CHAPTER 15

The team waited at a remote airstrip in Finland for the go ahead. Flying was a new experience for Cole. It turned out to be one that he had enjoyed. The thought of soaring through the sky excited him. Jumping out of an airplane was going to be another first, but he tried not to think too much about that one.

Their Douglas C-47 Skytrain had flown over empty country ribboned with rivers and covered in forests. Cole had gazed out the window of the plane, mesmerized by the vacant landscape. This was his kind of place. Finally, the plane touched down in a godforsaken place in Lapland.

To the south was Europe; Sweden and Norway lay to the west; to the east Russia awaited; to the north was the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean. Already, the weather was turning wintry this far north. At night, the stars shimmered in clear, cold skies. The sun did little to warm the day, and it was only late October. The locals were saying they were one good storm away from the onset of winter.

The airstrip was gravel. Nearby squatted a couple of low-slung buildings. It was just the four team members, plus Major Dickey and the pilot and co-pilot. There were a couple of Finns who lived on site to maintain the airstrip. One of them spoke broken English, but the words he did know made it clear that he hated both the Russians and the Germans. Finland had managed to declare war on both countries in the recent conflict, and now kept an uneasy peace with its powerful neighbor.

One of the Finns was married to a shriveled peasant woman who didn't speak much at all, and certainly not in English. She served them the same black bread and stew for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Vaccaro swore it contained reindeer meat. Cole shrugged; he had eaten worse.

Picking at his stew, and thinking about the sausages and beer they were missing back in Germany, Vaccaro asked, ”Why are we doing this?"

“A rich old man wants his grandson home, and we're gonna get him,” Cole said, then thought it over some more. “I reckon it’s more than that. The Russians kept some of our boys. It ain’t right.”

"I'd like to go home, but nobody listens to me. Why did I ever listen to you, anyhow? I ought to be back in Germany, making love to some sweet Fräulein."

"Shut up and eat your reindeer stew, Vaccaro."

When Cole examined it, he realized that being here was better than sitting around the barracks, wrestling with boredom. Back in Germany they were all in a waiting game — waiting to be sent home. The mountain shack near Gashey's Creek wasn't exactly calling to him.

Also, on some deeper level, the idea of Americans being held captive by the Russians, and them lying about it, made him angry. He didn't need to know Whitlock to be mad as hell about it. It just wasn't right. Maybe Lieutenant Whitlock couldn't do a damn thing about getting out of that place, but Cole sure as hell could.

If the food in Finland was lacking, at least the weather was good. It was colder this far north, with skies so blue they seemed scrubbed clean, and crisp nights that made the stars sparkle.

Honaker took the weather as a good sign, and told them so at breakfast the next morning. He was making some attempt at being the leader. "I'm telling you, these blue skies are a sign. It's going to be a milk run."

The Finn who knew some English listened to Honaker's little speech and laughed.

Honaker glared at him. "What the hell is so funny?"

"In our country we have a saying: 'Don't praise the day until evening; a girl until she is married off; a sword until it is tried in battle; ice until it has been crossed; or beer until is has been drunk.' "

"I don't know what the hell that's supposed to mean," Honaker grumped.

"He's tellin' us not to count our chickens before they hatch," Cole said, giving the Finn a rare grin. "That's what we say in our country. All in all, it's good advice. Now, somebody pass that reindeer stew."

• • •

Major Dickey gathered them just before dusk on the second day. Despite the Finn’s earlier warning, Cole had almost thought it safe to praise the day, but he changed his mind when Dickey explained that the team was going to make a night drop.

"The Russians don't have radar stations this far north, at least not yet," Dickey said. "However, they may have spotters keeping watch for enemy planes. Darkness will give us some cover."

"Where's Honaker?" Cole wondered.

"You tell me. He couldn't have gone far.” Dickey waved at the nearby forests to make his point. “Grab your gear, everyone. You take off in an hour."

"You're not coming with us, sir?"

"Not me." He tapped his head. "If the Russians captured me, there are too many secrets up here."

"What about what's in my head?" Vaccaro wanted to know. "Aren't you worried about what the Russians will learn from me?"

Dickey looked at him, trying to gauge whether Vaccaro was serious. "Not really."

Cole had already packed and re-packed his gear and cleaned his rifle. He was ready, even eager. He carried his pack down to the C-47 waiting to fly them deep into Russia.

That's where he found Honaker, sliding down from one of the wings.

"What the hell you doin' up there?" Cole wanted to know.

"Just checking the plane."

"You know how to fly one of these things?"

"Nope. Just curious, is all. I thought I saw where some flak damage had been patched, and it looked a little sloppy to me."

"That plane got us here from Germany," Cole said. "I reckon it will be good enough to jump out of."

“I don’t know. Let’s just hope it makes it that far.” Honaker grabbed him by the shoulder in what was meant to be a genial gesture. He grinned. "Look at you, all packed up and ready to go, like a good Boy Scout."

Cole took a step back so that Honaker's hand fell away. He didn't like being touched. And he sure as hell wasn't Honaker's buddy. "Dickey said we're taking off at dusk."

"Show time, then." The grin slid off Honaker's face. "Listen, Cole, you know that Dickey made me the squad leader. The two of us aren't going to have a problem, are we?"

"Why would we have a problem?"

"Because you seem like the type of fella who likes to do things his way. Just so you know, we have got to work together if we're going to get home in one piece."

"You mean, if we’re gonna get Lieutenant Whitlock home in one piece. That's our mission, ain't it?"

"Hell, you know what I mean, Cole. Are you going to be a problem for me?"

Cole looked Honaker up and down. He was built much like Cole, so he didn't really have a physical advantage. What Honaker did have, Cole decided, was that look of someone who was always calculating to get an advantage over you, like a buyer at a lumber mill or a fur dealer. Cole decided then and there that he didn't trust Honaker worth a damn. He wished he had seen it sooner.

"Somebody has got to be in charge," Cole said. "I reckon it may as well be you."

"There. You see that, Cole? Me and you will get along fine."

The others appeared, carrying their gear and weapons. It had already been agreed upon that Samson would haul most of the extra ammunition. Honaker carried the winter gear intended for Whitlock, along with the bulk of the rations.

Dickey insisted on gathering them one last time on the tarmac, along with the pilot and co-pilot. The C-47 was flying with a bare bones crew — this wasn't a bombing run, after all.

"All right, men. I've said everything there is to say at this point," Dickey began. "You know that if you fall into Russian hands, you'll be joining Whitlock in the Gulag — or worse. Nobody is coming to get you."

"That's not exactly reassuring," Vaccaro said.

"Consider it an incentive not to get caught," Dickey replied. He paused, as if building himself up to something. "Of course, I doubt that's going to happen. The four of you would not have been chosen for this mission if you weren't the very best. Gentlemen, I will see you in two weeks at the border."

Nobody had much to say after that. Having spent two days together in the Finnish backwoods, they were talked out. Instead, they went about stowing their gear with the easy competence of men who had been on more than one combat mission.

The plane's two Pratt & Whitney radial engines together generated twenty-four hundred horsepower, giving the C-47 a cruising speed of one hundred and sixty miles per hour. As they gained altitude, the woods and hills disappeared into the dusk below. It took the plane less than a minute to reach cruising altitude before it leveled off and flew east.

Conversation was difficult in the noisy belly of the C-47. There were hardly any creature comforts. They settled themselves into jump seats that folded down from the bulkhead. Looking down from the plane, the countryside below was a dark expanse uninterrupted by a single light. When Cole looked up, he could see the stars illuminating the clear night sky. It was like being on a mountaintop. It all felt more than a little unreal for someone who was used to having his feet planted firmly on the ground. You ain't in Gashey's Creek no more, he reminded himself — not for the first time since coming ashore on D-Day.

Cole felt good about the team. He knew he could trust Vaccaro with his life. Samson seemed dependable, and he was sure as hell solid. Honaker had some sort of bug up his ass about being in charge, but Cole could live with that as long as the man did his part when their boots hit the ground.

He glanced around at Vaccaro and Samson, who both looked to be sound asleep. Honaker was peering at a map by the dim glare of a red map flashlight. Being the leader.

Cole closed his eyes. He figured he could let his guard down on the plane — whatever happened up here wasn't in his hands, but the pilot's. It was damn cold, though, and he tugged his coat more tightly around him. Maybe winter was just a couple of weeks away on the ground, but it was winter sure enough 20,000 feet up. He nodded off.

• • •

Cole was awakened by a change in the rhythm of the plane. They had been flying smoothly enough, but now the plane seemed to shudder and struggle through the air. What was going on?

He looked around. Samson and Vaccaro still slept soundly. In the dim light he saw Honaker unbuckle himself from the jump seat and make his way toward the cockpit. Cole undid his own seatbelt and followed.

To his surprise, the cockpit was actually quite small — not much room for anyone but the pilot and co-pilot, but Honaker had managed to squeeze in. Cole stuck his head in over the man's shoulder, and Honaker looked up in surprise. He hadn't noticed Cole following him.

There was a bewildering number of controls, all dimly lighted. Beyond the windshield, Cole could see the clear unblinking stars. It did not inspire confidence that the co-pilot was busy flicking toggle switches, while the pilot was wrestling with the yoke in his hands. His knuckles glowed white where his fingers wrapped around the controls.

"This don't look good," Cole said.

"Yeah, we've got a problem," the pilot said. His voice sounded strained. "We lost oil pressure in one of the engines. There’s over thirty gallons of oil in there, but it must have all leaked out. I can’t understand how it happened. We had to shut the damn thing down."

“Must be an oil line went bad,” Honaker said. “We should turn back. We’re too far from the drop zone to make it."

Cole looked out, straining to see the engines. Although the plane still struggled, they didn't seem to be losing altitude. The other engine sounded strong enough. "Can this bird fly on one engine?"

"Buddy, we are flying on one engine. I think you would be sure to notice if we couldn’t," the pilot said.

"Then we ought to keep flying," Cole said. "We're ready to go. Just get us to that drop zone."

"Cole, are you crazy?" Honaker demanded. "We need to abort this mission."

"What for? If we don't do this tonight, and that bad weather moves in, we might have to sit on our asses in Finland for days. By then, we might need snowshoes to get back out. To hell with that. I say we just keep flying.”

"Man's got a point," the pilot said. "There's no telling how long we'd be grounded. We'll be fine as long as the engine doesn't overheat. We’re close. Might as well go for it."

"And if the engine overheats?” Honaker asked.

"Then you're going to have some company jumping out of this crate."

Honaker and Cole cleared out of the cockpit. Honaker did not look pleased. "Goddamnit, Cole. I thought you and me had an agreement that I was in charge on this mission."

"In case you ain't noticed, Honaker, there ain't no mission to be in charge of yet. Once we get on the ground, you can be the goddamn leader if that's what makes you happy."

They were both shouting to be heard over the engine noise, but that was just an excuse. They would have been shouting at each other in a library, too.

The loud exchange left Cole’s throat feeling raw. Cole made it back to his jump seat, although the bumpy air made the walk a little challenging. It was even noisier back here, which was just fine with him — it meant Honaker would have to shut the hell up. He buckled himself in again and waited. The plane lurched and shook, but then corrected itself. The pilot had seemed confident enough that he could get them to the drop zone. Don’t worry yourself into a corner, his pa used to say. Better to leave the door open for good luck to walk through. The man used to talk sense when he wasn’t guzzling his own ’shine.

Cole settled down to wait.

Next stop, Russia.

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