"That's the way it is." Dickey shrugged, and looked around. "You will have some help on the ground. There is a local who will be your guide."
"Can we trust him?" Cole asked.
"Believe it or not, not every Russian loves Stalin," Dickey said, giving him a look usually reserved for schoolchildren who asked too many annoying questions. "Also, money can be a great motivator. You're from hillbilly country, right, Cole? Did anybody ever make any moonshine even though it was illegal? They sure as hell did. It’s no different in Russia. Money is money. This guide will put you in touch with a contact who lives in the village near the Gulag compound. The contact is your best shot at getting access to the camp itself."
"So we’ll need to wing some parts of this once we get there," Honaker said, sounding annoyed.
"This is a Gulag in a remote part of Russia that we're talking about here," Dickey said. “There is no other way than to wing it."
Dickey led them out of the briefing room and into the cavernous hangar. Although the American forces had moved in and made the space their own, there was still a strange feel about being in the old Luftwaffe lair. It was as if there was still a palpable smell of Nazis in the air, like a whiff of rotten hamburger.
Spread out on worktables and on the floor itself was a variety of gear: clothing, weapons, packs, rations.
A young officer saw their group and approached. "What's all this for?" he asked.
"Don't worry about it," Dickey said.
The officer glanced at the group, then at the weaponry, and went on about his business without another word.
They turned their attention to the gear. Most of it was distinctly non military, the kind of stuff one might expect for a trip to someplace cold. This was gear that you might take mountain climbing, or maybe on a hunting trip to the north woods of Maine. Dickey handed Cole a sheepskin coat with a fur-trimmed hood. "That ought to keep you warm," he said. "Grab a pair of boots, mittens, long underwear — the works. I can guarantee you that it's going to get goddamn cold at night where you're going."
Cole and the others sorted through the gear and stuffed it into packs. There were rations as well, but they took only the bare minimum, figuring it would take them no more than a week to hike out of Russia.
Cole was impressed by the sleeping bags, which were stuffed with goose down and mummy-shaped to minimize heat loss. These had been issued to some of the commando units in the war. However, he opted for a thick wool blanket.
"Old school, huh?" Vaccaro wondered.
"Let me tell you, if them feathers get wet that fancy sleeping bag won't keep a badger warm."
"A badger? Where do you come up with this stuff?" Vaccaro thought it over, put down the mummy bag, and grabbed a blanket instead.
Once he finished packing for himself, Cole went through the pile again.
“Cole, does this look like a garage sale to you?” Dickey wanted to know.
"No, but I reckon Whitlock is gonna need a coat and a blanket and some decent boots if we don't want him freezin' to death."
Dickey nodded. "Good point. Better bring along some extra rations, too."
But it was the weapons that the team was really interested in. Again, most of it was not military issue in order to avoid the appearance of this being a military mission. Dickey had procured quite an assortment, leaving the team feeling like boys turned loose in a candy store.
"Look at this," Vaccaro said, hefting a beautifully made Krieghoff double rifle, elegant down to its scrollwork and walnut stock. A Zeiss four-power scope was offset over the right barrel. "A double-barreled shotgun!"
"That's a big game rifle," Dickey said. "Some rich German probably took it on safari before the war. Maybe shot a lion with it. You could buy a Cadillac for what that rifle is worth."
Vaccaro grinned. "I'll take it. It's just the thing if I run into a wolf."
Cole looked over the rifles. In the end, he decided to hang onto the 1903 Springfield back in the barracks. He couldn’t ask for a better blade than the Bowie knife he’d been carrying for months. Hand-forged and wickedly sharp, it had got him out of more than one tight spot.
“Don’t you want something new?” Dickey wondered.
“I reckon I’ll stick with what I know," he said. “A man don’t go on a mission with a rifle he don’t know.”
Honaker chose a German Mauser hunting rifle with a beautifully carved stock. Samson selected a brutal-looking pump action 12-gauge shotgun.
"That's a good choice for you, big guy," Vaccaro told him. "Let the bad guys get nice and close, and any that you miss, you can beat them to death with that thing."
Samson just grinned. He handled the heavy shotgun effortlessly.
"If you gentlemen are finished with your shopping spree, then I would advise you to make your goodbyes here in Germany. I'm sure I don't have to remind you not to be too specific about your plans," Dickey said. "We leave for Finland in the morning."
CHAPTER 13
The Russians were building a railroad to nowhere. At least, that’s what it looked like to Whitlock, even if the railroad was officially known as the Vologda-Kotlas-Ukhta Railroad Line. That first day after their arrival, Whitlock and Ramsey were sent out as part of a work gang, given picks, and shown where to dig. Reluctantly, Whitlock had to admit that he didn't mind the work. He welcomed being outdoors and doing something after long weeks spent first in the German stalag and then in the box car on its endless journey deep into Russia.
However, a few swings of the pick revealed just how soft his hands and muscles had become after those weeks of inactivity. He never had done any real physical labor, and his body soon reminded him of that fact. Within ten minutes he had blisters on top of blisters. He ignored the pain. The sun, weak as it was, warmed his shoulders. Fresh air filled his lungs. It was all he could do to stop himself from whistling.
Ramsey was having a harder time of it. Having been imprisoned longer, and undernourished from the poor diet the Germans fed POWs, he was struggling to swing the pick. Every few minutes, he doubled over with a coughing fit. It was going to be a long day for Ramsey.
Whitlock looked around. There were armed guards, but they were lazing around, smoking cigarettes. A big Russian was in charge, and tucked into his belt was a short whip that Whitlock didn't like the looks of. He had seen some of the other guards use them on prisoners.
There was no way he could know that it was a Cossack whip or nagyka, with a long handle that resembled a billy club and a thick length of braided leather, ending with the leather braided around a lead slug like a big fishing weight. Thirty-six inches of pure meanness. The whip was meant for managing the huge horses used to haul freight wagons, but it happened to double as a cruel weapon. Just the sight of it made the prisoners cringe.
The big Russian also carried a rifle with a telescopic sight, which he used now and then to scan the horizon.
Volki, Whitlock heard some of the Russians say.
When he repeated the word to another prisoner swinging a pick beside him, raising his eyebrows in the universal gesture for what the hell does that mean, the man had given a low howl in imitation of a wolf.
Given that fact, the guards seemed redundant. Where could anyone escape? The Russian landscape was imposing. An empty plain stretched before them — apparently they were to lay railroad tracks across it. In the distance loomed deep forests. To escape meant death by starvation. Or exposure. Or wolves. Letting a prisoner escape into the wilderness would be the same as shooting him, although a bullet would be faster and more humane.
Whitlock kept swinging the pick, ignoring the pain of his torn hands.