Red Sniper

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.