The River of Bones v5

by Tom Hron

  He waited for Simon, then said, “We’ll wait here for awhile, watch for search planes, then paint on our phony licenses if no one comes out. We’re still on international waters so the Russians can’t really arrest us, but I suppose they would try.”

  Simon gazed at the rugged cape ahead. “I don’t think there’s a soul within a thousand miles. There’s nothing’s more lonely than the frozen ocean, and we won’t see or hear a thing, except maybe for some pressure ridges building on the tide.”

  “I hope you’re right, because otherwise we’ll have to make run for it. Let’s eat, get some rest, then keep going this afternoon.”

  They ate dried salmon they’d carried along for the trip, taking advantage of Native Alaskan survival skills. A person could live for weeks on the nourishment found in salmon strips dried in the sun, and Athabaskans and Inuits were known to have walked hundreds of miles on just a pocket full.

  Afterward, they pulled the baggage out of their airplanes, stacked it on the ice, and crawled inside the back of their Cubs to sleep for an hour or two. They hadn’t gotten enough rest in the past night, and the midday sun was now warm enough to let them sleep comfortably.

  Jake catnapped with his cap pulled over his face, blocking out the sunlight. Even in March the sun was strong enough to burn things on the pack ice, and one had to guard against snow blindness. Sparkling cross-lights glanced off every snowflake on the surface, leaving the surroundings glittering with a brilliance that scorched eyes in minutes. Without sunglasses, a person’s eyes started itching and oozing, then reddening and swelling until he or she went blind. He slowly fell asleep.

  Crunch. Rip. He quickly woke from his nap and saw something white flash by his eyes. What in hell was happening? The airplane bounced and he heard its fabric rip again, then the back window break, two feet from his face. He sat up and looked. White hair all around—then black claws swiped at him and shredded his parka. He screamed and hurled himself forward over the pilot’s seat. Why had he forgotten his rifle on the wing strut? Where in hell was his Uzi? Then he remembered it was in the baggage on the ice, left there to make room for him. The paw slapped at him again, and this time he felt his whole back sting. He screamed once more. His only chance was in starting the airplane.

  Next, he heard a loud roar. Was it the bear? Couldn’t be. He looked to his left and saw Simon coming head-on with his Cub going full blast. My God, why hadn’t his friend simply grabbed his rifle and shot the bear? Then his mind pictured the awful danger of that tactic. What if his friend missed or the bullet blew through the bear? The gunshot might have killed him.

  But two airplanes and a polar bear crashing together was no less dangerous, and he had to start his Cub and get out of the way. His hands flew around the cockpit—mixture control, master switch, throttle, and starter button. At least the bear had stopped clawing at him. He glimpsed the monster dropping onto all fours and gaping at the oncoming airplane as well. No wonder Simon had chosen to let the bear live. It had a tracking collar around its neck. They would be found out if they killed it because the Russians had tagged it for research.

  Vrroooom. Suddenly, the Cub’s engine caught. He shoved the throttle wide open and shot forward, leaving Simon’s airplane and the polar bear behind. Circling on the open ice, he looked back, then shook his head in disbelief. Now the bear was chasing Simon. He stomped the right rudder, skidded the airplane around, and took off after the bear, taxiing up on its rear end with his prop. The bear looked back, jumped off to one side, and came at him again. Adding power, he circled once more on the ice and laughed despite his bleeding back. He easily left the bear behind, then watched Simon, blowing snow like a whirlwind, come after the polar bear a second time. Finally, the bear got scared and ran for the nearby pressure ridge.

  Simon and he chased after the bear, side by side, roaring along in their airplanes. After a short distance they turned back, taxied to their baggage piles, and shut down, both still laughing despite their close call. One never knew what to expect in the Arctic.

  After climbing out of his airplane, Simon yelled, “You were screaming like bloody murder, and I thought you were a goner.”

  “Look at my back before you laugh at me much more, because you may have to suture the claw marks the bear left on me. Damn, that was close, and how did you know I’d get my airplane started in time?”

  “I saw you dive over the seat and guessed you’d get out of the way at the last second, and I meant to miss you the best I could anyway. It looked like the bear would back off when he heard me coming. God, you should’ve seen the look on your face.” Again, Simon laughed, though he also stepped over and whistled. “Jeez Maria, did your parka ever get messed up and I see some blood. Now everyone will wonder what happened to you when they see you without a shirt. Better let me bandage you up.”

  Moments later, shivering without his shirt, he waited while Simon daubed on antiseptic salve and taped gauze over the wounds. Finally, he pulled his clothes back on and said, “Let’s fix my airplane with some duct tape, get out of here, and find someplace to camp. My back hurts like hell and I don’t want to stand guard for the rest of the day. I should’ve known every polar bear within miles smelled our fish when I opened the package. That stuff stinks like the rear end of a camel.”

  Simon laughed. “Sorry that I think everything’s so funny, but I can’t help it. I’ll give you penicillin to kill any infection and you’ll be fine in a few days. It’s my fault as much as yours, and we knew this country doesn’t take any prisoners when we started this trip.”

  They patched the Super Cub, then reloaded their baggage and started their engines. After takeoff, they climbed over the headland just ahead but still stayed low as they flew across the barren ground running west. The land was empty and trackless. A flat stretch came into view and they landed once again and stopped behind a windswept hill.

  They began the long task of repairing the damage done by the bear, using acetone to strip off the old paint and butyrate dope to fasten new fabric over the rips and broken back window. Simon carefully shrank the new covering as tight as a drum with propane heat and painted it, leaving the airplane almost as good as new again. He covered the U.S. registration numbers on both ships with spray paint and added black alphabetic letters copied from pictures of Russian aircraft they’d found on the internet. Then they pitched a tent, made soup, and drank the steaming liquid as darkness fell over them. Hunting wolves howled far back in the wintertime, and they heard the sky whispering again.

  “Get some sleep,” said Simon quietly, “and I’ll watch the heaters until everything dries. Tomorrow will be a better day.”

  Exhausted, Jake nodded and crawled inside his sleeping bag, wearing his clothing and a stocking cap to stop the loss of heat off the top of his head. The settling dark would soon drop the temperature dangerously low . . . though Simon would watch over him, and they were too far inland for any marauding bears. He fell asleep and dreamed about Sasha.

  The next morning they preflighted their airplanes and flew off again, using GPS latitude and longitude to guide them as they buzzed across the snowy barrens toward Lake Baikal.

  An unbelievable piece of equipment, Jake told himself. Click, click, and the nautical miles were accurate within four feet. Click, click, and there was the correct course, as compared to what the airplane’s magnetic compass said. Click, click, and there was the time en route. How on earth had pilots flown long cross-countries before? He then remembered the maps, measurements, and flight planning pilots had gone through in the past. Not long ago their crazy odyssey would have been nearly impossible, lacking all the right maps. Now everything was in a microchip.

  He led Simon up and down low mountains, then higher ones. Not good, he thought. Keep flying this way and you’ll run out of gas sooner, rather than later, and someone would surely see them flying down the long valleys as well.

  But what other choice was there? They must hold their course. Cold fear gripped him, although he told himself
stay calm. He had faced tough flying before—in dark, rolling thunderstorms, icing, and severe turbulence. Hold your course, his secret voice whispered, and everything will work out. But . . . he swung his eyes back and forth searching for Russian fighters.

  Hour after hour he flew, buzzing up one mountain and down another, zigzaging through canyons, hugging hillsides, and diving down along lowlands that ran the right way. Throttle up, throttle back, bank left, then right, climb and dive until you were sick of it, all to stay low and off radar.

  He knew Simon and he’d pop up as an indistinct blip if they were discovered in their close formation, but without any posted flight plan matching their course, red alerts would go off, warning every military base along their flight path. They could only hope to dodge under the invisible beams scanning the horizon by flying below their normal elevation and in the ground clutter that always spoiled their return to the station. He knew the B50 bombers and F111 fighters had been built for the same purpose back when he was kid. The U.S. Air Force must have discovered Russia’s radar was faulty, so chances were good they could avoid detection by staying low.

  At last he found what he was looking for—a hunting shack passed below his left wing. Snow tractor trails covered the lake the cabin was on, and its chimney pipe looked free of smoke, meaning the owner was away. The time had come for breaking their radio silence.

  “Iceworm, let’s land and check this place out. Looks like no one is home.”

  “Roger, looks good.”

  He landed, kept his Cub sledding on its skis, circled back to the hunting camp, and saw Simon was trailing him and coming around fast as well. They already had their plan—come head-on and keep their Uzis ready in case the owner popped up unexpectedly.

  Frozen reindeer carcasses, freshly slaughtered, hung solemnly from a cross-pole tied between two small trees. Wolf hides and blue fox fur, nailed to the gable of the cabin, fluttered in the wind. A woodpile was stacked nearby, and a small clapboard cache on stilts stood off to one side. A broken sled, wooden cross-country skis, and several fuel drums were scattered around. The place looked just like the hunting camps he’d often visited in Alaska, practical but messy, and mostly built from the resources of the taiga surrounding the lake.

  After shutting down the engine, he waited in his airplane and watched the empty yard. Both had agreed Simon would go first, then if someone was home at least they could talk to him or her.

  Simon walked by. “Stay put and I’ll snoop around. We better hope the guy living here is running his trapline.”

  Simon climbed the shoreline, kicking through the snow as if there was no great rush to reach the cabin. Stepping up onto the porch, he knocked on the door. Pausing, he knocked once more, then shouted, “Zdrastvooytye, Zdrastvooytye.” Next, he walked across the yard to a fuel barrel and kicked it, then kicked another. A smile spread on his face and he waved both arms, signaling he’d found full ones.

  Jumping out of his airplane, Jake also smiled. All his worry now seemed silly. Start carrying gas, he told himself, and let’s get out of here before the owner gets back. We’ll leave him a thousand bucks and that should keep him happy. He shoved his Uzi inside his parka, pulled his rifle out of its scabbard, and walked ashore.

  “Is there enough so we can take a hundred gallons and still leave some behind? Whoever lives here is a professional hunter and needs his snow tractor, and I don’t want to put him out of business.”

  “There’s plenty, and I doubt he’ll give a damn if we leave him a little money.”

  “I thought we’d leave a thousand dollars.”

  Simon cocked an eyebrow. “That’s more than thirty thousand rubles at the present rate of exchange. He may never want to hunt or trap again.”

  They starting carrying gas, twenty gallons at a time, first filling their wing tanks, then the belly tanks. They emptied one drum and opened another. The surrounding taiga lay silent, except for the sounds they made as they hurried back and forth.

  Suddenly, Simon stopped in mid-stride. “I hear something coming.”

  Listening, Jake stood still as well. Yes . . . no. There was only the silence of the wind. Had they really heard faint noises or were their ears playing tricks? Both stayed frozen in place.

  Whack! Bark flew off a tree near them, then an echo of a rifle shot rolled down the lake. They instantly dove behind some barrels.

  Scowling, Simon peeked over the fuel drums. “Looks like someone has just declared war on us, so now what?”

  “I don’t think the guy meant to hit us or else he wouldn’t have clipped the tree. Maybe he’s just telling us to get out of here.”

  Simon grimaced again. “Damn, suddenly you’re the optimist. Suppose he just missed us and accidentally hit the tree.”

  “Let’s make a run for his cabin. I doubt he wants to shoot up his only home, not out here. He’ll freeze to death if he stays out too long, and he isn’t in position to start a fire.”

  “I still think you’re way too cheery for the trouble we’re in, but cover me, then I’ll cover you when I’m inside.” Simon rolled onto his knees, crouched, then ran for the cabin door, pumping his long legs through the snow. He jumped inside, then peeked out when there was no gunfire.

  Keeping his head down, Jake got ready. One—two—three, go. He ran for his life, then heard a bullet buzz past him, like an angry bumblebee, as he dove in the door. Maybe the hunter wasn’t a lousy shot after all.

  “Now what?” asked Simon. “Looks like we’ve gotten ourselves into a big standoff. He can’t attack and we can’t retreat, and we better hope he doesn’t shoot up our airplanes. Then we’ll be really screwed.”

  A cramped, cluttered place, Jake thought. One window on each side, no back door, a cook stove, a bunk bed, a table, and an old radio-generator, driven by bicycle pedals. He had wondered why there were long wires strung outside. The hunter had a high-frequency transmitter.

  “We’re in the better position because we can stay here a lot longer than he can wait out there. Let’s wave a white flag and see what he does. Tell him that we only wanted to buy fuel, but he wasn’t home. I doubt he’s making much money, so maybe he’ll see the wisdom in letting us go.”

  Simon wrinkled his face. “I hope he understands Russian or else we’re still doomed. Maybe we should squeeze off a few rounds with our Uzis and your Winchester. Let him know what he’s up against, then the money might matter more to him.”

  “We’ll try your idea next. I’ll wave his kitchen towel out the door, then you try talking to him. Get him close enough so we can work this thing out.” Cracking open the door, he flagged a dish towel he’d found hanging by a wash tub.

  Simon crept to the door, opened it, and yelled. Again and again, he called at the top of his voice. They listened for several minutes.

  Finally, a long call drifted down the lake, then the same call echoed once more. Simon turned and smiled wryly. “He must have watched some of our old western movies. He said to come out with our hands up.”

  Jake groaned. Time was on their side, but starting a big shootout was a bad decision, but what other choice did they have? They had to take the chance.

  “You think guys like him have machine guns?”

  “Are you kidding? Not even since perestroika twenty years ago.”

  “Who does?”

  “The military . . . and I suppose the Mafiya. Both scare the hell out of people.”

  “Tell him we’re with the military, ferrying foreign aircraft to Moscow, and have the automatic weapons to prove it. Add that we’re willing to pay him in American dollars, but if he doesn’t stop shooting at us we’ll radio the nearest district guard and have him arrested. Afterward, fire your Uzi in the air and yell that he’s making us really mad.”

  “Might work, and I doubt he’s heard machine gun fire before, and it’s always inspired the hell out of me.” Simon opened his parka, pulled out his machine pistol, and yelled again. Moments later, he sprayed the sky with a burst of gunfire, filling the air
with a long volley. He yelled once again, this time sounding mad as hell.

  They waited . . . and again Jake wondered why his best friend spoke Russian so well. Finally, both heard another call.

  “It’s worked—sort of,” said Simon. “He wants me to walk out on the lake, unarmed, then he’ll ride over and talk to me. I think we almost have him persuaded.

  “But keep an eye on him because he’ll wonder why we’re not wearing army green. I’ll tell him it’s been too damn cold, and I’ll try convincing him to come into the cabin. Act like you’re pissed at him for shooting at you, but be careful not to say a word. I’ll make excuses for you not talking to him. Maybe he’ll cooperate if we offer him enough money, despite his doubts. And sabotage his transmitter after I walk out. Otherwise, he’ll radio Moscow the moment we leave.”

  Jake frowned. “Stay off to one side so I can keep him in my sights.” He then checked his rifle for a live round. Simon put down his Uzi and walked outside.

  Stepping to the high-frequency radio, Jake opened its back cover, yanked out all the frequency chips, and shoved them in his pocket. Seconds afterward, he walked to the doorway and sighted through his scope. An old red snow tractor was coming across the lake, its driver riding on the far side, hiding from any line of fire. Simon stood in the distance, waiting.

  The tractor stopped beside Simon, and a brown face, partly hidden by a parka hood, peered around its front. Jake held the rifle’s cross-hairs right between the man’s eyes, touched the trigger, and waited. He watched Simon hold out his right hand, offering money, beckoning the man to get out of his machine. A minute passed. Both bargained back and forth. The driver stepped onto the snow with his rifle.

  Simon turned and walked nearer the cabin, leading the man to the yard. They stopped and talked some more, waving their arms, ostensibly making their points. He watched Simon leave the man and walk inside the cabin.

  “I’ve got him almost convinced, but he’s a full-blooded Yakut and his Russian is so bad it’s hard to know if he really understands me. Anyway, he wants you to come out so he can see you.