Page 50 of White Wolf

Katya had been scouting all morning, and she knew just which tree would suit her needs. She set off across the training yard at a jog, following her classmates as they hit the head of the game trail and went through the snow-dusted underbrush into the tangled labyrinth of pines and birches. They were all dressed in winter whites, only their tidy braids distinguishing them from behind – and those would be covered with white hoods once they had taken up their positions.

One by one, they branched off onto smaller trails, gone with a rustle, a flash of polished steel, and then nothing, silent as whispers through the underbrush.

When Katya spied the pine with the forked trunk, she stepped over the snow-covered fallen log to her right and took an exact thirty-two strides before she reached the perch she’d selected earlier. Above her stretched a massive spruce with wide-spaced branches, its needles sharp and itchy against her face as she tipped her head back to search its trunk for hand- and toeholds. The palms of her leather gloves were rough from activity like this, and they gripped tight as she climbed, up and up, until she reached the gap that offered an impressive view of the rolling forested hills below.

Winded in an exhilarated way from climbing, she swung up into the hollow where branch met trunk and snuggled down, feet and back braced, cradled by the wood. She was small, and for that she was thankful, always able to perch in tight places. It took a moment to get settled, to pull her hood up and situate her legs in a way that would ensure she could stay comfortable for hours – if need be. She brought the Mosin-Nagant’s stock up to her shoulder and leveled her sights on the road at the base of the hill, toyed with her grip until it felt right.

Then came the calculations.

The spruce needles swayed in the breeze: gentle, west-to-east. She would need to account for that. The hill sloped down at a thirty degree angle. She would need to account for that too.

Then came the waiting.

In some ways, waiting was her favorite part. It was the truest peace she’d ever known.

Peace had been scarce at home – and that was before the Germans razed it to the ground. She thought about that day, sometimes, when she was wedged between the branches of a tree; let the pain wash over her, let the exhaustion of loss lull her into that twilight space between grief and fantasy when the truth felt like a nightmare she could shake off when she finally chose to. She drifted there, as often and for as long as she could.

But then she’d hear the snap of a twig, and the training exercise would snatch her back to the present. The truth of being a girl without a family, doing the best she could with the hand she’d been dealt.

She didn’t pray anymore. Or sleep. Or feel anything besides determined. Fear was a luxury for those with something left to lose.

Movement on the road drew her attention, and she shoved all extraneous thoughts to the side. A Jeep drove slowly into view, a real American one, part of the shipment sent over after the victory at Moscow, the US sending munitions and rations over to help “Uncle Joe” in the war effort against the Axis. The ground, melted and frozen and melted and frozen again, was a jagged, frosted, slippery mess, and the Jeep struggled to gain purchase, lurching and bucking in the deep ruts of the track. It didn’t help that the driver had no idea what he was doing – there was a good chance he’d never driven anything besides a pony cart before.

No matter.

Several boards had been set up in the back of the Jeep, sticking up through the open roof, paper targets wrapped around the end of each. Katya’s had her name written above it.

She found the bullseye through the sights, took a small breath, and held it. Went perfectly still. She thought of the breeze, and the slope, and the speed of the Jeep. Tabulated the trajectory in her head. And pulled the trigger in one smooth caress.

The board jumped, the target hit dead-center.

Katya smiled to herself.

Her entire family had been killed as they tried to flee the Germans. She’d fallen in with a band of refugees headed for Moscow, pursued the entire way until they’d finally run up on the Red Army. She’d had two choices: take up factory work producing munitions for the Soviet Union’s war efforts, or find a way to serve said war efforts more directly.

She’d joined Madame Vishnyak’s sniper school, and she was the top of her class.

She ejected the casing with a quick, practiced movement of the bolt and pulled the rifle into her lap, content to wait until it was time to come down.

13

EVEN RED-BLOODED PATRIOTS

TheEkaterinawas the first of five heavily-weighted cargo ships steel that would be used to make T-34 tanks and munitions down the just-thawed Volga in Stalingrad. There were tank and weapons factories in Stalingrad, but they were working double-time. The Allies had shipped in everything from C-rations to Colt sidearms. But itwasn’t enough. By the time this war was over, Nikita didn’t think it would ever be enough.

He tried not to think such hopeless thoughts as he stood at the rail, breathing in the cold-dank-fish smell of river water, letting the sting of the March wind against his bare face ease some of the sickness that was balled in his gut like a living thing. They were making good time, and he had to have faith that Monsieur Philippe’s magic was of some value. At this point, the idea of revenge was the only thing getting him up in the mornings.

That, and the deep guilt and love he felt for his boys.

The quiet scrape of a shoe signaled Kolya’s arrival a moment before he leaned his folded arms over the rail beside Nikita. “Sasha wanted me to ask if you’ve eaten,” he said in that dry tone that meant he was smiling on the inside.

Nikita felt his own smile threaten, warmth blooming in his chest. “You’ve all been a terrible influence on him.”

Kolya nudged him with an elbow. “He’s picking up the slack.”

“Yeah. I know.”

And he was. Not in a conscious way, but in an unobtrusive, kindhearted way that was all his own. Dima had left a gap behind, one that could be filled by neither grief nor memory. A human-shaped hole in their band of brothers that hovered always on the edges of Nikita’s awareness, heavy and dense, drawing their energy, and laughter, and happiness. For Nikita, it was a welcome gap; he craved that reminder of his failure as a leader, as a friend. Had anyone tried to fill that space, he would have gladly murdered him.

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