9 Days Falling, Volume I k-5

by John A. Schettler

  After they left Irkutsk they had continued northwest towards Krasnoyarsk, another long day that covered nearly 600 kilometers. Near dusk they were several hours east of the city but the train needed to make a scheduled stop at a small town called Ilanskiy. The rail line moved through some heavily wooded terrain, then bent south of a river to enter the town, where they found several other trains parked in parallel lines on the marshalling yards. Three of their cargo cars would be off-loaded here before the train would continue west through Krasnoyarsk, Novorossiysk and eventually reach Omsk.

  Fedorov had learned about the hotel from the railway workers. They called it the ‘Locomativnyh’ or ‘rail workers holiday house’ established at an old inn a few blocks from the marshalling yards. It was going to be six hours before the freight operation concluded, so Fedorov determined to rest there and see if they could get some decent food and a few hours sleep before the train was scheduled to depart just after midnight.

  They entered the reception area of the old hotel and Fedorov saw the portrait of an elderly man behind the front desk, with a well oiled mustache and white hair, obviously the ancestor and founder of the establishment before the revolution. He spoke briefly with the receptionist, who also doubled as the serving lady in the dining room, a young woman named Ilanya after the town itself. She wore a plain white apron and red head scarf, and seemed very intimidated when Fedorov appeared with Troyak and Zykov. Seeing the apprehension in her eyes, Fedorov engaged her in a friendly voice to ally her fears.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We have no business here. We are just traveling west, and the rail workers on our train spoke highly of your hotel. Your father?” He smiled, pointing to the portrait on the wall behind the front desk.

  “My grandfather,” she said quietly. “He built the hotel here before the turn of the century, and when the Commissariat established authority in the province it was converted to a rest and boarding facility for the railroad workers. Better that than an army barracks,” she said. “I have a room with three beds on the second floor, and Uzhin is served in half an hour—good hot stew tonight, with fresh bread.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” said Fedorov. They took a table in the dining hall, the aroma from the kitchen already heavy in the room and their hunger well stoked. They had been living off bread, cheese, and some dry salami Troyak found along the way, but they were soon treated to a nice thick stew with potatoes, carrots, celery, onions and even a bit of boiled beef. The gravy was particularly good and the fresh, hot tea was just what they needed.

  “Another three or four hours to Krasnoyarsk,” said Fedorov. “But we’ll be there before dawn. I suggest we get some sleep before we leave at midnight.”

  “A real bed sounds good,” said Troyak.

  Fedorov thought for a moment. “Sergeant, what do you think our chances are?” He left that out there without much explanation, but Troyak could see that he was worried, and knew he was talking about finding Orlov.

  “We’ll find him,” said Troyak matter of factly.

  “I wish I could feel so assured,” said Fedorov. Russia is a big place, though at least we know where to start in this search.”

  “If he’s still wearing his service jacket we can home in on his signal. I can activate the jacket if we get within a five kilometer radius of its position.”

  “We can? I did not know this!” Fedorov’s mood lightened considerably.

  “The same goes for you,” said Troyak. “So always keep your service jacket on. It’s our means of close communication, and we can track down Orlov from the IFF transceiver in the lining. All the Marines have this.”

  “Then if the rescue team arrives they will be able to find us this way too?”

  “Correct.” Troyak finished his tea, arms folded on his broad chest. “If I broadcast it extends the homing range to fifty kilometers.”

  Fedorov nodded, considerably relieved. Troyak had told him something about this earlier, but with all the stress of his planning he had let it slip his mind. Suddenly their prospects seemed much brighter.

  “I’ll have a look around outside,” said Zykov, “and a smoke if I can bum a cigarette off the Sergeant.”

  “How come you forget to pack your own, Zykov?” Troyak forced a smile, and reached into his shirt pocket.

  “All my pockets are full of ammunition, Sergeant.” Zykov patted his thick shirt pocket where Fedorov saw a clip for his pistol. Somebody has to be responsible for security, eh?”

  Zykov left to make his rounds and Troyak took the main stairway up to their room while Fedorov lingered a moment at the table with his tea. When he saw the serving lady enter with an armful of firewood, he immediately got up to assist her with the burden.

  “Oh, it is no problem, thank you,” said Ilyana. “Winter is coming, and we have fresh cut firewood this season. Lucky for that. Last year we had to barter for coal from the train station, but wood is so much nicer. The workers were cutting trees for railway ties, and they left us some.”

  “I understand,” said Fedorov with the odd thought that he was now speaking to a dead woman, or at the very least a very old babushka if she could live to reach his day in 2021, which he doubted. “Well, Ilanya, the stew was very good, and I think a few hours sleep on a decent bed will be even better. May I take that stairway to find my room?” He gestured to a darkened, narrow stair leading up just around the corner from the hearth.

  “Oh… not that one. Take the main stairs. It’s silly but they say bad things about the back stairway—old stories. My grandfather refused to ever use them, and I was never allowed to play anywhere near them as a child. So old habits die hard, I suppose. I always take the main stairs.”

  “Very well, Madame, good evening.”

  She gave him an odd look when he addressed her so respectfully, but the expression on her face was one of relief and pleasure. This man was clearly unlike any other NKVD officer she had ever encountered, though the two soldiers with him seemed frightening, as all men of war were in her young eyes.

  Fedorov made his way out past the front desk to the main stairs and climbed the creaking wood steps to the upper floor. The long hallway was dimly lit by guttering oil lamps and he passed the drafty, dark recess of the back stairway Ilanya had talked about, unlit by any lantern. He thought it would have been much faster to go by that route, but moved on with a shrug. Two doors down he came to the main suite at the end of the long hallway, number 212. Then the hall turned at a right angle and stretched off above the dining area to another set of rooms.

  Knowing Troyak as he did, he knocked, quietly whispering his name before he tried the door. He entered to find a simple room, with three beds as promised and a small writing desk and chair. There was a sink on one wall, and a window at the far end of the room overlooked a small city park with a waterless stone fountain. He looked out at the weathered branches silhouetted by a waning gibbous moon rising near full in the gray sky.

  “Zykov should be back soon,” said Troyak. “He’s very thorough. He won’t be satisfied until he has peeked into every storage bin and barn within five hundred yards of this place. A good man, Zykov.”

  “It’s a pity Bukin didn’t make it through,” said Fedorov. “I don’t know what went wrong, but I wanted to apologize to you, Sergeant. He was one of your men. If anything happened to him…”

  “Don’t worry, sir. Bukin knew the risks involved, as we all do.”

  “If it’s any consolation I’m hoping he is still safe in Vladivostok. I just don’t think the reactor there had the power to move us all, though I can’t be certain about it.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Fedorov sighed. “Well then, let’s get some sleep.” He wasted no time, removing his heavy outer coat and settling on the simple bed, though he followed Troyak’s lead and left his boots on. The mattress was old and lumpy, but the blankets were clean and it was much more comfortable than their train compartment. They would just be here a few hours, but sleep was welcome and came qui
ckly to him, and he was soon lost in the inner world of his dreams.

  But this was no dream…No, not this. The sound was so riveting that he immediately sat up, eyes wide, and saw that both Troyak and Zykov were already reaching for their handguns. They had been sleeping for some time before they heard it. Now both men were looking around, even as Fedorov, trying to locate the source of the sound. Zykov went to the window, standing stiffly to one side to peer outside, but the night seemed dark and still. He leaned down and opened the window, forcing it up with a dry squeak. The sound was not coming from the park behind the hotel.

  Fedorov was up and at the door, but Troyak waved him aside, tensely alert. The Sergeant took something from his side belt and held it at the door, unmoving, a kind of infrared sensor, or so Fedorov thought. Then in one swift motion Troyak opened the door. Zykov was right behind them.

  “Cover the main stairs,” the Sergeant whispered to Zykov. “I’ll take the upper level. You check down stairs. Fedorov, stay here, but can you watch that stairway?” Troyak pointed to the shadowy depression that led to the back stairs.

  The two men moved like silent assassins, so deft and purposeful, their weapons at the ready as they began to sweep the building’s upper floor. The first job was to rule out trouble in their immediate environs, he knew. Troyak slipped around the corner and was off down one hallway. Zykov drifted silently down the other hall toward the main stairs. Fedorov watched them go, then thought he had best draw his pistol, eying the dark back stairway with suspicion and some trepidation.

  He crept slowly toward the stairs, suddenly surprised to see a strange amber glow there. It seemed to pulse and waver, like the flickering glow from a fire. Then he heard it again, that distant rumble, like bombs exploding or artillery firing, and the sound seemed to echo in the narrow confines of the hall. He started down the stair, lit now by the amber glow, his footfalls noisome on the old wood steps. It led down to the corner alcove near the hearth in the dining room. As he neared the lower level the amber light brightened to a warm ruddy glow. Could there be a fire?

  A strange sensation overcame him, and he reached to brace himself near the bottom of the narrow stair. He thought he heard shouts, voices, but in a language he did not understand. “Was fur ein gerausch? Was ist passiert?”

  Seconds later he reached the bottom alcove, pistol held out before him like he had seen Zykov demonstrate. He stepped off the last stair, feeling very odd, a queasy sensation that left him dizzy for a moment. There was no smoke or fire that he could see, and no heat. Yet the terrible roar was louder now, a throbbing in the air, and he heard the crying of a baby, and people yelling outside the building.

  Stepping quickly from the stairwell he could to see he was back in the dining hall, but it was bathed in ruddy light from outside the building. The drab tables were now covered with white linen, and dressed out with candle fixtures and styled table settings. Several windows were shattered, leaving shards of glass scattered over the floor. He saw food on one table, a chair overturned, a glass half filled with dark tea still quivering with a strange vibration in the air, as if the meal had been suddenly abandoned. Then the full realization of what he was seeing struck him. The glow he had seen was daylight! The rich red light of sunrise was streaming through the shattered windows on the eastern wall of the building, yet it seemed too bright, too searing. They must have fallen into a deep asleep, he thought, but the implications of this soon followed—they had missed their train!

  He turned, thinking to go to the front desk and meet Zykov coming down the main stairs. When he walked into the reception area he found it empty and the front door was ajar, lit by that amber glow. Something was happening—outside—he could hear frightened voices on the street, and the sound of people running. There came a deep booming sound again, and he felt the windows shake with a tremulous rattle.

  Troyak reached the end of the hall, his eyes tight, jaw set. He had checked every room, but no one else was billeted here for the night. The rail workers had eaten their meal and returned to the train to help with the freight operation. He squeezed the button on his collar and spoke quietly into the hidden microphone there.

  “Zykov? Troyak here. All clear on the upper level.”

  Zykov’s voice spoke in a quick return in his earbud: “Main stairway and front desk clear. Checking the entrance and outside grounds now.”

  Then he heard it again, the deep rumble, like distant thunder, or far off explosions, yet it was not coming from outside, but behind him, echoing down the long hallway. He turned, his attention immediately drawn to the source of the sound, and spoke into his collar microphone again. “Fedorov—are the back stairs clear?”

  There was no answer.

  Troyak was off at once, his arms stiffly leading his line of movement, pistol held securely in both hands. He reached the open door to their room and slipped inside. “Fedorov?”

  There was no answer.

  A cursory search satisfied him that the room was empty, and he holstered his pistol, snatching up his automatic SMG and flipping off the safety. Then he moved like a shadow, out the door and quickly to the back stairs. All was quiet and dark there, and he flicked a switch on his weapon to activate a search light. The narrow stairs extended down, their small wooden steps covered with dust, but he plainly saw the imprint of a man’s footsteps, heading down. Fedorov, must have gone that way, he reasoned, and he started down after him.

  The Sergeant reached the bottom landing, springing quickly out of the alcove into the dining room, weapon at the ready. The room was dark and silent, the embers of the fire the only source of light beyond the pale moonlight that gleamed on the windows and cast its wan pallor over the bleak, empty tables.

  He heard a door creak open, and quickly withdrew to the alcove. The young serving woman, Ilanya had emerged from her room behind the front desk. When she saw Troyak she immediately shirked, clutching a plain grey robe to her throat.

  “What is wrong?” she said fearfully.

  There were heavy footfalls at the front entrance and Troyak stood waiting, his finger drifting quietly to the trigger of his weapon. Then in walked Zykov, his automatic weapon in hand, and a look on his face that was all business.

  “All clear outside,” he said, looking at his watch. “No sign of trouble. The station is quiet and they are still offloading freight. It is only 10:30.”

  Troyak looked at the serving woman. “Have you seen our comrade colonel?”

  She shook her head in the negative.

  Troyak turned so the woman would not see him and reached into his service jacket, pinching off the IFF locator squeeze switch. He listened while the voice played in his earbuds, then spoke quietly in return. “Locate signal zero alpha one.”

  “Searching…” Came the voice in the earbud. “Signal not found.”

  “I was sleeping,” said Ilanya, “until I heard you coming down the stairs.” She eyed the dark back stairwell with obvious apprehension, remembering all the stories her parents had told her about them. The haunted back stairway—the stairs—the way she never went for any reason, where the dust lay heavy on the weathered wood and shadows lay in deep folds, shrouding the narrow way up.

  Fedorov was gone.

  Part II

  Black Gold

  “The myth of unlimited production brings war in its train as inevitably as clouds announce a storm.”

  ~ Albert Camus

  Chapter 4

  The trouble started far to the west in the Gulf of Mexico where men in hundreds of offshore oil platforms were working just a little harder after hurricane Victor rampaged through the region. Houston was still shut down, the spigots on pipelines, platforms and refineries all along the Gulf coast clamped tight. Over 80% of America’s fuel system was now off line in the wake of the storm. That was going to put a whole lot of pressure on all overseas operations to make certain new supplies of crude were well out to sea and heading for the US to relieve inevitable shortages that were already cropping up in the sou
theastern and southern states.

  Things were also heating up in the Caspian region, and the work in the fields there had seen several interruptions in the last few weeks due to security problems—situations that always got Ben Flack’s blood boiling, because Ben was a Chevron “Company Man,” and a schedule man when it came to moving the oil from one place to another. The work of all the other men, Toolpushers, Drillers, Roughnecks, Roustabouts, Derrickhands, and Mud Engineers, all deferred to him. Flack had the final say on all operations, answerable only to the other company men at Chevron headquarters back in the states.

  Chevron’s Medusa platform in the North Caspian region was on emergency watch again tonight, as local militants were threatening more attacks on rigs and pipelines to protest the ongoing incursion of corporate interests in the region. The old maxim of the oil industry was again proved brutally true: he who controls the routes of distribution will also control the producers. In Chevron’s case, its production was in a very uncomfortable place as the war drums began to sound, and the routes of distribution were all too fragile. One of the last US producers in the Caspian, it stubbornly clung to its prized Kairyan fields at the southern fringe of the super massive Kashagan Oil & Gas Field Complex, and Medusa was the crown jewel, a platform every bit as big as Thunder Horse had been in the Gulf of Mexico.

  Discovered over a decade ago, Kashagan was first thought to yield 13-15 billion barrels of oil, making it second only to Ghawar in Saudi Arabia. Extensive new surveys after 2018 had now discovered the fields there to be much deeper and even more massive than previously thought. Superfield Kashagan was now the dominant player where oil was concerned, promising well upwards of 25 billion barrels of recoverable oil, and much more in reserve. While Ghawar in Saudi Arabia was aging and now needed water and gas infusion to extract its diminishing reserves, Kashagan was a new field in its adolescence, and set to transform the entire North Caspian region onto the most geopolitically strategic zone on earth. Ben Flack was sitting right in the middle of it on Medusa, aptly named, as the pipelines snaked out from the platform in all directions, feeding on the dark oil beneath the sea.