If they got lucky, the pilot of that Corsair was going to notice something glinting where there should only be rocks and brush. Cole held his breath. He was disappointed to see the plane start to move away.
But not for long. High above, the plane altered course and began to head right for them, dropping in altitude as it approached. Cole had seen it happen a dozen times before. The pilot was coming in for a strafing run, or maybe to drop a bomb. All those other times, however, Cole hadn't been on the receiving end. He had been a safe distance away, cheering on the pilot.
He had to admit that the sight of the plane coming directly at them was terrifying. One of the Chinese soldiers started firing at the plane, which only helped the pilot zero in on his target. The engines screamed as the plane began to dive.
Cole worked his hands free of the ropes and shouted, "Run!"
In an instant, the plane was upon them. The pilot gave them a burst that churned up the snow, sending captives and captors alike diving into the snowdrifts for cover. In the confusion, one of the Chinese soldiers dropped his rifle. Cole grabbed it.
The man shouted something at him and got hold of the rifle, but Cole wrenched the weapon from the man's grip, then hit him in the face with the rifle butt. Cole might have gotten shot by one of the others, but the plane was already circling back and coming in for another go at them. Those Corsairs were nimble. And this time, the pilot seemed to mean business. Cole just hoped to hell that he wasn't going to drop napalm. Cole didn't much like the idea of being turned into a burnt carcass.
Something fell from the plane, whistling as it came. Cole threw himself flat.
Seconds later, the explosion lifted him bodily into the air and tossed him several feet. Lucky for them, the pilot had overshot the target and the bomb had landed more than a hundred feet beyond them. Debris and snow filled the air. Somehow, Cole managed to hang onto the rifle.
He picked himself up and surveyed the damage. There was Pomeroy, more or less buried in the snow. The kid was picking himself up, none the worse for wear. Even the ROK soldier had managed to survive.
But so had at least some of the Chinese. Two were down, possibly stunned or wounded. But that left four enemy soldiers. One of them started to level his rifle at Cole, and Cole swung his own weapon in his direction and pulled the trigger, shooting from the hip, hoping to hell that the barrel wasn’t completely clogged with snow.
The soldier fell. Pomeroy had freed his own hands by now — the rope wasn't all that tight — and had the sense to pick up the other rifle. The odds were getting better. But what the hell had happened to the Chinese sniper? He was the guy that Cole was worried about. The bomb had hit closer to that end of their single-file column, so maybe the sniper was buried in the snow by the blast — or even dead.
"Let's go!" Cole shouted. Nobody needed to say that twice. Cole and the others ran for it.
The deep snow made it hard to run with any sort of speed, so they were forced to follow the ruts they had made earlier. Pomeroy lurched wildly on his frostbitten feet. Cole couldn't even imagine how painful that must be. He turned and grabbed Pomeroy by his coat, dragging him. "Come on!"
A round passed over their heads with an angry crack and all three of them ducked. Cole spun and fired a couple of wild shots at the Chinese, not even bothering to aim. He just wanted to give them something to think about and maybe slow them down. Maybe they had gotten lucky and that bomb had taken out the Chinese sniper, who was the main opponent that Cole was worried about.
Chen came to slowly. The last thing he remembered was the American plane bearing down on them, then the bomb falling from the sky. Everything had gone black after that.
He held himself very still, just listening. This was not easy because his ears rang. If the plane still hovered, he did not want to give them an excuse to attack again. It would be just like the Americans to waste a bomb on one man.
He couldn’t hear it anymore. The plane seemed to have gone. Groaning, he slowly raised himself on one elbow, checking for damage. Snow clogged his nose and had gotten down the back of his coat. If that was the worst that had happened to him, then he was lucky. Then again, Chen always had been lucky. His luck included the fact that the bomb had fallen short, or he would be nothing more than a forgotten memory.
Slowly, he sat up, his head still ringing. He looked around. His rifle had fallen nearby in the snow and he reached for it, shaking off the snow. He gave the ugly wooden stock a quick inspection, and to his great relief, the rifle appeared fine. Whatever it lacked in beauty, the Mosin-Nagant was a sturdy weapon.
Next, he recalled that he had not been alone before the bomb fell from the sky. Where were the others? He saw the body of one of his comrades sprawled nearby, blood splashed bright against the snow. The contrast of colors was interesting to observe. For a moment, he became lost in contemplating that. He had seen an artist at work once, transferring bright paint to a blank canvas. The scene before him was much like that. He forced himself to focus.
Then he remembered. The prisoners! What had become of them? Everything began to come into sharper focus.
That's when he heard shots being fired, back in the direction where they had come from earlier.
Chen struggled to his feet and began to hurry in that direction.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The four men hurried through the snow, Cole leading the way. Within minutes, they had reached the shallow ravine where the Chinese had captured them. So far, the Chinese were hanging back, content to take potshots at the Americans, wary of the fact that they were now armed.
But not armed with much. They only had the clips that had been in the rifles when they picked them up.
"Now what?" Pomeroy asked, breathing hard from slogging through the snow on his bad feet.
"We keep going," Cole said. "We'll follow our tracks all the way back to the road and catch up to the column."
"If they haven't left us behind," Pomeroy said.
"Let's hope to hell they haven't," Cole said. "How's your Chinese?"
"Very funny."
Looking on, Tommy and the South Korean looked too scared to talk. Cole had to wonder if the Korean even spoke English. "You're doing good," Cole said to them. He nodded reassuringly at the Korean soldier. "Stick with me and do what I say, and we'll get out of this mess."
"Whatever you say," Tommy said.
"All right then. Let's go."
There was no longer a path carved through the snow because their tracks were more spread out coming to this point. The good news was that the snow wasn't as deep, either, which made the going easier. The bad news was that following their original tracks was going to take longer to get back to the road. In the distance, Cole could see a couple more Corsairs flying back and forth, marking the location of the road. Heading out cross country toward the road rather than following their tracks would save them a lot of time.
It was a gamble, though. For all Cole knew, there might be a massive ravine in the way. Or more Chinese.
Beside him, Pomeroy saw Cole stop and came to a halt. He handed the rifle that he'd been carrying off to the kid and doubled over, hands on his knees.
"What are you thinking?" Pomeroy asked, panting.
"This way," he said.
They struck off to the southwest, the most direct route to catching up with the column. They ran up a hill and down the other side into a thicket of brush. Cole led the way, pushing through as branches and brambles snagged at his coat and pants. The branches that snapped off had a fresh, green smell that Cole found reassuring. Behind him, Pomeroy cursed. But Cole didn't mind the fact that the brush gave them some cover. He hadn't forgotten that the Chinese were still after them.