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Cole took stock. Sharp as glass, the edges of the ice had made some cuts on his wrists that stung even worse in the cold, but the bleeding was nothing serious. More troubling was the fact that his hands were just about frozen and he was wet to the elbows, but the rest of him was mostly dry. He’d be all right as long as he kept moving. Whitlock was soaked to the bone. Saved from drowning, he now shivered uncontrollably in the cold.

The narrow hummock in the middle of the bog was no place to make camp for the night. However, a quarter mile off he could see a dark line of trees in the gathering dusk. Solid ground.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s find some shelter in those trees yonder and then get Whitlock out of these wet clothes before he freezes to death.”

“We can camp right here,” Honaker said. “Whitlock might not make it to the woods. It’s goddamn cold out.”

“Then I reckon we had best get a move on,” Cole said. “The trees will block the wind.”

Ignoring Honaker’s protests, Cole grabbed Whitlock’s left arm. Vaccaro got the idea and grabbed Whitlock’s other arm. It was as if they were giving him a bum’s rush. With Whitlock’s own legs working as best they could, they crossed the bog and headed toward the woods. The others followed, with Samson hauling Ramsey in a fireman’s carry.

For the first time since the escape from the Gulag, Cole began to wonder just how the hell they were ever going to make it to Finland.

It wasn’t a good sign that Whitlock’s legs were mostly dragging now.

Vaccaro stumbled, almost dropping Whitlock. He must have been having the same thought about the mission, because he managed to pant, “Goddamn, Whitlock, you better not turn into a popsicle on us.”

“Faster,” Cole grunted.

They reached the forest and the trees closed in around them. Immediately, Cole felt safer here, more protected than they had been in the open. The thick evergreen boughs filtered out some of the snow, causing it to fall more slowly. Although it was dusk, the snow reflected what light remained.

They dumped Whitlock in a wet, shivering heap in the snow. The others gathered around.

“We need to build shelters,” Cole said. The time had come to give them all a crash course in building shelter. He nodded at a fallen log about three feet off the forest floor. “That deadfall there is a good start. For another shelter, we can set a pole in the fork of a tree. Then cut these here pine branches to make the roof. If you have time, cut a few boughs for the floor, to get yourself out of the snow and off the cold ground.”

Cole drew his big Bowie knife and began hacking at the evergreen boughs in the understory. The heavy, razor-sharp blade easily chopped through branches as big around as a broom handle. He began to pile them so that they slanted from the deadfall to the ground, creating a sloped roof. Despite the cover of the forest, snow began to pile up on the branches he cut.

The others set to work making two-man shelters. Honaker and Samson teamed up, first wedging a long branch into the fork of a tree so that it sloped down to the ground, then piling branches against it. Vaska had done this before and worked with efficient strokes of a hatchet to build an evergreen cave for himself and Buka. Cole and Vaccaro completed the shelter using the windfall in minutes.

Cole’s arms and chest had gotten wet trying to pull Whitlock out of the water. The activity of building the shelters had kept him warm at first, but now the cold setting in with nightfall was quickly sapping his body heat. He stripped off the wet shirt and thermal top and put on dry clothes, although he had to make do with putting his damp coat back on. He wished they could build a fire to dry out, but it wasn’t worth the risk.

As if reading his mind, Honaker said, “We ought to build a fire.”

“If we start a fire, them Russians will be on us fast as ants on sugar,” Cole said. He pronounced the word as far. “Do you reckon this is a good time to tangle with them?”

“If we don’t start a fire, Whitlock is gonna freeze to death,” Vaccaro said quietly. “Look at him.”

Hypothermia set in when a person’s body temperature fell by ten degrees. The plunge into the bog had easily done that to Whitlock’s core. He shook uncontrollably. When he tried to speak, the words emerged in a thickened stammer. His movements appeared sluggish.

“There is another way,” Cole said. “Body heat. Skin to skin, wrapped up in a blanket.”

“Don’t go looking at me to when you say that,” Vaccaro said. “What do I look like to you, some kind of Nancy boy?”

“It ain’t like that,” Cole snapped. “It’s about keeping Whitlock from freezing to death.”

Inna stepped forward. “I will do it.”

“All right. Let’s get his clothes off.”

Getting Whitlock out of his wet clothes wasn’t easy—the wet cloth stuck to his sluggish limbs, and it didn’t help that their own hands were freezing. Their numb fingers fumbled at the buttons. Finally, they were able to get him out of his wet clothes and wrap him in a blanket.