet. Pomeroy swore and fell back into the foxhole.
Frantically, Cole watched for any indication of the sniper's hiding place. A split second later, the sound of the rifle shot reached them and began to echo among the hills. The lapse between the bullet strike and the sound indicated that the sniper was a long way out. Cole turned his attention to the ridgeline to the northwest. If the tables had been turned, that's just where he would be, in that line of boulders because of the concealment they offered. Nobody would ever see him from the air.
Cole didn't raise his head off the rifle. His cheek felt welded to the stock. The rifle butt fit into the socket of his shoulder — or where it was supposed to be. He had so many damn layers of clothes that it was hard to tell.
"Kid, your turn. Raise up that helmet, but make sure you keep your head down. This son of a bitch can shoot."
From behind him, Pomeroy muttered, "I'm OK. Thanks for asking."
Cole ignored him and waited tensely as the kid raised his own helmet above the rim of the foxhole. Would the sniper fall for the same trick twice?
The answer came when the kid's helmet went flying, nailed dead center by the enemy sniper.
There. Cole thought he caught a glimpse of something up in the hills. Could be a flash of light off a telescopic sight, or maybe off a pair of binoculars. The glimpse happened too fast to be sure what, if anything, he had actually seen. Cole's brain did a million calculations in an instant, working off sheer instinct.
He aimed at the flash that hung in his mind's eye, then fired.
Up on the ridge, the number of available targets had dwindled as the Americans below grew more cautious. This frustrated Chen, who had already shot the ones who were brave enough or foolish enough to show themselves.
Beside him, Zhao had gotten to his knees. The spotter was glassing the American position through the binoculars with growing exasperation.
"You shot so many of the Imperialists, but now they are not showing themselves," Zhao complained.
"Perhaps they are not so stupid as we think," Chen said. He did not think that was true, but he knew that it would goad the commissar’s canary.
All morning, they had watched the American planes circle overhead, hunting for targets. Farther to the south, they had watched cargo planes drop supplies for the American forces. Chen had assumed that these were drops of food, ammunition, and medicine for the wounded. However, the supplies and the men scrambling after them were far beyond his range.
"There is something!" Zhao said excitedly. "I see a helmet in that foxhole directly in front of us. Shoot him! Shoot him!"
Chen could see the foxhole, but he was really just guessing about the target. The front sight of the rifle blotted it out. But from the excited noises that the commissar was making, Chen suspected that the helmet was still in view.
He fired.
Beside him, Zhao was now half-standing, straining for a glimpse of the target through the binoculars. Chen worried that the pilot of one of those planes would catch a glimpse of him and get them both killed.
"There is another helmet," Zhao said.
"Get down!" Chen snapped, ignoring the fact that it was smart to stay on the good side of the commissar’s canary.
"Down there! Do you see him?"
This time, Chen did. The helmet bobbed up higher than the last one. Were these Americans complete fools? He fired.
Almost instantly, Zhao fell down, a bloody hole visible in his overcoat. The man clutched at his chest, but a death rattle already gurgled in his throat. Then the sound of the rifle shot finally rolled toward them.
Chen slumped down, keeping low, so that he was almost face to face with Zhao’s staring eyes. Considering that he had considered shooting the man himself, this was not an unwelcome sight.
Chen reached for the binoculars and put them into his pocket. With any luck, he would be believed when he claimed that the precious optics had shattered when the dying commissar had dropped them. Chen could use them alone in the field and no one would be the wiser. He left the body where it lay. If someone doubted the circumstances of the commissar's death, they could go find the body later.
However, it seemed impossible that one of the American soldiers had been able to shoot that far and hit anything — perhaps it was a lucky shot. But there had been just the one shot. Very intentional. It dawned on him that the men showing their helmets in the foxholes had not been fools. The Americans had a sniper of their own, and he had set a trap that Chen fell right into.
In his arrogance, he realized that he had seen the Americans as stupid and foolish. After all, Chen had stood against some of the very best Japanese snipers and then against the Chinese Nationalists. What did the Americans possibly know about his trade? But there was a man down there who was every bit his equal. Chen had let his guard down.
It wouldn't happen again, he thought angrily.
Perhaps he had punished the Americans enough for one morning. In any case, the attack that was coming that night would likely wipe them out for once and for all.
Chapter Fourteen
High above the frozen landscape, a helicopter approached the isolated Army outpost. The helicopter resembled nothing so much as an ungainly insect, creeping awkwardly across the gray sky, its rotors beating a rhythm that echoed across the mountain ridges and valleys.
The thumping sound had earned these helicopters their nickname, choppers. The noise traveled for miles in the frigid air.
"That'll be the brass, coming to tell us to hold our position at all costs," Pomeroy said, sounding disgusted. “Chances are, we’re not getting any help, either.”
Cole reckoned he was right about that.
Someone had nicknamed these relatively newfangled aircraft "choppers" for the rhythmic sound their rotors made beating the air, and the name had stuck.
Slow and ungainly as the choppers looked, most officers preferred not to fly in them. Instead, they opted for a rough ride in an open Jeep across many miles of rutted road. That wasn't really an option for Almond, who was coming from too far away. His motorcade wouldn't have made it as far as the Army position, anyway. It was one thing to fly over the Chinese forces, and an altogether different thing to try to drive through them.
This particular chopper carried General Almond to the regiment headquarters. Almond could see the landscape below, but what he couldn't see were the Chinese troops hidden all around. If only he had, the outcome of the meeting that was to come might have been different.
It would have been easy enough for the Chinese to unleash heavy machine-gun fire or even sniper fire as the helicopter approached, but a few Corsair planes in the vicinity discouraged any such attacks. None of the Chinese wanted to invite a payload of napalm on their positions, so they worked to stay hidden during the daylight hours.