Siberius (4 page)

The wing dipped and Talia fell to her stomach. Frantic for a handhold, she slid across the metal surface toward the edge. Wide eyes searched for something to latch onto, but the wing was as smooth as an iced-up sliding board.

Talia fell legs first into open space before her coat snagged the upturned aileron. She looked down to the ground far below and swallowed. With a rush of adrenaline, she hauled herself back up and over the wing, then tried to catch her breath. Seconds later, she was again crawling along the wing and this time she spotted a door between the port wing and tail. In peeling yellow paint were the words
fuselage access panel.

She slid down to it and placed her boot on a stout branch. The panel was smaller than a manhole cover, with a recessed screw-lock handle. To Talia, it looked like it had been added as an after-thought. She grabbed the handle and twisted it until it loosened and opened, then eased the panel off. Sliding it back into the opened hatchway, Talia crawled up into the fuselage.

The inside was dark and cramped and smelled of fuel and hydraulic fluid. Talia worked her way past spaghetti clusters of cable and hydraulic lines until she reached the seat back. Outside, snapping branches forced a jolt in the plane. Talia held still and shut her eyes. Uncomfortable seconds passed. She waited for the inevitable.

When it didn’t come, she opened her eyes and then drank in as much air as her lungs would allow. In the dark, she felt around for a latch but found two. Flipping them back, the seat became unhinged and Talia eased it back, lowering the unconscious pilot onto her lap.

The branches holding the engine cowling gave way in a burst of bark and pine needles. The plane lurched, throwing Talia sideways against aluminum studs and hydraulics hoses. The wreck launched a few feet before another branch caught the back of the canopy.

This time, Talia didn’t wait for the plane to settle. Grabbing the pilot by the shoulders, she strong-armed him back through the fuselage to the hatch, delicacy of foot no longer concerning her. Now canted to the right at a 45 degree angle, Talia could see trees and the night sky through the MiG’s access hatch.

Outside, she found a foothold on the hatch frame and stood up. Taking the pilot by the hands, she pulled him from the plane, then dragged him up onto the wing. She sat and rested a moment, her muscles demanding at least a brief rest.

Grabbing the injured man’s shoulders, Talia pulled him to the branches of the pine tree. Her boots clanged on the metal wing, but she didn’t care. There was no longer any real need to be silent. Her attempts to remain invisible had been lost the minute she left the tree hide. Removing the rope coil from her shoulder, she tied one end around the pilot’s chest and then wrapped the other end around the tree trunk before tying it around her waist. She would control the pilot’s descent by letting up slack, and the trunk itself would support the majority of his weight. Pulling her gloves tight around her hands, she began lowering him to the ground, the whole time feeling like some absurd fisherman.

In minutes, Talia and the pilot were on the ground. She leaned him up against the trunk and looked skyward toward the wreck. Still lodged in the trees, the MiG was a ghostly shadow, dark against the stars. Talia then looked back down at the pilot she had just saved, but her observation was a clinical one. His injuries didn’t look bad: his right arm had been cut below the elbow but there was no overt bleeding. There was blood on his face and a good-sized bruise on his forehead, which likely accounted for his lack of consciousness. She dared not think that he could have internal injuries.             

Snow began to fall and a chilling breeze whistled through the branches high above. Searching the forest floor, Talia strained to see any movement through the snowflakes. Several times she thought she saw something. In the end, however, there was nothing but her and the pilot.

Her tracks stretched back into the woods toward the clearing, and she estimated the observation platform to be well over 500 yards away. Talia pulled the pilot’s knife from its boot sheath, trudged over to one of the smaller trees and cut off a few branches. Tying them together with her scarf, she laid them flat and eased the still unconscious pilot on top. A makeshift toboggan. Her confidence returned.

The sudden noise came from deep in the woods and it froze Talia in her tracks. It was distant, but its baritone power was unmistakable. Talia knew what it was and her deepest fears about leaving the tree hide were now a reality. She glanced down at the pilot and wondered why she had risked her life to save him. For just a second, she considered making a run back to the tree hide without him. But his face was young, even angelic, and although the instinctive need to save her own life overwhelmed her, the thought of this man dying a ghastly death were she to abandon him increased her resolve. She had come this far, and she was taking him back.

With the sound resonating in her ears, she clenched her jaw, and with all her strength pulled the pilot through the snow.

4

Breaking the monotony of night, the convoy’s yellowed headlights cut a path through the darkness. There were four vehicles in all: three heavy GMC 6x6 trucks and an armored half-track Maultier. The GMC “Jimmies” were leftovers from the American
Lend/Lease
program during World War II. Thousands had been shipped to the Soviet Union to help Stalin defeat Hitler. The Maultier half-track was German, a captured remnant from a battle on the Russian front. All the vehicles were still in good shape though, and with dark green paint jobs and red and yellow stars on the doors, their American and German lineage were forgotten.

Barkov lead in the half-track, his eyes fixed to the terrain. The driver, a short kid named Parnichev, focused on what was supposed to be a road. The falling flakes had grown large, and the windshield wipers strained to brush off the heavy snow.

Parnichev was 18 and enthusiastic. If Barkov had a favorite, he was it, a tough and ambitious kid respectful of his superiors. He reminded Barkov of himself at that age.

“
Temperature’s rising, colonel,” said Parnichev.

Barkov kept his focus. “And how do you know this, private?” There was no thermometer anywhere.

“The flakes, sir.” Parnichev leaned forward and looked to the sky. “The flakes are big. That happens when it gets warm enough for them to stick together.”

Warm,
Barkov thought.
In Siberia.
If he had his way, he’d be in

St. Petersburg with his family, perhaps sitting in his favorite wing chair by a warm fire. He hated calling his beloved St. Petersburg
Leningrad
, the name Josef Stalin had christened it in honor of Vladimir Lenin. He did not grow up in a
Leningrad
, and there were no memories of it anywhere in his childhood. He had taught his children of St. Petersburg, and yet he saw the confusion in their young eyes when everyone but their father called the city something else. Barkov wished Stalin would reconsider his beloved city’s name.

The field radio crackled and snapped Barkov from his trance.

“Yenisey One to Colonel Barkov,” the voice said. Static overlapped the dialogue, but it was still discernible. It was the familiar voice of Kurskin, the radar operator.

Barkov grabbed the field radio and held it to his ear. “Go ahead, private.” A burst of static followed, then silence. Barkov repeated his words. The radar op returned.

“New contact, colonel.” Barkov grabbed a pencil and opened his map. “Bearing latitude 63 degrees 8 minutes north, longitude 99 degrees 14 minutes east. It was visible for a few seconds before it disappeared again.” He scribbled down the information as the half-track bounced along. “Road 2-7 is within 33 kilometers of that sighting, colonel.”

“
Well done, comrade,” said the colonel. “Well done indeed son.”

There was a short pause before the radar op returned. “Thank you, colonel.”

Barkov sensed the pride in the young man’s voice. “Barkov out.” He returned the box to the dashboard cradle, then said, “Stop the vehicle.”

Parnichev stayed inside while the colonel exited and made his way to the first Jimmie. Radchek climbed out even before the truck crept to a halt.

“We have a new contact, captain,” Barkov said. He spread the map out onto the truck’s hood as snowflakes drifted from the gaping blackness above. “Right here.”

Radchek looked at the map as Vukarin joined them from the second truck.

“That’s still three to four hours away,” Radchek said. “Maybe more if the weather gets worse.”

“
Fine,” said Barkov. “It will be daylight by then.” Without another word, the colonel folded the map and trudged back to the half-track.

The junior officers watched their colonel climb back into the cab before Vukarin looked at Radchek and said, “Why do I have the feeling that this is going to get worse?”

5

Private Kurskin removed the earphones, leaned back in the chair and stretched and yawned. It was just after two a.m., his favorite time of the night. Though the room was cold, he was bundled up good in two pairs of long-johns, two pairs of pants, untold layers of socks, and a winter combat parka. He had kept the parka stashed behind the operator’s consol and never wore it when others were in the room with him, especially Colonel Barkov, who was a real stickler when it came to regulations and military dress code.

The glow of green CRT screens cast a soothing aura around the dark room. Kurskin felt comforted by the light the screens gave off; it relaxed him, even warmed him. Not that he needed warmth; multiple layers covered every inch of him. It was a different kind of warmth, like a nice wool blanket for the brain.

Kurskin loved everything about his position as Yenisey’s sole graveyard shift radar operator. To the delight of his fellow radar operators, he had volunteered for the late shift when Yenisey went on-line. He wasn’t much of a people-person anyway, though he considered himself an essential team player. It was just that he liked to be alone and you couldn’t get any more alone than where he was at that moment. There was something special about the solitude of the Siberian wasteland, a magical world as devoid of stimulation as it was of pretension. The only problem was that it was cold.

Kurskin hated the cold.

With Barkov, Radchek and Vukarin gone along with most of the rest of the soldiers, a welcome sense of peace had come over the place. Four of them had been left behind to man the station, and within an hour after the convoy had left, Kurskin was the only one not in bed. And that was just the way he wanted it.

He just wished it wasn’t so damned cold.

The outside door flew open, inviting the Arctic night into the room. Kurskin spun around and felt nothing but disgust as Yuri Tobolisk stood in the doorway before him.
Wonderful.

“
Close the damn door,” Kurskin demanded, and it was then that he saw the bottle in Tobolisk’s naked hand. It didn’t surprise him. Tobolisk was always drunk, and Colonel Barkov had seen fit to make him an example of what happens when a soldier was caught drinking while on duty. Just a few hours before, he had given Tobolisk a severe beating and ordered him to quarters to sleep it off.

Apparently, he had slept enough.

Kurskin thought the better of his tone. Tobolisk was 200 pounds heavier than he was; he was in fact the biggest soldier stationed there. Kurskin even thought he might be the biggest soldier stationed
anywhere
. “Could you please close the door, Yuri?” he said in a stern but quiet voice.
You great slovenly bull. You pig.

The big man wavered with half-opened eyes, then complied. He slammed the door shut, leaned against it and took a swig from the bottle. In the green-lit room, Kurskin saw the bruises and cuts adorning the man’s face. Barkov had worked him over good this time.

“I thought you went to bed,” Kurskin asked. He’d never known Tobolisk to be violent, but then again, the omnipresent threat of the colonel was always a deterrent.

“
Couldn’t sleep.” Tobolisk belched and the reek of alcohol and vomit invaded the room.

Kurskin cleared his throat, breathed through his mouth. “Can I help you?”
Out the door?

Stumbling over to the consol, Tobolisk plopped down in the chair. Kurskin thought it would break under the sudden force. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Who?” said Kurskin, shifting in his seat. He knew.

“
Who else?” The giant set the bottle down, looking into the CRT screen in front of him, trying to see his reflection in it. “Look at me. Look what he did to me.”