CHAPTER 11

Somehow, despite the fact that the war was ending — or maybe because of it — new uniforms were in short supply. The replacement troops sent to occupy Germany were the only men with new uniforms, and as a result, they stood out in stark contrast to the combat veterans.

Cole had to make do with the fatigues he'd been wearing since before the Battle of the Bulge. They had been washed, but the uniform was badly worn and patched in places. He did take some time to give his boots a quick polish and to comb his hair.

Cole glanced at himself in a mirror. That's the story of my life. Always trying to make do with worn-out clothes and a sliver of soap. After living on C rations and cigarettes for months in the field, he had put on some weight during their occupation duty, and filled out the uniform better. Nobody would describe him as beefy.

"How do I look?" he asked Vaccaro.

"Just about right for a court martial."

Vaccaro wished him luck. The MPs had waited outside for Cole to get cleaned up, and they gave him a ride to HQ. Cole couldn't tell if they had been sent to keep in an eye on him, or to actually assist him.

A dozen thoughts ran through his mind, the chief one being why he had been summoned to HQ. Vaccaro's comment about a court martial scratched at the back of his mind. Had disobeying orders back at the Elbe by ferrying refugees across finally caught up with him? Was there some other infraction he could only guess at? It would be just like the Army to promote him just in time to bust him down to private.

Headquarters was located in a grand old mansion. You could count on the generals to find the fanciest digs around. The MPs had to stop for yet more MPs at the gate, who reviewed their orders before letting them through. The entry gates were topped by a couple of hideous-looking beasts straight out of some story intended to scare children. Gargoyles, he'd learned that they were called. Judging by how many he had seen, Europeans seemed to be fond of them. You just didn't see that kind of thing in the States. It was a reminder that there was something dark and ancient running through the heart of Europe.

Inside, it looked to Cole like the mansion had been stripped of anything valuable, like a house gone up for auction by the bank. He was brought through a set of tall carved doors into an office the size of his squad's entire barracks. A small fire burned in the fireplace. It might be warm outside, but the mansion's stone walls felt cool and chill.

Three men stood around the fire. Two wore uniforms, but the third man did not. He was an older, snowy haired man, with high cheekbones and a sharp nose that made him look like a hawk. All three looked up as he walked in. To Cole’s astonishment, one of the officers wore general’s stars.

"Sergeant Cole," said the general. "Glad you could make it."

"Yes, sir." Cole did his best to come to attention. He saluted. Military pomp and circumstance never had been his strong point, but you were never wrong to salute a general.

The older man spoke up. "No need for that all that, Sergeant. We are an informal bunch here today." He stuck out a hand. Cole stared at it for a moment before it registered that he was supposed to shake.

"Yes, sir. The MPs told me I was a sergeant now."

"Yes, well, we needed someone with some rank for what we have in mind," the older man said.

“I don’t want to be in charge of nobody,” Cole said defiantly. Like most mountain people, Cole didn’t like anyone telling him what to do. At the same time, mountain people had no interest in giving orders to anyone else.

The older man gave him what Cole could only think of as a kindly look. "Why don't we sit down and discuss it? Major, pour us all a drink."

He seemed to have taken charge, never mind the fact that there was a general and a major in the room. Who the hell was he?

They went over to a massive carved desk that must have belonged to some German millionaire, or maybe to a baron. The general took a seat behind the desk. The major was busy at a sideboard, filling glasses. The older man pulled his chair closer to Cole, so that they were almost knee to knee. He smelled of good cigars and aftershave.

"You're probably wondering who I am. My name is Harrison Whitlock. You can see that I'm not a military man. However, I am a United States senator, for whatever that's worth." The way Whitlock put weight on the word "senator" made it plain that it was worth a great deal.

"All right." Cole took the crystal glass that the major handed him. Sipped. The liquor went down as fiery and smooth as lava, and seemed to go straight to his head. Cole already felt a little dizzy. He was out of his element here among these men, and none of it made any sense.

"Now you know who I am, and let me share what I know about you. The general here tells me that you grew up hunting and trapping, and that you know just about everything there is to know about surviving in the woods. You are one of the best snipers in the United States Army.” The senator paused. “Word has it that you are also one tough son of a bitch when the need arises."

Cole had no idea how the general could know any of that about him. The general seemed content to sit quietly while the senator talked. Now that the drinks were served, there was no chair for the major, who found a place to stand near the fireplace.

"Yes, sir." It was all Cole could think to say.

"That said, you are probably wondering why you are here," Whitlock said. "Major, let me see that intelligence report."

"Sir, may I remind you this is top secret information and the sergeant here—"

Senator Whitlock waved a hand dismissively. “It's all right, major."

The major handed a sheet of paper to the senator, who then gave it to Cole.

Cole scanned the pages. He could pick out words here and there, like landmarks in a landscape, but that was all. The general and the major didn't pick up on it, but when Cole looked up, he saw that the senator was watching him with new understanding. He was relieved to see that the glance held no judgment in it. Then the man blinked, and absorbed Cole's secret without saying a word.

"Well, you can see from this report that it’s clear the Russians have some of our men. When the Russians took over former German POW camps, they did not let all of our boys go."

The thought made Cole angry. "Why the hell not?"

"Stalin wants them for poker chips, that’s why. He wants to make sure we don't put up a fuss about the Russians grabbing all this territory for themselves. What the Russians have done is wrong, plain and simple. Our government is afraid to act officially, because we're walking on eggshells here in Europe. Everyone is so damned scared of upsetting the Russians."

The general interrupted. "The president ought to do something about this. It's not right."

Senator Whitlock waved a hand. "Truman is all right, but he’s a weakling where the Russians are concerned. He doesn't want to start another war. To be honest, nobody in America wants another war. So the president is just going to roll over and do what Uncle Joe tells him."

Cole was a little shocked to hear the senator talk about the president that way, and the way he said it made it clear that he knew Truman personally. "Sir, what's this got to do with me?"

Senator Whitlock smiled. "Gentlemen, why don't you leave me alone with the sergeant for a few minutes?"

The general and major looked at one another. It was the major who spoke up. "Senator, I don't know if—“

"Go on," Senator Whitlock said, waving a hand again like he was shooing flies. "The sergeant and I need to get to know one another."

Whitlock waited until the two officers left, and then closed the massive doors behind them. Then he went over to the sideboard and brought back the decanter to refill their glasses.

"This is fifty-year-old cognac. Wonderful stuff. Why should we let the general have it all to himself, ha, ha! Now let's get to brass tacks, Sergeant Cole. Any American would be indignant to learn that the Russians are holding our soldiers hostage. It's only natural. I’m as mad about it as you are. But let me be frank. You see, I have a personal interest in this as well. The Russians have my grandson. His B-17 was shot down in April, at which point in time he was captured by the Germans. I have confirmation that he was taken to a stalag in a part of Germany now held by the Russians. He has since been taken by the Russians and transferred to a remote Gulag — that's a Russian prison camp, by the way — in northern Russia. Fortunately, it is within a few day's walk of the Finnish border.”

The senator stopped short of explaining that Gulag was not a proper name, but an acronym for the Russian words for Main Administration of Camps. The Soviets had made their harsh system of more than one hundred forced labor camps sound as innocuous as possible.

“How do you know all this, sir?”

“We have our spies, just as the Russians do.”

Suddenly, Cole understood where the conversation was going.

“You want to get him out of there,” he said. “Why me?"

The senator looked him over. "You know, it's kind of interesting. Here's a young man from Appalachia who can't read, who probably grew up without shoes on his feet, a real nobody. Does that sound like you?" In what was becoming a familiar gesture, the old man raised a hand to wave off the angry response on Cole's lips. “I don’t say this to insult you, Sergeant. Quite the opposite.”

“I ain’t so sure about that.”

Whitlock went on, “You know what else is interesting? When I had my people ask around to find someone capable for this sort of mission, your name came up. More than once. Here's a nobody who lands at Normandy and a year later he's not a nobody at all. I would call that sort of person a somebody. Somebody who is respected. Does that sound better to you?"

Cole didn't have an answer to that.

"I have to say, it wasn't always in a good way that you were mentioned,” Whitlock added. “People are a little scared of you. They say you’re a killer.”

Cole had heard enough.

"Why should I do this?" he asked sharply. “Go all the way to Russia to rescue some rich guy’s grandson? It’s crazy.”

Whitlock nodded. He leaned back in the chair and studied Cole, as if reconsidering him. “I can't order you, simply put. This wouldn't even be a military mission. It can't be, not officially. I am asking you because you are the best we've got. That, and the fact that the goddamn Russians have taken our soldiers hostage, including my grandson.” The senator pounded the desk so hard that the general stuck his head in for a second to make sure everything was all right, then retreated. “My question for you, Mr. Cole, is what kind of man are you?”

"I reckon I don't understand the question."

"Oh, I reckon you do." The senator locked eyes with Cole. There was nothing soft there — they were as flinty as his own. Then Whitlock nodded. "You don't need to answer the question, Mr. Cole. I can see it in your eyes."

"So what kind of man are you, Senator?"

Whitlock spread his hands as if the answer was obvious. "I am a man who gets things done. I would consider this a personal favor to me, one that I could repay someday."

"There ain't nothin' I need."

Whitlock laughed. "I'm not talking about getting you a carton of cigarettes and a week's furlough, Cole. I am talking about a personal favor from a United States senator, the sort who pulls ropes, by the way, not strings. That favor is the kind of thing you bury in the Mason jar out back for a rainy day."

"Like I said—"

Whitlock touched Cole’s knee. “I know that you are a proud man, Cole. I wouldn’t expect anything less. We can all use a favor now and then. Even you. However, here’s the real reason that you’ll take on this mission.”

“And what’s that, Senator?”

The senator leaned in close and spoke quietly. “You’ll do this because you’re bored now that there’s no one left to fight. You miss it. Are you going to argue with that?”

Cole said nothing.

Senator Whitlock nodded. “Now, let's get the general and the major back in here and talk details, shall we?"

Загрузка...