by Tom Hron
“Two turbine engines can’t lose power at the same time, not unless someone sabotages both. I just can’t figure out how you did it. I never saw you go near the engine nacelles. You must have slipped something into the tanks when no one was looking, just before takeoff. Mechanical things don’t fail because of sorcery. Simple reasoning tells me that you did something to the fuel, and your foggymen had nothing to do with it.”
“Who makes the fireweed grow? Isn’t it the spirits? How does it know when to send out its seeds?”
“You’re speaking in riddles again, and why do you always tease me? You know I’m a scientific man who only wishes to find the truth. Tell me how you did it.”
“White man, I just did, but you are typical of educated people. You’ve memorized everything but understand nothing. If I take away your university, then you can’t live among true people, let alone survive in the real world.
“See the dead weeds around us. They’re last fall’s fireweed. Get down, pick a seed pod, and think for once, rather than memorize what others already know. See if you can understand what I did and how the spirits must have helped me.” Wolverine then kicked his reindeer with his heels and rode downhill to join the Nenets, his laughter filling the evening air.
Yuri slipped off his bull, tied its halter rope to a berry bush, and knelt on the ground. Fireweed lay everywhere, smashed flat by the winter snow, then thawed and dried by the brassy midnight sun, which had begun swinging higher and higher with each passing day. Already, there was little real darkness at night. Siberia was magical in the spring, and he loved its spell. Trouble was he’d only begun to realize how little he knew about the High Arctic, despite his powerful education. His friend, the shaman, knew much, much more, and loved teasing him about being so uneducated. But . . . he was learning slowly.
He pulled a pod off a dead stem and peered at it, turning the three-inch seed vessel in his fingers. It had split lengthwise and white fuzz was visible under its skin, microscopic seeds, thousands of tiny cotton tufts if one opened the pod and tossed the flying fuzz into the wind.
Wondering, he gathered three of the largest pods and shoved them into his parka pocket. The Nenets carried kerosene, which was almost the same as turbine fuel, as a disinfectant for their reindeer. He would try an experiment later and find out about Wolverine’s magic trick. Remounting his bull, he rode toward the Nenets, who were chattering and laughing below. They were always happy.
After a supper of raw whitefish, bite-sized pieces sliced off at the mouth with a sharp knife, bread smeared with butter and sugar, and black tea, he found an empty tin can, filled it with kerosene from the supply sled, and dropped in the pods he had in his pocket. They instantly burst open, blew out their fluffy seeds, and turned the clear liquid into mush. Now he saw the consequences of tossing four or five in the fuel of the Mi-8 helicopter that Zorkin had hired. No wonder Wolverine had thrown open the cargo door and screamed at him to jump after takeoff. The Evenki had known the fuel system of the Hip would clog up in seconds, starve the engines until they failed, and send everyone in the Hip to their deaths.
His mind’s eye still recalled how the wiry shaman had grabbed his hand and hurtled out of the door a hundred feet above the river. What a fall. He had thought they’d never come up for air, and that had been the least of their problems. If it hadn’t been for Wolverine, he’d have frozen and starved to death a dozen times while they had made their escape and joined the famed reindeer herders of Siberia. Some day he’d write the whole story, although most people back in Akademgorodok would never believe it. They had no idea how hard it was to survive in an untouched wilderness, even when you traveled with a subsistence hunter from the Angara.
He poured the kerosene back in its container, straining it with a cloth, and looked once more at the wet gob of white fuzz his test had produced. Wolverine’s mythical spirits still eluded him. Wasn’t it just a matter of logic? How had the old man known what the seeds would do in the turbine fuel? Seeing the shaman sitting by himself beside a campfire, he walked over and sat on the opposite side of the flames.
“I now know how you sabotaged the helicopter, except I’m puzzled how you knew beforehand the fireweed seeds would foul the fuel screens. You should have warned me because we were nearly killed. Not many men can survive a fall like we did and still talk about it. Sometimes I wake at night, trembling and sweating because I was so scared.”
“Zorkin would have killed you the moment he learned about the diamonds you discovered. Why would you let a little jump scare you?”
“Maybe he would have let us live . . .”
“You’re acting like an ignorant white man again. Don’t be silly enough to think he’s anything but a killer. I often wonder why this country let men like him exist. He murdered my wife, never looked back, and would have killed me the second he didn’t need my help any longer. He doesn’t know it, but someday I will revenge the murder of my wife.”
“Maybe she’s still living. He always said he’d release her when we found the diamonds for him. That’s the reason I worked so hard, hoping we could save her.”
The shaman’s eyes darkened, and he angrily poked at the fire with a stick, sending embers flying. “He was a powerful enemy and caught me off guard. I knew my wife was dead the moment he kidnapped me. The only reason he kept me alive was you convinced him to let me help find the species of duck I had shot on the Angara. For that, I owe you my life.”
“I learned long ago when you go into the bush, go with a bushman. Zorkin knew it was unlikely we could find the diamonds without your help. He made the mistake of letting you out of his sight for a few hours, a big mistake on his part. Even I didn’t realize you were so cunning. Those two poor pilots surely didn’t.”
“Those fools. Both thought Zorkin would let them have part of the treasure if they helped guard us. They deserved to die. My powers were too strong for them, and I became invisible and tricked them.”
Yuri stared at the mysterious shaman sitting across from him, stirring the fire. Soon he’d start chanting like he did every night, then in the morning there would be prayer flags on top the nearest hill, red, white, and yellow streamers flying in the wind, making their own curious sounds. The Evenki led a remarkable life, one foot in today’s world and the other back in time immemorial, practicing beliefs known only to him. Clearly, vengeance was again on his mind. They had talked about it all winter long, while both had struggled to stay alive. What lurked in the dark recesses of the old man’s mind? No one knew.
He rose, picked up several reindeer hides, tanned for use as blankets, and made a bed beside the fire. Nowadays, he usually slept out, not worried about the cold weather any longer. The past winter had conditioned him to sleep outdoors like all the people who lived as primitives in the Arctic.
It was an odd life, lying out, sniffing wood smoke, gazing up at Mir, the space station orbiting the heavens. Why had society forgotten so many locked in a world of basic needs? Oppositely, how come the elite would starve in the midst of plenty if they were stranded in the wilderness? Men and women who knew how to send robots to Mars had lost the ability to kindle a fire without matches. The world had become a very odd place . . . but, nevertheless, he was experiencing the enigmas of people’s struggles first hand. Not many men and women were exposed to the technologies of both worlds at the same time. Someday he would be a much wiser person, and maybe know a little about shamanism as well. He smiled, remembering the past winter.
After jumping into the river, Wolverine and he had been washed downstream several kilometers, unable to climb ashore because of the white water and steep shorelines. Finally, they’d reached land, wet, cold, suffering from hypothermia, and started their odyssey of survival with nothing in their pockets except a few wooden matches, which had been ruined by staying under water too long, and a pocketknife each.
Wolverine had acted unfazed. He had shouted the weather was above freezing and that they shouldn’t worry. They had taken off upriver on the d
ead run for the crash site. Both had wanted to strip the Hip of its weapons and survival gear, before the emergency locator beacon warned the world on 121.5 megahertzes there had been a crash and someone else got there before them, looking for survivors. Their luck hadn’t held—a military search and rescue helicopter had homed in on the crash site shortly before they’d arrived, cutting them off from salvaging the useful debris of the wreck. Later, the would-be rescuers had searched for them, flying back and forth, forcing them to flee once more for fear of being found alive and falling back into Zorkin’s hands. Who had sent the second ship, they had wondered? They couldn’t be sure. Russia was too full of evil to take the chance, and they’d run for their lives a second time.
He had often wondered what had happened to the four diamonds he’d discovered just hours before their amazing leap. For days they’d waited for Zorkin to stay behind in base camp. Finally, their nemesis had grown tired of slapping mosquitoes, burrowing through brush, and getting sopping wet day after day, trying to keep an eye on them. They had made their break that same day. He only wished Wolverine had warned him . . . but then he knew, deep down, he would have turned gutless. And chances were Zorkin would have anticipated their plans and murdered them, loving every moment of it. The man was a psychopath of great importance.
Since that fateful day, he’d prayed ten thousand times his camera tripod had been lost in the river. Otherwise, providence had set his only child in harm’s way, punishment for his blind greed. He should have left the diamonds right where he’d found them.
For several weeks they’d flown over a point of land between a small, nameless river and the great Marcha River. The location had been surrounded by marshy ponds, ideal for waterfowl and elk, and thick stands of birch, spruce, and larch, ideal for other wildlife. The fascinating thing, though, was every time they passed over, he’d seen grassy circles—sod dwellings that had collapsed in prehistoric times, evidence of inhabitation by early hunters and gatherers. It looked to have been a large settlement, occupied for hundreds of years. More important, he could see both rivers running through rich, alluvial gravel, by far the best ground he’d seen on their diamond hunt. But . . . he had kept silent and waited, hoping Zorkin would take a day off, and at last he had.
He looked at the Wolverine again, still poking at the campfire. The shaman looked unusually morose. Wondering what was wrong, he rolled onto his side and rested his head on his hand.
“Why are you so sad tonight? Did I say something to upset you? If so, I’m sorry. We’ve been like father and son all winter, and I worry about you?”
“I still curse myself for letting my wife go to Vladivostok all by herself. Sometimes shamans are stupid as well. I didn’t believe in rose-colored diamonds. Because I despise civilization so much, I told her to go alone. It was the worst mistake of my life and entirely my fault. I should have known.”
“What did you think the stones were when you first saw them? Didn’t you realize they were precious?”
“No, I thought they were probably garnets. Who ever heard of pink diamonds? I didn’t believe in them until I met you. Now the spirits are punishing me, and I will die of a broken heart. You can’t believe how painful it is to lose someone whom you have shared bodies and minds with for thirty years. We were like one.” His eyes turned humid.
“I know how you feel. You’re forgetting I lost my wife to cancer not long ago, and the ache never disappears. I’ll miss her for as long as I live, afterward as well. We’re destined to be two lonely men.”
Suddenly, Wolverine’s eyes brightened. “See, now you’re feeling the powers of a shaman. Someday I’ll persuade you to believe in my ways.”
Yuri groaned and lay flat once more. “I’ll be happy just learning what you know about wilderness survival. That knowledge would fill a book by itself and be very useful for humankind. I still can’t believe you kept us alive last winter without firearms or clothing. You’re a miracle man.”
Once again, he remembered their odyssey, the struggle for their lives against all odds. Wolverine had saved them time after time, and no one was a better hunter than him. Even the Nenets had been amazed when they’d walked into their winter camp, dressed like two cave men out of Neanderthal times. The Nenets used the same wooden sleds, rawhide ropes, and homemade tools their ancestors had invented thousands of years ago, so it was hard to impress them. No one in the world knew more about living outdoors than the reindeer herders . . . or so they had thought.
After the crash, Wolverine had armed them with spears tipped with hand-chipped obsidian points, manufactured a wooden bow with dozens of arrows, and had taught him how to start fires the good old way, by using a drill stick spun by a looped leather thong strung on a long, curved stick. The magic was in choosing the right kind of dry wood, afterward friction did the rest, along with the notch one always cut in the base piece so the smoking ember that formed could fall onto the tinder you placed at the bottom. Once you had your fire, then you carried it from place to place by burying its hot coals in ashes and storing the ready-made fire starter in a green, bark bag, fashioned from a poplar tree. The shaman had taught him a million things, and some of it had even been fun.
Bear hunting had become their speciality—for two critical reasons, food and clothing, things a person couldn’t do without in the North. A single bear provided an impressive pile of fatty meat, and even a more impressive skin for winter clothing, once it was cured, which was done by rubbing the hide with the beast’s brains.
Nauseating work seemed easy when one was cold and hungry—he’d even learned to eat raw reindeer meat, loving every mouth full. Privation had taught him the realities in a hurry, and he’d learned its lessons well, hopefully for the betterment of his soul. He had often wondered how early man had survived, and now he knew. He wondered who had taught the shaman the old ways.
He rolled on his side a second time. “Wolverine, where did you learn about hunting bears in the winter?”
“My grandfather and father were subsistence hunters until the day they died. What choice was there? The communists didn’t give us any food.”
“So your father showed you how to track bears, find their winter dens, and mark them for future use?”
“Yes. Not many ancient people dared hunt the bear when he was awake. The arrow and spear couldn’t kill him quickly enough to spare the life of the hunter. They waited until the bear went to sleep in his den, crawled in after him, and speared him. Even then, it was very dangerous.”
“You almost lost your life twice, and I’m sorry I was such a coward.”
“Bravery and hunger go hand in hand. You became quite fearless later.” Wolverine grinned, flashing his fine, ivory teeth. He loved teasing him.
“I was always so afraid we’d lose our lives. Didn’t you worry about freezing and starving to death?”
The shaman grinned again. “White men’s ways can kill me, but the wilderness is my friend. I had no reason to worry.”
Yuri shook his head in wonder. The Evenki was a living, breathing bond between two worlds, the old and new of mankind, and once he died the old ways would be lost. There would be no one left who knew how to live off the land, and the world would become a much poorer place.
They had spent their whole time hunting—hunting everything. First food, then clothing and places to live, as they’d migrated westward searching for the reindeer people. Wolverine had said the Nenets would move south into the taiga in the early winter and they would eventually find them. He had been right, but only after two months of sleeping wrapped in furs in crude leantos with huge fires out front, or in snow caves and the hollows of big trees. They had lived like animals, or, as Wolverine liked to say, as men had lived when all animals had been human. That bit of sagacity had stuck in his mind, and its message seemed clear.
Once they had joined the Nenets, life had become easy, at least in comparison to their earlier ordeal, although the lessons of life hadn’t stopped for him. Shamanism was very important to
the reindeer herders, and they’d taken to the old Evenki like family . . . but viewed having a white man living with them a much different matter. He had gotten a belly full of abuse until he’d proven himself their equal, skilled at hard work and rough living, too. The Nenets believed in one philosophy—drink warm blood and eat raw meat—or die on the tundra. Drinking blood was an acquired taste, and not so bad when one considered the alternative.
He turned to Wolverine again. “What’s your plan for Zorkin? How will you get revenge?”
“Wickedness always returns, and my farseeing powers tell me that I’ll see him again.”
“Can I come along?”
“Yes, and then we will drink his blood together.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
ULAN UDE, SIBERIA
“Holy crap, I want one of those.” Simon bellied through the dead brown weeds edging the airport and peered through his binoculars.
Jake also crept ahead and stretched out beside his friend. “The Russians will get mad enough when we steal an Antonov loaded with fuel. I can’t imagine what they’d do if we stole a Werewolf. They never made that many.”
“The damn thing looks like you could fly right through a rock wall and not lose any rotor blades,” said Simon. “It looks like U.S. gunships have some serious competition.”
“I wonder why they keep their killercopter here. Ulan Ude seems like an odd place.” Jake lifted his own glasses.
“Not really. Russia’s always been super paranoid about China, and for good reason. Someday the Reds will march north and take Siberia. The world’s largest remaining resources are here and they want them, especially the crude oil. The principal reason the Russians built the Baikal-Amur Mainline was to create a second line of defense, rather than relying on the Trans-Siberian Railway to stop an invasion. It’s too near the border, and the Reds would overrun that position in one day.
