"Out of the frying pan, and into the fire," Cole said.
Vaccaro shifted his rifle to his shoulder. "We can take them by surprise, and at least get a few of them."
Cole touched his shoulder. "And then what? All they’ve got to do is turn those machine guns on us at that range and we’re hamburger. No, I reckon I got a better idea." He turned to Inna. "Tell that kid to get his clothes off. Then I need you to put on his uniform."
Quickly, he explained what he had in mind. Inna nodded, turning even paler. It was risky.
She rattled off her instructions to Dmitri, who looked at her blankly until she hissed something that must have been the Russian equivalent of saying, "Now!"
Dmitri hopped to it. In half a minute he was shivering in the snow in nothing but his long underwear.
The uniform was big enough and baggy enough for Inna to tug on the trousers and coat over her own clothes. She topped it off with Dmitri's ushanka hat. The uniform wasn't going to pass a parade ground inspection, but it might be enough to give them all a second chance.
Inna nodded at them, then stood up straight and composed herself. She walked out of the woods and straight toward the nearest truck, struggling to disguise her limp. Cole had coached her to stay calm. Their lives depended on it.
One of the truck drivers had stayed behind, leaning against a truck and smoking a cigarette. He was a heavyset older guy who had the look of someone who was better with a wrench than a gun. Inna walked right up to him and bummed a cigarette. They chatted for a moment, and the truck driver laughed at something she said. Then she walked back and climbed behind the wheel of the truck.
Cole was impressed. "Damn, that girl has moxie."
"She broke me out of the Gulag, didn't she?" Whitlock pointed out.
Now, it was their turn to show some of that same moxie. They moved out of the woods toward the truck, forcing themselves to walk. Running would only attract attention. They had to cross a hundred feet of open ground. The truck driver Inna had spoken to was blocked from view by the angle of the truck, but they were clearly visible to the search party, if any of them cared to look.
Cole kept a nervous eye on the Russians, his rifle ready to fire. The Russians were still busy over at the Jeep. One of the officers must have found something; a knot of men was gathered around him, looking at what appeared to be a map.
Fifty feet to go. Someone shouted, and Cole's finger tensed on the trigger. But it was only one of the officers, pointing up the road that the escaping Jeep had taken. Maybe he wanted someone to go that way. The Russians kept their heads turned in that direction.
The truck started. The motor sounded rough, more like a tractor than a truck.
Cole held his breath as first Dmitri, then Whitlock and Vaccaro, climbed in the back. He took one last quick look around and got in. To his surprise, the interior looked much like every other army truck that he had ridden in: canvas top, wood sides, rough wood benches. Then again, it was an American vehicle, a Studebaker sent to Stalin to help them beat the Nazis. Cole shook his head. The U.S. government must have been run by fools to have given the Russians equipment that could be turned against it now that the shooting war was over.
Whitlock pounded twice on the back of the cab with his fist, alerting Inna that they were ready, and the truck lurched forward.
Cole realized that he had taken it for granted that Inna could drive a truck. He was impressed. What couldn’t that woman do? The vehicle lurched and bounced along the track that had brought the Russians from their base. Once they were out of sight, Inna stopped the truck and Cole jumped down and got into the cab.
"You done good," he told her. "What did you tell that driver back there?"
"I said the radio was down and the captain wanted me to go back and get more men to help find the Americans."
“Huh. I guess that got a laugh out of him."
Inna grinned. “He cracked up when I told him the captain couldn't his zhopa with both hands."
CHAPTER 35
With its deep ruts and rocks, the route they were following more closely resembled a roughly plowed field than a road. They bounced wildly. Whenever Inna tried to drive faster, the bucking truck wrenched the wheel out of her hands. She slowed to a crawl.
"Now what?" she asked.
"Keep going," he said. "Let's put some distance between us and that patrol."
They heard the whine of an airplane. A Russian fighter plane raced across the sky. The plane didn't seem to be interested in them. The pilot wouldn't be looking for a Russian truck. He would have his eyes open for anything that was clearly not Russian.
This was the first plane they had seen since jumping out of one over Vologda. It must be that here, near the border, there were air patrols. Cole doubted that they would get far on foot with a plane searching the landscape.
He was mulling that over when the truck went around a sharp bend in the road where it skirted an outcropping of boulders. Coming the other way was a Jeep — a genuine American Jeep — but this one was painted with Russian insignia. More goods from America to help them beat the Nazis.
The Jeep was blocking the narrow road. Inna had no choice but to stop the truck. Cole caught a glimpse of an officer who got out of the Jeep and approached. He had a purposeful stride, but he didn't have a weapon in his hand. Cole hunkered down in the footwell of the truck, keeping his rifle pointed above Inna's legs at the driver's side door.
The officer yammered something in Russian, and Inna yammered back. The exchange sounded calm enough, although it was hard to tell because everything in Russian seemed to be shouted. German sounded angry; Russian sounded loud. He heard the officer walking away and relaxed his finger on the trigger.
Then Inna grabbed the wheel and stared straight ahead. Cole chanced a peek over the dash and saw the officer get back in the Jeep. The vehicle struggled to turn around in the slick tire tracks and then started back the way it had come. The officer gave the truck a "follow me" wave that needed no translation. On the back of the Jeep a large machine gun was mounted, with a couple of soldiers up there with it, hanging on for dear life. They weren’t aiming at the truck, but it would take them about ten seconds to swivel that gun around and turn the truck into scrap metal.
"What's going on?” Cole asked from the footwell.
"I told him that the radio wasn't working, so I was sent back to bring more men. He ordered me to follow him back to the base. He said he would get this truck loaded and then go with me personally."
"Damn. We don't need that kind of company right now. And we sure as hell don't need to drive into the Russian base."
"What should we do?" Inna wondered, hanging onto the steering wheel as the truck dipped into a rut and bounced back up.
"Ain't got no choice," Cole said, thinking about that machine gun up ahead. "We follow them and figure something out."
Inna leaned toward the windshield and muttered something that sounded like a Russian curse. "You had better figure it out fast, Cole," she said. “I can see that base up ahead."
With the Jeep leading the way, no one challenged the truck. Cole was looking around, his eyes just above the metal dashboard. The guards opened the gate wide. It was a monstrous affair hammered together out of rough-cut lumber and barbed wire. It was more like a Gulag gate than the Gulag's had been. He wondered if it was to keep enemies out or to keep the soldiers in.
The base resembled a slushy barnyard. The open ground between the low metal barracks was a morass of muddy snow. Dirty smoke from metal chimneys stained the sky. Beyond the huts was an airfield with a few planes parked around. Over the truck exhaust he could smell some kind of sour food cooking, like maybe cabbage or potatoes. Even so, his stomach churned — it had been too long since Cole and the others had eaten anything besides a handful of jerky, a couple bites of rabbit, and some snow.