There was also a commanding view of the surrounding landscape. Maybe half a mile off, they could see a handful of pursuers. Racing ahead of them were three dogs. They appeared to be the same breed as Vaska's dog — somewhere between a husky and a mutt, with maybe a little wolf mixed in. What the locals called a laika. These dogs were all pointy ears and snout, curved tail, and eagerness. They also looked mean.
"Cole, I have to say, I don't like the looks of those dogs."
"That makes two of us. But I reckon I like the looks of them Russians a whole lot less."
Cole put the rifle scope to his eye. He counted nine men. Six of the pursuers appeared to be soldiers, but three of them wore civilian clothes. One of the men in civilian clothes was small and slight, but the other two were big men. Both carried rifles slung over their shoulders. Which one was Barkov?
Cole moved the crosshairs from one man to the other. They were just within range. Normally, this would be farther out than he would prefer to shoot. But he needed to buy the others time. If he missed, he told himself that it was no big deal. The Russians would still be slowed down.
Then he thought, I ain't gonna miss.
"Cole, they're too far away," Vaccaro muttered. "Let them get a little closer."
"Which one do you think is Barkov?"
"The big one."
"I see two big ones."
"If you're not sure, then save Barkov for later."
"My pa always said to drink the good whiskey first," Cole replied. "That's what I aim to do."
"You and your sayings. I ought to write them down and put them in a book."
"Who the hell would buy that?"
"City people," Vaccaro said. "They think you country people are full of wisdom."
"They'd be right about that much."
War movies made it look as if every soldier was a marksman who never missed a shot. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth.
Using a rifle to hit a target more than a short distance away was a complex process that required skill and practice.
It was why machine guns and hand grenades were a whole lot more effective. Close wasn't good enough with a rifle, but it worked out fine with a fragmentation grenade.
Cole got comfortable for the shot. He had set up behind a boulder and rested the rifle on top of the stone. He took off his mittens — gloves not being worth a damn once it got really cold — and slid them under the forearm of the rifle to cushion the wood. He nestled the butt of the rifle firmly into his shoulder and pressed his check against the comb of the stock. In a strange way, it was almost like a lover’s embrace. He had done this so many times that the rifle felt like part of his body.
Bone and stone.
Just what he needed to make this shot.
CHAPTER 23
Barkov called a halt. Immediately, the half dozen soldiers flopped to the ground. The time for any semblance of military order was gone. They were tired of walking and running — mostly running — in the wake of dogs that never seemed able to catch the escaped Americans. Flasks of vodka appeared and the soldiers passed them around. In spite of the hardships, the soldiers still seemed eager for the chase. Barkov thought that it might be a different story once the vodka ran out.
"Do you hear them singing?" Bunin asked, a contented smile on his face.
Confused, Barkov looked at the men, who did not appear very musical. It took him a moment to understand that by singing, Bunin meant the baying of the dogs.
"It is about time," Barkov said. "I was beginning to think that those dogs were worthless. I was going to shoot them rather than have to feed them again."
Barkov, Bunin, and the Mink stood apart from the men. Rifles slung over their shoulders, they were turned in the direction of the dogs. Bunin was right about them singing — their barking had taken on a more musical note that made it clear they were on the trail of the escape prisoners and Inna.
"What will those dogs do once they catch them?" the Mink wanted to know.
Bunin answered with a question. "What does a dog do when it catches a sable?"
"I am thinking that they do not sit down and have tea, Comrade Bunin, but you tell me."
"The dog, he shakes that sable until he breaks its neck."
"A man is much bigger than a sable," Barkov pointed out.
"Then maybe the dog grabs a leg and does not let go until we arrive. What I want to know is—"
Bunin never finished his sentence.
Cole settled his crosshairs on the man to the right. At this distance, it was impossible to see their faces. Both men looked tall and heavy in their winter coats. The group of soldiers paused; some lit cigarettes or drank from flasks of vodka. Maybe the booze kept them going. It was possible that they were listening to the dogs; the two tall men and the shorter one seemed to be conferring about something.
He adjusted the crosshairs about a foot above the distant target to account for the drop that the bullet would make. Some officer had called it the bullet's trajectory, but Cole knew it was simple gravity. When you threw a rock, it fell to earth, and a bullet was no different. A bullet traveled a whole lot farther, but it was falling just like that rock the moment it left the barrel. The air, though heavy with the promise of snow, was barely stirred by the wind, so that much, at least, was in Cole's favor as he took aim.
He held the crosshairs steady, unwavering, and slowly squeezed the trigger, gently applying pressure with the pad of his right index finger.
Through the scope he could see all three men talking, oblivious.
Cole felt a familiar rush. This was the part of being a sniper that no one ever spoke about. Most people saw how a sniper would be satisfied in the ability to hit a distant target. Cole almost took that part for granted anymore — hitting targets was like pulling on his boots in the morning. He just did it. Without thinking much about it. However, that sense of holding a life in your hands — well, it was an almost god-like power. That part of being a sniper never faded or got old. It was what thrilled him about putting his finger on the trigger.
Focus, he warned himself.
By now, his body was operating on autopilot. He had done this so many times that it was like sleepwalking. Thinking too hard at this point only spoiled the shot Better to let training and instinct take over.
His finger applied the last fraction of the nine-point-eight pounds of pressure needed to release the trigger.
What happened next was a complex chain reaction that had changed little from the days when a twelfth century Chinese warrior fired a stone projectile from what was essentially a pipe. Thanks to modern technology, however, it was now a chain reaction that took place instantaneously.
Within the mechanism of the rifle, the firing pin shot forward and struck the center of the round in the chamber. That firing pin caused the primer in the base of the brass cartridge to explode, which in turn cased the gunpowder in the cartridge itself to ignite. The cyclone of hot gases drove the bullet down the barrel, in which the rifling gripped and spun the bullet until it emerged at a speed of more than two thousand feet per second. The spinning bullet honed in on its target like a supersonic hornet.
It all happened faster than Cole could think it.
Bullseye.
Bunin was still asking Barkov and the Mink his question when a neat round hole appeared in his chest. Barkov watched Bunin open his mouth in surprise once, then twice, before he sank to his knees.