Authors: Kenneth Cran
Barkov stopped a few yards away from him. “Talia?” he said. “Ah, yes. The woman. She is irrelevant now, although I should say she reminds me of my wife.” He became very dour. “Did you know I killed my wife?”
Nick no longer wondered why Captain Radchek had him locked up. Barkov was indeed out of his mind, and he wondered why after everyone else had died, this one madman was allowed to live. The scales of justice, evidently, didn’t quite reach onto the Central Plateau.
“Colonel, we’re still stranded in-” Barkov fired a shot and snow poofed inches away from Nick’s leg.
“Back to the cell block,” he said. Nick started for the concrete building, followed by the gun-toting colonel. A few short minutes ago, Barkov was locked up in a cell, bargaining with that idiot Radchek. Now, he was free and in complete control of the situation. The American spy was in his custody, and would stay that way until he handed him over to General Tomkin.
Both men halted in mid step as the familiar roar rang out over the labor camp. They searched around the yard, but saw nothing. Nick looked at the gun in Barkov’s hand and thought he could wrest it from him. But another chest-vibrating roar changed his mind. The gun, in all likelihood, wouldn’t make a bit of difference. The sound of the gunshot was bringing the animals back, he was sure of it. Barkov may as well have fired a Howitzer.
A single Smilodon materialized from the trees on the other side of the main gate. With its pink tongue panting between tusks, the cat stared at them through the wire mesh. Dried blood stained its spotted muzzle.
“It’s outside the fence,” Barkov said, trying to reassure himself. Nick knew better. Secure was the last thing Angara was.
On cue, the cat leaped to the top of the 12 foot fence, its front paws hooking around the top rail. At the same time, it kicked its rear legs against the steel mesh, found a foothold, and then pushed off. It cleared the fence, jumping to the snow on the other side with grace and power. Barkov watched the animal in astonishment, then turned the pistol on the cat and pulled the trigger. There was a mechanical click, but no shot.
The gun was empty.
Radchek had fired several shots in the tunnel. Barkov used up one bullet on Radchek and one bullet to prod Nick along. It never occurred to him that he might not have any ammunition left. Now, outside the relative safety of the cell, Barkov’s knees began to shake. Standing between he and the cat, the cat the color of a ghost, was a lot of air and snow.
The Smilodon growled, lowered its head and swept back its ears. The fur on its back stood straight up, making the beast look even larger. Nick took several steps back as he recognized the inevitable.
The cat charged and Nick reacted. He spun around and ran back toward the tank, leaving Barkov alone and frozen in fear.
At a full clip, the beast tore through the snow and closed the gap, and the colonel felt very foolish indeed. The buildings were too far away to provide refuge. But he had to try, and so Barkov took off toward Administration. He hoped it would go after the American, but the cat arced away on an intercept course toward
him
. The snow was deep and slowed the colonel’s progress. He wasn’t going to make it and he panicked, turned away from the building and headed back toward the vehicles. The Maultier half-track and Russian truck still lay within the cover of the net, but they didn’t look all that secure either.
Even closer than the vehicles was a 30 foot tall light pole. Hammered into either side at regular, opposite intervals, step spikes rose the length of the pole to the light on top. Barkov could make it there and climb to safety. He didn’t think the monster could get to him at that height. At least he
hoped
it couldn’t.
Nick scrambled up the tank’s hull to the gun turret hatch, opened it and slipped inside. Closing and latching the door behind him, he sat down in the gunner’s chair, caught his breath and rubbed his hands for warmth. Inside, it was cold, the light dim and the air reeked of diesel exhaust. But for the first time in days, Nick felt secure.
Gloriously, uncompromisingly secure.
He glanced around at the turret’s mechanics, but couldn’t see much. The last tank he was in was a German Panzer VI Tiger that his battalion had captured in Dusseldorf near the end of the war. It was huge and a hoot to drive so much power, but he hadn’t been at a tank’s controls since. Airplane’s shared a common design philosophy, but did tanks?
Crawling down into the cockpit, Nick saw that it sure wasn’t designed for a tall person. At six-four, he crammed himself into the seat. To his right was the machine gunner’s chair, although the 7.92 mm machine gun was not installed. Looking over the gauges and controls, he was relieved to find most everything labeled:
Fuel gauge.
Electrical.
Oil pressure.
Starter.
On either side of the seat were steering levers. Next to the right lever was the gearshift. Foot pedal throttle and clutch controls were just like the German Tiger.
You can do this
, Nick thought, and then turned the key and pressed the electric ignition button.
And just like the GAZ car, nothing happened.
Barkov made it to the light pole and, hand over hand, started to climb. He got 10 feet off the snow before he felt a tug on his coat. He yelped and pulled, but it held him fast. Glancing down, he saw his greatcoat snagged on one of the spikes. Twenty yards away, the Smilodon closed in on him. He saw it, screamed, yanked the coat and tried to free it.
It was hooked through the pocket.
The big cat drew closer. Fifteen yards. Ten yards.
Barkov did the only thing he could do: he took off the coat, left it dangling from the spike. Without protection, the Siberian chill cut right through him as he scrambled up.
Below, the Smilodon jumped with outstretched claws. Fangs bit into green wool, but the cat was disappointed by the sensation. For an instant, it hung there like an ornament before the coat gave in to the animal’s weight. It fell to the snow and ripped the coat to shreds. Looking up at its quarry, the beast snarled then dug its claws into the wood and hauled itself up.
At the top, Barkov held on tight as the light pole swayed under the Smilodon’s weight. The big cat made it a few feet off the ground before it fell back again. Shaking snow from its fur, it circled and roared and watched the prey it had cornered.
Nick repeated the steps to start the tank, but it wouldn’t turn over. It was too cold, he realized, and diesel engines have difficulty starting in extreme cold. Frustrated, Nick slammed his fist against the bulkhead. Could anything go right? Just once?
His answer came as he read more labels. On the center control panel was a gauge that read
Compressed Air.
He was no engineer, but Nick knew the simple design elements of a diesel engine. One of those elements was that air had to be compressed by the pistons in order to fire. Nick looked around the cockpit and, to his surprise, saw a cluster of compressed air cylinders at his feet.
An emergency ignition system
.
In times of war, the frigid winter was Russia’s best friend. Hitler and Napoleon found that out. But the Russians had to be innovative in order to take advantage of it, and staring at the compressed air cylinders, Nick was delighted at just
how
innovative the Russians were.
The T-34 came to rumbling life. High on the light pole, Barkov turned his head and saw black exhaust spewing through twin pipes in the tank’s rear. His jaw clenched and he huffed in anger as the tank started to back out from beneath the camouflage net. Once again, the American was getting away.
Roaring at the challenge, the cat charged the sound, but soon skidded to a stop. Ahead of it, the tank emerged from the netting like a giant armored beetle slithering from a chrysalis. The young cat watched as the massive steel beast rolled through the snow spitting black smoke. It cowered back, crouched down and waited for the new enemy to attack.
Inside the tank, Nick thought it wise not to open the forward hatch. Instead, he ducked his head to the periscope, pressed his face against the rubber and peered through. The yard was quiet, but Nick thought he could see the faint outline of the Smilodon against the snow. He thought it looked afraid. Barkov was nowhere to be seen.
He yanked the steering levers in opposite directions and the crawler tracks spun the tank 180 degrees. Through the periscope, he saw the rear of the camp and the perimeter fence. Paw prints and the toboggan-like trail made by dragged bodies were easy to see. A straight line snaked through an opening in the steel mesh and then melted into the forest. Nick pushed the throttle down, engaged the clutch. The tank rolled through the yard, flattened the fence and entered the dark woods.
Shaking from the cold, Barkov watched the tank vanish into the trees. With his elbows wrapped around the spikes, his hands were free to rub together and he did so with great urgency. He wished he had his coat. He glanced down, but didn’t see the Smilodon.
Maybe it followed the tank
. If that was the case, he could climb down and, shredded or not, get his coat. Maybe he could even get his hands on some of the camp’s guns. That would be ideal. Then he could kill the damn lion-things and get back to the people’s business. Barkov took a step down, but then heard a snarl from below. He looked again, but didn’t see the-
A pair of jaws opened wide as the cat yawned, and Barkov realized that it was there the whole time. He just couldn’t see it in the snow. He brought his foot back up to the spike and left it there. He wasn’t going anywhere.
He couldn’t see the cat.
How was he supposed to know when it was safe to climb down? Barkov decided to wait it out. He was uncomfortable, hungry and cold up on the light pole. But he was resilient. He’d proven that.
40
It was the smell that awoke Talia. Sour and rotten, it burned her nose with a mixture of concentrated urine and death. She opened her eyes to a dim world of dirt, roots and surprising warmth. Her head still hurt, but the pain had diminished to a blunt if not constant throbbing. Her stomach was a different story, for the nausea was stronger and she didn’t know if it was from her injuries or the putrid air of her surroundings.
She was inside a tunnel. Or a cave. Anyway, somewhere underground. Birch roots plastered the sides of the cave like skeletal fingers. The floor was hard but not like cement. More like packed dirt. She wondered where the pale light was coming from and hoped she’d see a lantern or a torch. She lifted her head but saw neither. Instead, the faint blue glow of daylight reached into the cave from the opening of a low tunnel, highlighting the odd shapes and angles inside. She was close to an entrance.
But an entrance to where? An overwhelming sense of fear engulfed her as she remembered the Smilodon dragging her and then dropping her into a hole. Was that hole in the cellblock? She searched her memory and decided, yes, it was, but this didn’t look like that same tunnel. In fact, the low ceiling and rough excavation told her it was not the tunnel. Nor, she realized, was it man-made.
Talia sat up too quick, and the ensuing head-rush forced her on her back again. Twinkles of glowing confetti obscured her vision, and the queasiness swelled to her throat. With everything she could muster, she forced herself to relax. When the ill feelings subsided, she rolled onto her side and slowly sat back up. She wiped her runny nose. Rubbed her eyes. Took a deep breath, although the air gagged her. She surveyed her surroundings.
The cave was small, no bigger than the cell she had been locked up in. Opposite the glow of the entrance was another tunnel with a low ceiling. It was black, no light came through, and Talia thought it must go deeper underground. There were a few other holes in the cave wall, most too small for a person to fit through. She didn’t know if these were tunnel entrances as well. What she did know was that she was inside the winter den of Smilodon
siberius
.
Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, she sighed a nervous sigh. The Smilodons had brought her here alive, but for what reason, she didn’t want to guess. Setting her hand back on the cave floor, she recoiled as something soft and furry met her naked palm. It was too dark to see, but she knew it was an animal. She felt it again. Soft fur. She stroked it. It was cold.
Not alive,
she thought. Her eyes focused and collected the light. She moved her body when she realized the shadow it was causing. When she did that, she saw what was on the floor.