Authors: Kenneth Cran
Jovaravich strode down the aisle between the beds to three tall wood cabinets. Across the doors was a single steel bar with a beefy hinge and a lock that had
Kamchatka
engraved into it. Giddy with excitement, Jovaravich slipped the key into the keyhole and with one hand, labored to open the padlock. Seconds later, the lock was on the floor and the steel bar swung back. Grasping the handles, he opened the cabinet doors, looked inside, and gasped.
Aligned on a top rack and secured by another, shorter steel bar and padlock was a row of Russian PPSh submachine guns. Even in the limited light, the immaculate blued barrels gleamed and Jovaravich was overwhelmed. In a wood box below them were stacks of loaded curve-type magazines.
He went to the next cabinet and opened the doors. Inside, a dozen German luger pistols and clips rested behind another protective bar and lock. Above them, empty clips and revolvers in various states of assembly cluttered a shelf.
The last cabinet Jovaravich opened had 20 Tokarev and Mosin-Nagant single shot rifles with folding bayonets already in fixed positions. Like the others, they were locked behind a steel bar. As ranking soldier, Corporal Garkin had never allowed anyone but himself near the gun cabinets, and now Jovaravich could see why: the weapons were his babies, and judging from the exceptional condition they were in, Garkin was a caring father.
Jovaravich’s confidence was renewed. There were enough guns and ammo to outfit a regiment, and he now liked their chances. All he had to do was go back downstairs for the gun rack keys.
Though the vehicles were only a few hundred feet away, it took Nick and Ormskovo a full 10 minutes to circumnavigate a sprawling snowdrift and cross the yard. When they got to them, however, Nick could tell right away, even through the camouflage net, that two of them had been cannibalized for parts and therefore undrivable. Another Maultier half-track sat up on blocks, its two front tires removed. Next to that, a nameless Russian truck was without its hood, leaving the engine fused in rust and ice. They circled the vehicles, found a hole in the net, and crawled underneath. Ormskovo’s skinny frame could have made it through the gaps in the net, Nick observed. He wondered how the kid could even walk with legs so devoid of muscle.
The camouflage net was propped up in the center by a 12-foot post, while the edges were lashed to the ground. It resembled a large, army-green circus tent, but Nick found no child-like joy in it. They sidestepped their way between the Maultier and truck, navigating the narrow gap. Making their way toward the center post, they came out from between the vehicles and stopped. With jaws agape, Nick and Ormskovo stared at the looming giant before them. “Will you look at that,” said Nick.
Parked beneath the tented net and dusted with snow was a Soviet T-34 Medium Tank. Painted in battleship gray for winter maneuvers, it was, by tank standards, a handsome vehicle. The hull was sloped and the main gun turret was affixed forward of the center, giving it a crouched appearance. The gun barrel itself was short, extending just past the front of the crawler tracks. With its mass projecting forward, the machine’s overall look was that of a great steel bulldog.
“We have a tank,” said Ormskovo, excited like a kid at Christmas. He climbed onto the mudguard, reached up, and broke an icicle off the barrel.
Nick was surprised that Ormskovo hadn’t known about the tank. “
How
long have you been stationed here?”
Ormskovo sucked on the icicle and said “Eleven months. But I never came down here before today. Garkin wouldn’t allow it.”
Raising an eyebrow, Nick did a quick study of the tank. It looked to be in good shape, with very little rust in and around the visible moving parts. The crawler tracks were clean of corrosion and the grease around the hubs looked fresh. The rubber on the road wheels was devoid of cracks, and the paint job looked brand new.
“Immaculate.” Nick went around to the other side.
“Garkin took care of all the vehicles,” said Ormskovo. He stood up, pushed the net off the turret, and opened the hatch. “I’ll check the fuel gauge.” He slipped inside.
Parked next to and dwarfed by the tank was a GAZ car, the Soviet equivalent of an American Jeep. It too was painted battleship gray, with big red and yellow five-pointed stars on each of the doors. Battle worn and pock marked with bullet holes, it was the one vehicle of the lot practical enough to carry them to Bratsk. Although it could seat six, Nick reasoned it needed to seat only two.
His plan was simple, made possible by Radchek’s own order for them to split into two teams: he would secure a vehicle, then knock Ormskovo unconscious. He didn’t look forward to doing that. The kid was green and unprepared for combat, or, for that matter, life in general. And he looked like he hit the bottle pretty hard. Nick felt sorry for him and decided that he would try not to hurt him too much.
After that it would be easy to sneak into the administration building. Nick was sure he could take care of Jovaravich without much effort, provided he got him alone. Radchek was another matter, for he was strong and in control. But Nick also saw in the captain a weariness that he thought he could take advantage of.
The canvas top of the GAZ sagged under a foot of snow. Nick opened the door, scooped out the seats, and sat down.
Not bad
. He searched around for the key, found a little chain protruding from a dashboard recess, and pulled on it. A rabbit’s foot with a single key emerged, and Nick smiled at the lucky charm. Maybe it was an omen. Maybe things would go his way. He inserted the key, then turned it.
Nothing.
He tried it again. The sound of an engaging starter was absent.
No juice
. He climbed out and opened the hood. The engine looked clean, and Nick hoped the problem was nothing more than a spent battery. He’d have to find some way of charging it.
Ormskovo climbed out of the turret. “Fuel gauge reads full,” he said as he slithered down the hull like a daddy long-legs.
“Won’t do us any good,” said Nick. “That’s a diesel engine, and you can’t put diesel fuel in a car that takes regular petrol.”
Inserting a long, thin branch to the bottom of the Maultier’s gas tank, Nick pulled it out and looked at it. It was wet four inches from the tip. “That’s about two gallons,” he said. He glanced over at Ormskovo, who was doing the same thing with the Russian truck. “What’ve you got?”
Ormskovo pulled the branch from the keg-like side fuel tank. “This one’s half full,” he said.
“That’d be eight gallons,” said Nick. With a gallon or so each left in Barkov’s convoy, Nick deduced he could squeeze a little over 12 gallons from the vehicles. The GAZ could get them to Bratsk with a single full tank. If he could charge up the battery.
“We should just take the tank.” Ormskovo tossed the stick aside. “It seats four.”
“There’s six of us. Who do we leave behind?”
“I’d be happy to feed the colonel to the lions.”
Nick smiled. He liked this skinny kid with the red hair.
Alone in the cellblock, Talia rocked back and forth on the desk, tried to stay warm. In the cage a few feet away, Barkov snored, and she hated the fact that she wished he were still awake. Was it five days ago that Nick lay on her bed in the cabin, snoring and alerting the Smilodon’s to their presence? She remembered the way he kissed her in the skull room. She wanted him terribly then, but the timing was wrong. How could you make love for the first time in nine years inside a crypt?
Talia allowed herself to think that the whole reason she rescued Nick in the first place was because of her extreme loneliness. It was blind luck that Nick was so handsome. And American. She was glad about that, too. She no longer liked Russian men. Not since her father was taken away, and not since her Leonid disappeared from her life. To her, the
whole idea
of the Soviet Union was nothing more than Stalin’s attempt to deal with the power and influence the West was having over the rest of the world. She hoped communism would go away when Stalin finally died. She did, in the end, still love her native Russia.
And, Talia now realized, she loved Nick. With all her heart, she wanted to tell him that, but found that she couldn’t. First, she wasn’t sure if he felt the same; second, something deep down was still holding onto Leonid. She sometimes wondered if he might still be alive. She had imagined him walking through her cabin door one day with a big smile and a handful of freshly picked spring daisies. It was foolish, of course, to live for false hope. No matter what happened in the next few days, it was imperative to let Nick know that she cared for him and that she wanted out of Siberia. She could no longer live in isolation and study an animal that was doomed to extinction. The Soviet Union was expanding, that much she knew. Where one radar station went up, another was sure to follow. Eventually, the Smilodons would be discovered and, out of fear and ignorance, destroyed. Zoology did not interest Stalin. Superiority over the West did.
They hadn’t had time to talk about it, but it was Talia’s hope that Nick would take her back to America with him. Even though she pretended not to listen, she was entranced by Nick’s recollections of Cleveland and baseball and Bing Crosby, and she did, in fact, like his singing. All these things she wanted to tell him. She knew he had some sort of plan brewing to get away. The details, as far as she was concerned, were unimportant and something she didn’t want to think about anyway. She just wanted out and she wanted to be with Nick Somerset.
The specter of Leonid overcame her and she shivered. He had made her promise not to divulge the existence of
Smilodon siberius
, and she hadn’t. Nick had discovered them on his own, as had everyone else in the camp, to disastrous effect. In her nine years in Siberia, Talia had made some startling discoveries about this particular species of felis, some of which existed in no other species of cat: they hibernated during the winter, they used coordinated attacks to hunt down prey, and their sense of smell was weak while their hearing was acute within a specific frequency range. They were nocturnal except when threatened, and they were more intelligent than modern big cats.
All those things mattered not to the people in the gulag right now. They were all more interested in simple survival. She hoped Leonid would have understood. She feared, however, that they had little chance of escaping the gulag alive.
You’ve got to accentuate the positive
, she thought, trying to remember the words to the song Nick sang days ago.
Eliminate the negative, latch on to the affirmative, don’t mess with Mr. In-Between
.
She hoped Nick would sing it to her again.
“Where am I?” came the voice from the cell. She turned and saw Barkov sit up. He had been asleep for all of 10 minutes.
“Anything, sir?” asked Jovaravich while entering the radio room.
Radchek shook his head. “I think your radio has breathed its last.”
Jovaravich pulled a few clips from his pocket and handed them to the captain. “At least we’re in good shape, weapons-wise,” he said. Radchek yanked out the spent clip, jammed a fresh one into the luger and put the other in his pocket. “Captain, can I ask what your plan is for the American?”
Radchek looked at him. “We’re taking him with us to Bratsk.” He went to the door and looked out. A wave of clouds passed overhead, shading the entire compound. To the left, Radchek could see the vehicles under the cammo net, but there was no sign of the American or Ormskovo.
“
Do you think that’s wise, sir?” Jovaravich said. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d never question a superior officer’s decisions.
“
I’d rather have him with us, under guard, than locked up here where he might escape.” He noted the private’s broken arm. “Are you up to the task?”
“
Yes, sir,” Jovaravich said.
“
Where are the guns?”
“
Upstairs in the infirmary.”
“
Maybe we can find you a real sling for that arm.”
Before they could move, the low rumbling came again. It was muffled, but steady and low enough in frequency to vibrate the chests of the two Russian soldiers. It sounded as if it were coming from outside. From far away. Jovaravich started to say something, but Radchek quieted him with an upturned hand. He stepped outside, but the sound faded away when he did so. Somehow, it was s
tronger
inside. Radchek moved back to the radio and looked up at the speakers hanging from the wall. It wasn’t the radio.