The Undaunted (Book 2 of The Undesirables)

Chapter 23: The Daredevil

Jack spent the next fourteen hours in the back of a truck, bouncing over the twisted trails of northern Siberia. The roads, pitted with boulders and tree roots, were so treacherous that the truck driver didn't dare shift out of first gear from fear of breaking an axel.

Jack's bed during the journey was a wooden bench. His pillow alternated between the shoulders of the two Red Army guards flanking him as his head ping-ponged back and forth with the truck's violent movement. But after being deprived of sleep for so long, Jack slept like a rock. It was the most comfortable rest he'd ever had.

Jack could have slept for weeks, but he was roughly woken when the truck finally arrived at its destination. The man who shook Jack awake was tall and stiff in a freshly laundered Red Army aviator's uniform. Despite the man's foreign insignia, Jack immediately recognized his attitude as that of a commanding officer, so Jack saluted.

The man saluted back and then tapped himself on the chest. "Captain Ivanovich," he said. "New commander." His English was thick with a Russian accent.

Jack tapped his own chest. "Jack Wright," he said.

The man nodded but also corrected him: "Lieutenant Jack Wright." He then handed Jack a Russian flight suit.

They had arrived during the North's brief period of night, and the airfield was dark when Jack and Bobby stepped down from the back of the truck. Even the sky was black, the Siberian constellations hidden behind a low layer of clouds. Only the horizon was gray, the northern sun hiding just out of sight.

Jack and Bobby shaved, bathed, and dressed by lantern light. There was no running water, so their showers were provided by gigantic ladles that they tipped over their heads. The night air was crisp, and the water made Jack shiver as he soaped himself clean for the first time in weeks. When he and Bobby emerged from the bathing tent, the sun had returned from its hiding place and dawn stretched over the horizon. The sight of planes on either side of a gravel runway took Jack's breath away.

All twelve of the warplanes were American Bell Airacobras, re-painted in Soviet Red. "Which one's mine?" Jack asked Captain Ivanovich.

Ivonovich squinted against the rising sun and pointed. "Number five."

Jack wandered over to the indicated plane. The numbers "4375-5" were painted on the fuselage and underside of both wings. Jack ran his hand over the American-milled aluminum as if caressing the plane. The bright Soviet red made it look like a race car. "I need paint," he said, looking back at Ivanovich.

The Russian Captain looked confused. "Paint?"

"Yeah, paint." Jack mimed painting a house. "You know, for the nose art." He pointed at the front of the plane.

The captain frowned and shook his head. "No art," he announced. "Just number."

Jack smiled. "No problem," he assured the captain. "Just number." He gave the captain a thumbs-up.

Neither Jack nor Bobby knew the name of that airfield, nor the names of any of the little runways they landed on during their subsequent journey south. None of them even had so much as a sign, a fact that made Jack curious.

"They removed the signs," Bobby informed him when Jack brought it up.

"But why?" Jack asked.

"They don't want us to know how to get back."

"Get back where?"

"To the United States," Bobby said grimly. "We're Soviets now, Jack. We'll never see the States again."