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.

He and Ramsey were the only Americans, but there seemed to be a hodgepodge of prisoners laboring on this railroad to nowhere. Some spoke Polish and looked European; their only offense was being the citizens of a conquered nation. A few had the furtive look of actual criminals. Toiling nearby were a few intellectual types whom he understood to be political prisoners who had dared to disagree with Stalin. A handful of prisoners had asiatic features and spoke a language that didn’t sound Chinese, but that certainly was not Russian. Mongols, perhaps? These groups of prisoners stayed separate, working together, and shunning the others. Whitlock and Ramsey didn’t fit in with any of the other groups. They were on their own.

“How long do you think we’ll be at this?” Ramsey asked wearily. Already, his swings of the pick had become weaker and weaker.

Whitlock glanced at the distant horizon that the tracks would have to cross, and then at the sun, which still had to reach its zenith for the day. “Hang in there until lunchtime, and you can rest,” Whitlock said.