by Tom Hron
Zorkin, screaming at the top of his voice, ran over to the native, grabbed him by the back of his neck, and pulled him over to where they stood, banging his rifle barrel against the poor man’s head. Everyone’s eyes widened in complete astonishment and fear.
Jake looked at Sasha. “What in hell is going on?” He noticed Molly looked as surprised as the Russians, then remembered she knew the language well enough to understand what was being said. He wished he’d worked harder and learned more of it himself.
Sasha seemed badly shaken. “He’s the man who was lost with my father. Zorkin is asking him about the pink diamonds, but he’s says he won’t answer until we’re set free. He’s come here to save us—”
“Your father’s still alive?” Jake couldn’t believe what he’d just heard, but maybe it was the lucky break they needed. Still, how could they escape? Zorkin and the commandant looked like the types who’d gladly torture anyone until they got what they wanted.
Tears streamed down Sasha’s face. “He—he said my father died last winter of starvation.” She covered her face and wept in her hands.
Jake wished she could find the strength to listen a little longer, then he decided that Molly could translate later. The midnight sun was setting and the sky would darken a little in a few hours. Maybe by morning Simon could find the campsite and figure out a way to help them. But something else was bothering him. Why had the little stranger surrendered to Zorkin? No one ever wanted to give up his or her life without a damn good reason. He saw the Russians looking around. They knew something weird was going on.
Zorkin yelled at the radioman and Mi-8 pilot. Both then ran over and shoved Molly, Sasha, and him nearer the tents, sitting them on the ground by a gaslight hanging from a small tree. The two men tied their wrists and ankles so they could barely move. They would be lucky if their hands and feet didn’t fall off by morning for the lack of circulation.
The commandant and Zorkin pushed the native inside the nearest tent and dropped the flap. Jake dreaded hearing the screams he’d surely hear in a minute or two. Why, why had the Siberian surrendered? But, what a gift of life they’d been given, because otherwise the Surgeon would be torturing them, starting with Sasha. Their lives had been spared, at least for a little while.
An hour passed. Even the two Russians standing outside began looking afraid, as if they sensed everyone’s deep horror. Molly and Sasha stared at the tent where Zorkin and the commandant had taken the native, but the only human sounds came from those two, not their prisoner.
Seeing the daylight fading away, Jake struggled with his bindings, trying to free himself. The Hip pilot walked over and lit the gaslight hanging overhead. Midnight came and shadows fell all around and another hour passed. The commandant’s voice started sounding high-pitched, almost like he was screaming, but Zorkin’s voice stayed low like a growling bear.
The pilot and radio man started pacing back and forth, shifting their Kalashnikovs from one hand to another. Then the Hip pilot stopped and peered into the shadows, as if he was listening to a distant noise. Suddenly, he dropped his rifle, grabbed his throat, and sank to his knees. Jake saw an arrow sticking out of his Adam’s apple, shot right through his larynx.
The radioman screamed the instant he saw his companion go down, and Zorkin and the commandant, both with blood dripping off their hands, ran out just in time to see the pilot fall over. Simon hurtled out of night on the far side, aiming his Uzi at them, yelling, “Stop! Stop!” The radio man spun and fired, but Simon cut him down in flash of white flame. The commandant stopped and threw up his hands. Zorkin dove back inside the tent.
“Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.” Jake prayed that he could stop Simon in time. “There’s someone else inside!” Next, he saw a tall man jump into the circle of light, dressed in bearskin and carrying a bow and arrows.
Sasha cried out and tried to pull free. “Father! Father!” The man ran over to her, pulling out his knife.
Jake rolled toward the dead Russians, trying to reach their rifles. Muffled noises were coming from the tent, then the sound of ripping canvas. “Cut me loose,” he screamed. “Cut me loose before he gets away!” He saw Simon run over to the commandant, knock him flat with his fist, and run after Zorkin.
Simon’s voice then boomed inside the tent, as if inside a drum. “My God, the bastard cut his throat!”
Jake watched the man whom he believed was Yuri Pavlov sprint over and pull off his bindings. Both raced to join Simon, then gagged when they stepped inside. The native was convulsing in the ropes that bound him to a chair, blood spurting from his throat. And, in horror of all horrors, Zorkin had been skinning his right arm for several hours as if it were a fur animal, exposing the flesh past the biceps. The skin hung like a red sock from his shoulder, and worse still, the muscles lay wiggling like dying snakes.
Jake pushed Yuri out the tent door. “Get out of here and keep the women outside, and whatever you do, don’t let them come in here.” Sasha’s father walked away, choking back his cries.
Simon walked to the opening where Zorkin had ripped through. The gloomy night was on the other side.
Jake stepped to his side. “We can’t risk losing you, so don’t go. I’m sure he’s on his way to the nearest lookout. We need to get out of here before he gets back with the soldiers they set out on lookout.”
“It never occurred to me that it would be the Kheeroork.”
“You know his name?”
“He and I are old, old enemies. But you’re right. As much as I’d like to kill him, we have to go. He’ll come back for sure.”
Walking to the little stranger who had saved them, Jake steadied himself. They owed him their lives, and he faced Simon again. “Tear off the canvas Zorkin ripped through and help me wrap up his body. We’ll take him with us.”
“What’s your plan? We’re a still a million miles from home.”
“First, we need to question the commandant, because he’s the only prayer we have. I hope he realizes we’re his only prayer as well. Zorkin will kill him the moment he sees him.”
Simon hung his head, also regretting the loss of the Siberian.
Jake wondered if his friend had met him before, then decided that wasn’t possible because the time elements were all wrong. But . . . how had he found them so quickly? “How did you find us?” he asked. “I didn’t expect to see you until morning.”
“Pavlov led me here, right past a lookout. The man’s like an Indian, and he found me a few minutes after I crashed my plane.
“He knew the little guy meant to sacrifice himself. They’d decided earlier that was the only way to save Sasha. They loved each other like father and son, so much so it brings tears to my eyes. He wanted to join his wife in shangrila.”
Jake shook his head in disbelief. “He never made a sound while they tortured him, and I can’t imagine a person being so strong. Wish I was as brave.” He sighed. “. . . We’d better go. Zorkin will make up a story, find the nearest soldier, and use his radio to gather the rest of them. He’ll even call Moscow, and our only hope is the helicopters.”
“You’re taking the Werewolf?” asked Simon. “Thought we’d just use the Hip.”
“We’ll need it for protection, and to persuade people that we’re with the army,” said Jake. “If I can convince the commandant to help us, maybe we can get away. It’s fifteen hours flying time to Provideniya, providing we find enough fuel to make it.”
Simon’s face brightened. “Guess what the Russians barge up the Lena River by the shiploads this time of year? Fuel oil. Winter fuel for the villages along the river.”
Jake looked at the mutilated native alongside him—he had given them hope at the worst time of their lives—and wished that he had the power to bring him back.
“Help me wrap him up and let’s fly back to the Antonov and sling the fuel bladders into the Hip. There’s gasoline left we can use, besides making room for more. Search this place, too, because we need uniforms, paperwork, anything that wi
ll make us look Russian.”
They worked beside each other, wrapping the native in canvas and tying it with the rope that had held him to the chair. Both wished there was something else to use, something not so macabre, but time was running out. When they walked out, carrying the body, they saw Molly guarding the commandant, holding an AK-47 at waist level, looking wild-eyed again. Yuri and Sasha were standing nearby, watching her.
After they’d put the body in the Mi-8, Jake walked back to Yuri, trying to find the right words. “Your friend was the bravest man I’ve ever seen,” he said. “He never cried out or said a word, and I wish I could bring him back.”
“In a way, you can,” said Yuri. “Take him to where he wanted to be buried.”
Jake paused. How could they spare the time? Then he remembered the gift of life they’d been given.
“What do you want? We’re taking the helicopters to Alaska, and we can hide Sasha and you in Canada. No one will ever find you.”
“Take me to the River of Bones and help me bury him. It won’t be easy because there’s so much permafrost, but you can leave as soon as we’re done. I’m only asking for a few hours.”
Jake saw Sasha look at her father. Where was the River of Bones . . . and why had her father said “you” rather than “we?”
“How far away is this river?” he asked. “I’m worried about fuel.”
“About a hundred kilometers. You’ll see a very special place.”
“Then help us get ready. Sasha and you interrogate the officer that Molly’s guarding. I want to know everything. Why is he here? Where did Zorkin go? And tell him he’s coming with us, dead or alive.”
Jake watched him walk away, Sasha by his side. She still looked worried . . . but maybe it had been only a slip of tongue on her father’s part. And it really didn’t matter because he had a thousand things to do. He needed to study the Werewolf’s instrument panel and controls, because his checkout would have to come on the fly.
He wondered about the River of Bones. Why did Pavlov want to bury the Siberian there, rather than along the Marcha River, where they now stood? It was a beautiful place as well, lying where one could see the morning sunrise and hear the birds. . . . Maybe it had something to do with Pavlov’s image of himself—the man had certainly overcome his own great challenge by going primeval. Maybe that was what humans were all about, at least the brave ones. Where had he read the restless heart always rules the lifelong wanderer, he wondered? He looked east and saw the sunrise coming over the horizon. Simon was right. There was still a long, long way to go.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE RIVER OF BONES
They learned the commandant was a lieutenant general named Kozlov . . . who now wanted to flee for his life. If Feliks Zorkin didn’t murder him, Moscow would the moment they found out about his double dealing. His eyes widened when he was told that he was on his way to Alaska, whether he liked it or not. With Simon interpreting, he then spent an hour telling Jake about the flight characteristics of the Kamov 50, Werewolf.
At daybreak they looted the camp and burned the tents with the two dead Russians inside. Now Zorkin would need to choose his words very carefully when he returned with the remaining soldiers. They would want to know what had happened to their comrades, and when the District Guard rescued them later, Moscow would also want to know what had taken place. In addition, there would be several days without food and shelter. No one doubted that he’d somehow work his way out of trouble, but they knew he’d be kept too busy to follow them, at least for a few days, giving them time to get away, or so they hoped.
Jake watched the fire consume the campsite, rolling its black smoke toward the sunrise. His friends seemed mesmerized by the flames, as if they were gazing at their own destiny. Sorrow lengthened their faces, leaving them looking morbid. He wanted to distract them, and what better way than slinging the Antonov’s fuel bladders into the Hip? They would need to work as a team to lift the rubber reservoirs from one fuselage to another, and handling a long cable swinging below a helicopter was always a challenge.
“Simon, take everyone in the Mi-8, fly back to the Antonov, and land as close as you can. When I arrive, hook me to the bladder nearest the door and I’ll sling it to the Hip. Have everyone help push it inside. I’ll follow you to the River of Bones after I’ve moved all of them. Yuri will show you the way.”
Simon frowned. “Let’s make Kozlov dig the grave. He helped kill the little fire worshiper, and all the mercy went clean out of my heart when I saw what Zorkin and he had done. Goddamn their evil hearts.”
“Vengeance hunts among the living, looking for its prey.” Jake turned away from the fire. “Both will pay with their lives someday. Now let’s get out of here.”
Simon blinked. “You surprise me, and where the hell did you learn that?”
“A snowstorm forced me down once, and there wasn’t anything to do for three days but make up things.”
“I wish we could take a few days off, because we’re all exhausted. But I know the Russians well enough to realize our days are numbered if we don’t make a run for it.” Simon turned away also, calling the others to his side. One by one, they boarded the Mi-8, Molly still pointing her rifle at Kozlov. They shut the door and the main rotor started spinning.
Jake walked to the Werewolf and snapped a long sling line onto the belly hook, then ran the cable out, checking it for snags and knots. When a pilot worked with a line swinging under a helicopter, the last thing in the world he needed was to find himself accidentally tethered to the ground. Slinging external loads was always risky, and a mistake usually meant death. Climbing into the cockpit, he started the turbines and felt the ship come alive. Adrenaline shot through him. Nothing compared to flying a souped-up helicopter, and the Kamov was as hot as any ship in the world. He felt its power all around him, its blades beating the air like a giant prehistoric raptor. Lifting the collective, he balanced the cyclic and shot up in the air.
He soared, then leveled off five hundred feet above the Marcha River, running full of white water as it made its way north. No need worrying about radar with the Werewolf, because its design used permeable exterior skins set at angles, bouncing any electromagnetic beams off one absorbent surface and then another, finally to the side, defeating any radio signals. No one could see him, regardless of his altitude.
In a little while he overtook the Mi-8 carrying his friends—the Kamov was much faster than any helicopter he’d ever flown. He found the island where the Antonov lay, circled, and waited for the Hip to catch up. It would take Simon a few minutes to land, shut down, and position a person on one side to signal the location of the sling line. There were no mirrors or bubble windows on the Werewolf, letting him see down while he hovered back and forth. He would have to rely on hand signals, and the individual on the ground had to be accurate within inches. He saw Molly walk out and wave at him, and he would have chosen her as well. She possessed a magic touch when it came to new challenges, and always turned steely-eyed in an instant, exactly what was needed under the circumstances. Bad things could happen in a hurry if she blew a signal, and everyone’s lives would hang on her decisions. He hovered down and watched her hands.
Down, down, over, stop—now she signaled the line was fastened to a rubber tank. Back, back, up a little—he could feel the load swing below him, like a pendulum. He pedalturned and hovered over to the Hip. Up, up, forward, stop, don’t move—then his mind’s eye could see everyone struggling to push the bladder through the cargo door, fighting to compress its sides so it would fit. Molly signaled to repeat the process, and again he hovered to the Antonov and took a deep breath. Three more to go . . .
They finished fifteen minutes later, and Molly signaled thumbs up, letting him know that he should drop the cable. They would carry it along in case they needed to sling something else later. He flew off to one side and punched the hook release button on the cyclic, dropping the line on the ground, then waited for everyone to pull the bladders into
place and fasten them to the floor with cargo straps. Pilots had to be very careful with weight and balance, because a shifting load inside a helicopter was deadly for captain and crew alike.
He finally saw the Hip’s door slam shut and its rotor blades spin again, blowing debris around in their downwash. Off Simon went, flying low, buzzing just over the surface of the river, unconcerned about people. Yuri had said no one but the Nenets lived in the region, and they always hid when they heard helicopters coming. Their experiences with the Russians had not been good, and they feared them, despite glasnost. Openness meant nothing without freedom, and they were terrified of losing their ancient ways.
The green tundra and low taiga shot by as they flew the Marcha River northbound. Jake saw the scattered wreckage of the Mi-8 that had gone down the year before, seeing it flash by on his left. He wondered about the River of Bones, knowing the North well enough to think the mysterious name had been given for a reason. His hair stood on end. Would they ever escape the smell of death?
He watched Simon slow the Mi-8 and transition to final approach, an art in itself. Anyone could fly a helicopter in forward flight, because all one had to do was steer with the joy stick, but only the best could master the technique when it came to hovering and landing. A thousand things started happening at once, requiring a cool hand and quick mind, along with two busy feet. He watched the cat’s-paws pound the river as his friend flared into slow flight, blasting the helicopter’s downwash against the water while he looked for a place to land. Seconds later, he saw him settle on shore. Now it was his turn and there wasn’t much room.
He came to a hover over the river and watched the curling mists fly. Thank God for the capability of helicopters to fit into tight places. When a pilot stayed proficient, he could position his rotor to within a foot or two of obstacles, letting him land in impossible places, at least in comparison to any other aircraft a person could fly. He crept ahead, watching the grass and weeds flatten themselves as he set down beside the Hip. When he opened the helicopter’s door, the whispers of two rivers filled the cockpit. What a perfect place . . . and no wonder Yuri wanted to bury the shaman here.
