Authors: Kenneth Cran
Two hours before, Warnikov and Mierkin had taken a roll of baling wire over to the south side of the perimeter fence and sewn up the hole cut by the spy. An hour after that, they sat in the mess hall, drank coffee and played poker. Fifteen minutes ago, they had decided to bunk down for the night, but not before having a couple of smokes out beyond the fence.
Kurskin breathed in the frigid pine-scented air so deeply, his eyes welled up. He shook off a chill. Though he was bundled up good, it did nothing to keep his thin blood warm. He wondered if there was a station somewhere in the Soviet empire that was isolated but warm. Where he could be alone without having to put on three pairs of socks every morning.
Maybe the desert
, he thought.
Yes, Kazakhstan, perhaps. Or Uzbekistan. That’s further south and probably warmer
.
I can talk to Vukarin about it. He’s approachable, at least. Maybe he could help me with a transfer. Not right away, of course. I’ll have to stay here for a full year before I can go somewhere else. How many soldiers actually would want a station in the desert anyway?
He allowed himself to smile. The thought of sand in his boots and the sun burning his skin sent shivers,
warm
shivers, throughout his body.
The compound’s lights burned bright, illuminating the yard and the fringes of the evergreen forest beyond. Barkov had ordered them to keep the lights on all night, a full spread, instead of the normal staggering pattern they usually practiced to save generator fuel.
“Hand me your flashlight,” said Kurskin. The compound was fully lit, but Kurskin felt better after Warnikov gave him the light. He liked having something in his hand. “Where were you and Mierkin smoking?” the radar operator said.
“The Big Tree.”
Kurskin himself always smoked alone, and never in the same place. Lately, he had taken up walking while he smoked. It seemed like a good thing to do. No one was sure if Barkov knew about the Big Tree. Kurskin didn’t want to be there if the colonel suddenly happened upon it one night while half the station’s soldiers were hanging around, puffing away.
They got to the gate, and Warnikov pulled a key and unlocked it. Until a few hours ago, it was assumed that a permanent guard detail wouldn’t have to be assigned to the gate. Things were different now. Barkov’s final order to the four men left at Yenisey was to construct a guard house. The good old days of playing cards to pass the time were over. The soldiers at Yenisey Radar Installation No. 1 would have to pull rotating guard duty, no matter what the weather was like.
They exited the compound and Kurskin stopped and looked around. “So where is Mierkin?” he said, but Wornikov just pointed into the woods. “What, you can’t talk now? Cat got your tongue?”
“The Big Tree,” said the wide-eyed soldier.
Kurskin noticed how pale he was. He was growing paler by the minute.
They headed into the woods and Kurskin felt better with the flashlight in his hands. The camp lights had created harsh shadows just inside the tree line, and it was as dark as night should be. Kurskin flipped the light on, and they went into the forest. Soon, they came upon a huge fallen pine tree. It had been there a long time. Most of the branches and needles had rotted away, leaving a level if not comfortable bench for a group of nicotine addicted soldiers to sit on.
Kurskin aimed the light at the ground surrounding the tree trunk. The snow was disturbed, as if a lot of feet had trampled the area. But Mierkin was nowhere to be found.
“Where is he?” Kurskin said. He had had just about enough.
Again, Warnikov said nothing and pointed.
“Damn it, Warnikov.” Kurskin climbed over the tree to see what the suddenly silent soldier was pointing at. “You guys better not be pulling a prank, or so help me god I’ll-”
Then the radar op directed the light down and Kurskin saw something in the snow. It was formless, dark and glistening.
And red.
Kurskin grabbed a stick and poked at it. He knew right away what it was. And it scared the hell out of him.
He stood up and stared out into the woods. If Mierkin was alive, he didn’t think he’d be able to go too far with his intestines laying in the snow. Kurskin hopped back over the tree with nervous vigor. “What the hell happened?” he said as he approached Warnikov.
Warnikov stood there like a pale, mute ghost.
“Did you see anything?”
Quiet.
“Warnikov!”
And then, a horrible thought came to Yenisey’s sole graveyard shift radar operator. It chilled him as he recalled the words:
“It’d be a shame to have to kill you too.”
“Son of a bitch,” said Kurskin as he looked down at the snow. Somehow, it helped him think more clearly. He looked at Warnikov a moment later. “Where’s Tobolisk? Is he in the tool shed?”
But Warnikov didn’t say anything. He only stood there, pasty and droopy eyed. He looked like he was going to fall asleep.
“What’s the matter with-” But he didn’t finish his sentence as Kurskin looked down and noticed that his comrade’s pants were black.
Since when does the Soviet Army issue black pants to soldiers?
He didn’t recall the private’s pants being black earlier, but then again, he didn’t recall even looking at Warnikov’s pants in the first place.
As he looked back at the path they had taken into the trees, Kurskin saw a dark trail that was visible even within the shadows of the trees. He shone the light on the snow and for the second time, saw red.
Too much
red.
“
Warnikov?” he said, as he turned and approached the soldier.
Warnikov began to lean, and then the soldier hit the snow with a splash, his soaked pants spraying blood across the snow. “Are you coming with me?” he said as he lay in the snow. “Are you coming with me?”
The clean tear across the back of Warnikov’s pants went unseen by Kurskin. Nor did he see the razor-like slice through flesh and femoral artery alike. Kurskin began to shake as he backed away from the Big Tree, the pile of intestines and one private first-class Nikolai Warnikov, whose pants had gone from green to red/black in the course of a short walk from the radar control room to the woods.
“It’d be a shame to have to kill you too.”
Kurskin took off from the trees and back to the perimeter fence. He was sweating now for the first time this winter, and he wanted nothing more than to tear off the extra coat and pants and three layers of socks. They were slowing him down, and he had to get back to the control room and the radio. He had to call Vukarin, or Radchek, or fucking
Stalin
. He was stationed with a homicidal maniac and he needed to call for help fast.
He followed Warnikov’s bloody trail back to the gate, then entered the compound and raced toward the radar control room.
He must have taken that kitchen knife and did them both in
, Kurskin thought.
Must’ve sliced up poor Warnikov good. Jesus Christ All Mighty, Warnikov was probably dying when he came into the control room.
Kurskin ran faster.
He was so deep in thought that he failed to notice right away that the door to the operator’s room was wide open. He skidded to a halt, slipped on the ice and hit the ground. The jolt knocked him back into the here and now.
Hadn’t he closed it?
No, he wasn’t the last one out. Warnikov was and he didn’t close the door. That’s why Kurskin didn’t see the bloody trail the mortally wounded soldier was making: he was walking next to or in front of Warnikov, not behind him.
Kurskin backed away, then stood up. From what he could see, the room was mostly black and silent, with just the faintest halo of green radar screen light around the edges.
What if he’s in there? Where do I go? I can’t run into the woods, he’d chase me. Even if he didn’t catch me, I can’t survive outside.
The radar op inched backward. He needed to make it to the barracks. He needed his rifle. He needed to protect himself. He turned and ran for the barracks, but only made it a few yards before stopping again.
The door was wide open, the barracks dark and wholly uninviting.
“
Son of a bitch,” Kurskin said under his breath. He pointed the flashlight into the doorway, as if it would help. He saw nothing.
Now where should he go?
Something caught Kurskin’s ear, a sound that reminded him of Moscow in the winter. The sound of a galloping horse in the snow. A sound of heavy hooves thumping against frozen earth. And it was getting closer. Kurskin allowed himself to think something that he didn’t really
want
to think. Something that made him weak with fear.
What if it wasn’t Tobolisk?
The thumping of heavy footfalls was upon him, and as Kurskin prepared to break for the barracks, he inadvertently found himself turning around instead, toward the sound of the noise. Kurskin saw nothing on the ground. Instead, it was in the air, a great white shape that lacked true detail in the sodium vapor lights of the compound. It seemed to hover over him in mid leap, with outstretched arms ready to embrace him.
Kurskin screamed for a millisecond before 700 pounds of crushing weight landed on him, flattening his torso as if it were a paper cup.
12
The Siberian winter night was still. No owls hooted, no ravens cawed. No wolves howled. The sky above saw expanding storm clouds dull the moon’s light. Two hundred foot evergreen trees stood as majestic guardians over an arboreal world. Within that world, Talia’s cabin lay buried, its walls hidden by piled-up snow. All was silent.
Or nearly silent.
Nick Somerset lay on the floor, his body covered with half a dozen blankets. He faced the ceiling and snored, a shrill noise that whistled from his nostrils. On the bed, Talia Markovich slept beneath mounds of covers. The stove in the far corner glowed red as a pot of water steamed humidity into the dry air.
A muffled thump on the cabin’s roof went unnoticed. A few seconds passed. Another thump and Talia shifted in her sleep. Oblivious, Nick remained unmoved.
It was the third thump that forced Talia’s eyes open. She peered out through a little space in the covers and listened. Slowly, she drew the covers off. There was a sound, obvious and grating.
Nick’s snoring.
No!
Her eyes studied the cabin ceiling and beyond, her ears grasping for sounds.
A thump.
Talia slipped out from under the covers to the floor. On her belly, she urgently made her way over to her guest.
Thump thump.
She looked up, listening. She swallowed.
The roof
. Her heart raced.
She reached Nick and pinched his nostrils. There was a brief moment before his mouth reflexively opened to inhale. The action forced his eyes open, but before he could say anything, Talia cupped her hand over his mouth.
Nick grabbed her by the throat with one hand and flipped her to the floor. In a second, he was on top of her. “What gives, lady?” he demanded. Talia struggled to talk, but Nick’s hand was tight over her throat. He pulled away, feeling very dirty. “Jesus, sorry I-”
Talia covered his mouth and whispered a harsh “Shut up.” Looking at her desperate expression, Nick knew that something was wrong.
“What?” he asked. Talia pushed him off and froze as another thump sounded off from the roof. Nick heard it this time and craned his neck. Somebody was up there.
Thump thump.
Nick crawled to his coat, pulled the pistol from his pocket and checked the cartridge. A full clip.
Talia tore her eyes from the ceiling as Nick engaged the cartridge. She shook her head, pleading with him not to do anything. He crawled back to her and again mouthed
What is it?
She didn’t answer, focusing instead on the sudden, penetrating silence. Nick scanned the ceiling, then the walls. He listened for noise, any noise. He expected to hear commands outside bandied in Russian.