Sniper Ridge

Chapter Twenty-Three

His mind made up, Cole swung the rifle toward the headquarters compound. He had come out here to square things up with the sniper, but wouldn't it be better to strike fear right into the hearts of the enemy?

He might very well be losing his chance at the sniper, but it was a chance that he would have to take. He had two targets here, and he had chosen which one to shoot at first.

Unbidden, words of advice came to mind right from his old friend Vaccaro, from back in the last war. When you find yourself in bed with two women, screw the ugly one first. It was a crude sentiment, but Cole smirked at the memory. It was highly unlikely that Vaccaro had been presented with that dilemma, much as he likely dreamed about it. But that nugget of wisdom applied to more than one situation.

Cole was going to shoot the ugly one first.

The headquarters shot was the hardest one to make. Unfortunately, Cole was close enough that the other sniper would surely hear the crack of his rifle. Any hope of surprising the enemy sniper would be gone. And with the element of surprise gone, so would be Cole's chances of slipping back to his own lines without a fight. Plus, it looked as if he would be running right into the arms of a full-fledged attack.

Pushing those thoughts from his mind, he settled his sights on the distant throng of VIPs, picking out the man who stood apart from the others. Through the scope, Cole could see that the man was bareheaded, while the others all wore officer's caps of some kind. It was too far away to make out any of the man's features. Some part of him knew that he had better hurry because the man, whoever he was, wasn't going to stand there forever. The opportunity would be lost.

Then again, some things could not be hurried.

It was a long way to shoot a rifle. Feeling the challenge of it, his senses quickened and wrestled with one another, making him feel both restless and calm. He chose to focus on being calm. His breathing slowed, then stopped. Even Cole's heartbeat seemed to check itself.

He felt the slightest of breezes against his cheek. His practiced eye raised the crosshairs to the quadrant just above and to the right of the target.

The morning sun was higher now, and he worried about the glint from the glass lens of his telescope. A sniper couldn't control everything. Then again, nobody down there would be looking for him or expecting him, which made what he was about to do all the more devastating.

Ideally, he planned to time his shot just as one of the artillery shells exploded, thus masking the crack of his rifle. That shouldn't be all that hard, considering that the shells were falling hard and fast now.

Ever so slowly, his finger took up the tension on the trigger. He became aware of just two things in all this world — what his eye saw through the scope, and the silken metal beneath his fingertip.

A shell whistled, struck the ridge off to his left, and Cole fired.

Fast as a bullet moved, outpacing sound itself, its brass-jacketed spearpoint still required time to cover the distance to the target.

Cole still held his breath.

One Mississippi, two—

Through the scope, he saw the target crumple. He breathed again.

Down in the enemy headquarters, there was pandemonium. Staff officers ducked their heads, looking in every direction, for at this distance it was impossible to tell the origin of the bullet. There had been just the one shot. It was all that Cole needed.

Whom had he killed? To Cole, it didn't matter. He had struck at the enemy and taken some measure of revenge for all those American boys lost in the march from the Chosin or cut down in the fight for these godforsaken hilltops. For Cole, the morning sun seemed to shine a little brighter.

But his business here was far from over. He swung around until he was facing the Chinese line. Already, the artillery bombardment was slackening, but the small arms fire had increased in the distance. All along the Chinese line, rifles and machine guns fired mercilessly, which could only mean one thing — the counterattack against Sniper Ridge had begun. Cole's fellow Americans planned on taking back the ridge that they had already won, and then lost again.

He would join that fight if he could, but for now, there was only one enemy soldier that he was concerned about.

Cole didn't need the scope to see the sniper. The son of a bitch must have heard the shot from behind him and had turned around. Like Cole, he was using his eyes rather than the magnified but narrow field of view provided by the rifle scope. The enemy sniper was looking this way and that, which told Cole that he hadn't been spotted yet.

Cole was still down in the rocks, hidden from sight. He had the advantage in that while the enemy sniper suspected something wasn't right, he didn't know where to look. Cole, on the other hand, knew exactly where his target was located.

Quickly, Cole found him through the scope. He was close enough to see the enemy's face. With a shock, Cole realized this was the same Chinese sniper who had captured him at the Chosin Reservoir. He would have recognized that ugly bastard anywhere.

Cole and the other soldiers captured with him — with the exception of one who had been outright murdered by the Chinese — had managed to escape. The enemy sniper hadn't been willing to let them go and had tracked them and harassed them right across the frozen ice of the reservoir itself. Cole had left a trap for the pursuers, but it appeared that this soldier had escaped.

Quickly, Cole found him through the scope. He settled the crosshairs on him. All that Cole had to do now was squeeze the trigger. His finger pressed on the smooth metal — and stopped.

Something about this was far too easy. Cole wanted this bastard to see who was punching his ticket.

Keeping the rifle to his shoulder, with the sight never wavering from the enemy, Cole slowly rose from cover. The enemy sniper still didn't have his rifle to his own shoulder, which was a mistake on his part. Now, he saw Cole rising up. Through the scope, Cole could see the other man's look of astonishment. They might not speak the same language, but that look needed no translation.

The other sniper knew that Cole had him dead to rights, but that didn't stop him from springing into action, trying to get his own weapon into play.

Cole was ready for him. His trigger finger tensed ever so slightly, releasing the firing pin into the center of the brass-jacketed cartridge in the chamber. Instantly, the bullet left the rifle. The enemy soldier toppled as he was struck with more than two thousand foot-pounds of good ol' American whomp ass.

Cole worked the bolt, then climbed out of his rocky hiding place. He moved toward the enemy sniper nest as if moving through a tunnel, oblivious of the battle beginning to unfold around him.

He reached the trench and jumped in, then stared down at the body. With professional interest, he noted that the bullet had ripped through the other man's heart. A killing shot if ever there was one. He would have been aware for a moment or two of what was happening, and then the final oblivion.

The other sniper was a small man, his body looking even smaller in death. His uniform looked well-used, much like Cole's, in point of fact. Finally, Cole reached down and removed the big Bowie knife that the enemy sniper still wore. This had been taken from Cole months ago when he was captured. It had been made by his old friend Hollis Bailey’s own hands, and Cole was glad to have it back.

"About time I got my knife back, you thievin' son of a bitch," he muttered.

Cole felt a wave of anger. There wasn't anything else that he could do to the sniper, who was now beyond the reach of his revenge. But Cole wasn't done yet.

Cole picked up the rifle. It was Russian, a Mosin-Nagant being more than a little familiar to Cole, it being one of the superior sniper weapons of the last war and just as deadly in this one. Although it was hardly an elegant rifle, it was sturdy and efficient. This one looked battered and well-used, its stock scarred and the finish worn away from being held against a cheek, locked into the shooter.

Cole set down his own Springfield and picked up the Russian rifle. With practiced hands, he shucked out the bolt and threw it far out into the muddy surroundings, where it would never be found. He unfastened the scope and then smashed it under his boot.

He lacked any tools to destroy the rifle itself, so he did the next best thing. He wedged the barrel between two big rocks — no shortage of those around here — and tried to lever those boulders out of place, grunting and straining with the effort. After a minute, working until his muscles burned, he was sure that the rifle would never shoot straight again.

That was some satisfaction, at least. He also felt calmer now.

Gathering himself, he realized with some surprise that he had tuned out the chatter of gunfire all around him. He had been too busy eliminating some sort of Chinese Grand Poobah, as well as the enemy sniper, to pay a whole lot of attention to what was unfolding around him.

The shooting that he had done was just the beginning of more to come. From the sounds of it, Cole now had a whole new battle to fight.

With a growing sense of dread, he realized that he was on the wrong side of a few thousand Chinese troops, and he would have to find a way through if he ever hoped to get back to the American lines again.