A bullet whined through the air, splintering the tree trunk right beside Walter Ilves.
"Damn! They're fast!"
Walter cursed under his breath, but he didn't flinch. The surge of adrenaline had scrubbed away his fear. He lunged out from the far side of the rock, operating on pure instinct as he squeezed the trigger without taking a formal aim.
Bang!
The sharp crack of the rifle rang out.
The Soviet sentry, who had just fired and was cycling his bolt, stiffened mid-motion. A blossom of crimson erupted between his brows. Without so much as a whimper, he toppled backward, the back of his head striking the permafrost with a dull thud. His blood quickly stained the surrounding snow a deep, visceral red.
Dead.
The second sentry, terrified by his comrade's sudden demise, let out a guttural roar as he swung his muzzle around.
But before his finger could find the trigger, Simo's second shot arrived.
Bang!
The shot was surgically precise, shattering the soldier's right wrist.
"Agh!!"
The submachine gun clattered to the ground. The soldier clutched his mangled wrist, screaming as he tumbled into a snowbank, his body curling into a tight ball from the agonizing pain.
"Leave him alive!"
Simo's shout cut clearly through the wind and snow. "We need a 'tongue'!"
The Soviet soldier continued to writhe in the snow, his face contorted in agony, yet the predatory light in his eyes hadn't flickered out. Like a cornered beast, he wasn't finished.
As Walter charged down the slope, the wounded man gritted his teeth against the pain. With a desperate snarl, he reached for the pistol holster at his waist with his good left hand, attempting one final, suicidal act of defiance.
Walter's eyes sharpened. He didn't break his stride, using the momentum of his descent to close the gap like an arrow released from a bow. Just as the Soviet soldier's fingers brushed the grip of his sidearm, Walter delivered a heavy kick.
Thwack!
The blow was massive and precise, slamming into the soldier's left hand just as he tried to draw. The pistol was kicked clean away, spinning through the air before vanishing into a distant snowdrift. The soldier let out a fresh howl as the back of his hand instantly swelled.
Before the man could recover, Walter pressed his advantage, dropping his weight and driving a heavy knee into the man's chest.
"Urgh—!"
The Soviet soldier felt his ribs groan under the pressure. The air was driven from his lungs, and his face turned the color of raw liver. As he instinctively struggled, a chilling sensation pressed against his skin.
With a sharp shing, Walter's Finnish hunting knife cleared its sheath. The blade pressed firmly against the man's carotid artery, biting just deep enough into the flesh to draw a bead of blood.
Walter looked down at him, his blue-gray eyes devoid of warmth. The silent threat was far more eloquent than any words.
The Soviet soldier stared at the silent, lethal Finn and felt the steel sinking further into his neck. The sheer, bone-deep coldness of Walter's gaze broke him. His body went limp like wet clay, and he raised his trembling hands in total surrender.
…
On the creek, the last ripple vanished. The seven or eight soldiers who had fallen through the ice were gone, swallowed by the earth without even a bubble to mark their passing.
However, as Simo stepped out from the treeline and looked at the empty surface of the water, there was no joy on his face.
"Bad news," Simo muttered, walking quickly to the bank.
"What is it?" Juha asked, currently pinning the prisoner and looking confused.
"They were carrying the very things we need." Walter glanced at the bottomless creek, his expression grim. "Rations, ammunition... it's all at the bottom."
Juha froze, then slapped his thigh hard. "Dammit! I was so focused on the kill, I forgot about the loot!"
It was a catastrophic oversight. While they had successfully wiped out the enemy, to a stranded unit in desperate need of resupply, supplies at the bottom of a river might as well not exist. If they couldn't recover them, they might not survive the night.
"We have to get them up," Simo said, beginning to unbutton his greatcoat.
"Simo, what are you doing?" Walter asked, startled.
"Going in with clothes on is suicide. Wet fabric will drain your body heat faster than the water itself."
Simo's voice was calm, but his movements were frantic. He stripped off his patched white camouflage smock, followed by his gray greatcoat, his wool sweater, and his trousers. Finally, the diminutive veteran stood naked in the snow amidst the thirty-below chill. His body was lean and wiry, his skin pale from years of northern winters.
"Tie the rope tight." Simo secured one end of a thick hemp rope around his waist and handed the other to Walter. "Juha, watch the prisoner. Don't let him bolt."
"Simo..." Walter's hand shook slightly as he gripped the rope.
"Stop wasting time! Keep the line taut! When I tug, you pull!"
With that, Simo took a deep breath, as if trying to suck all the cold into his lungs, and without a moment's hesitation, he plunged into the bone-chilling water with a splash.
The spray froze into beads of ice on the bank instantly.
"Dammit! Dammit!" Walter gripped the rope with white knuckles, his eyes locked on the churning water, his heart in his throat. Water this cold was a physical assault that almost no one could endure.
Minutes later, the rope gave a sharp jerk.
"Pull!"
Walter gritted his teeth, heaving with every ounce of strength. The surface broke, and Simo's purple-tinged body emerged, his hand deathly tight on the collar of a Soviet corpse. He didn't climb out; instead, with trembling hands, he used a dagger to saw through the pack straps and tossed the rucksack onto the bank.
"Catch!"
Then, pushing the body away, he dived again.
The second rucksack. The third.
Ten minutes. It was only ten minutes, but to Walter on the bank, it felt like an eternity. When Simo finally signaled to be pulled up for good, Walter used his entire body weight to drag him in.
By now, Simo was drained of all color, looking like a violet ice sculpture. Hoarfrost immediately coated his eyebrows and hair. His body was racked by uncontrollable, violent spasms, and his teeth clattered like a telegraph.
"Quick! Dry clothes! Snow! Rub him down!"
Walter roared, dropping his rifle and grabbing handfuls of dry snow to vigorously scrub Simo's back and limbs, using the friction to force blood back to the surface. Juha abandoned the hog-tied prisoner and rushed over to help. Together, they fumbled to wrap Simo back in the dry layers he had discarded.
On the ground lay four soaking wet rucksacks, supplies Simo had traded his life for. The rest of the gear, along with the other bodies, had been swept away by the current.
"Cough... what a waste..."
A long while later, bundled into a ball, Simo finally caught his breath. His voice was a faint whisper, and his lips remained a bruised blue. "Only got half of it... what a terrible trade..."
"It wasn't a waste, Simo." Walter held a canteen of freshly melted hot water to Simo's lips. "At least we have half. And besides, we caught a live one."
He turned to look at the Soviet casualty shivering in the snow.
"Now, let's see what this fellow can spit out. It might be worth more than a few rucksacks."
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