The Richard Jackson Saga: Book 12 Escape From Siberia

by Earl Nelson

  I had to disappear quickly. Uncle Yevgeny would be looking for Ivan Popov. There was a good chance that Popov would be connected to Richard Jackson. My only hope was to keep moving.

  I had also exchanged my six-shooter for a Makarov 9mm handgun along with two full clips and a box of fifty shells. If I needed all fifty, I would be in deep trouble, but I couldn’t let myself go short.

  I took a taxi to the train station. There I found a coffee shop that catered to train crews. It didn’t take much listening to find out that only passenger trains came into the station.

  There was no way that I would get on a passenger train at this point. I would be trapped when they came through looking at identity cards.

  What I needed to find were the marshaling yards where they made up freight trains. This proved easier than I thought it would. The café had a map on the wall showing all the tracks and yards around the city.

  The yard I was looking for was on the southern edge of the city. It was a three-mile walk from where I was at. I chose to walk it as I didn’t have a drop-off point nearby and the taxi driver might report dropping me off at the yards. That would give my hunters a lead.

  It wasn’t a bad walk because I had a good pair of boots and was in good shape.

  Once the yard came into sight, I had to find a way to get off the sidewalk I was on and disappear into the yards.

  A stream passed under the road I was walking along. It had a deep stream bed so once in it I wouldn’t be seen from the road.

  Looking around for people and other traffic I took the chance and slid down the bank to the stream bed. The stream had running water in it and plenty of ice.

  I managed to stoop enough to get through the tunnel under the road and onto the railyard grounds. I followed the stream bed until I was certain I would be out of sight of the road when I climbed out.

  It was mid-afternoon and was already starting to get dark. In a way, this helped because I could see the lanterns of the working trainmen.

  It became the same drill as the Moscow marshaling yards. Find the train makeup cards as they were discarded to understand what trains were going where.

  I was hunting for a train heading towards Warsaw. It was only five hundred miles. That was easy to say, given that it had taken me almost three weeks to go the five hundred miles from Moscow to Kiev.

  It took until after midnight before I identified a train of cars that would be hooked to an engine going to Warsaw.

  I climbed up on top of a boxcar towards what would be the rear of the train. Something I had heard in the restaurant was worth checking out.

  The engine with its tender which carried the water and coal backed into the line of boxcars I was on. This made the usual accordion of cars bumping together. What I was watching for was when they hooked up the guard car, what we called the caboose.

  If there were to be any switches thrown on the journey or cars set off on sidings the switchmen would ride in there with the train conductor. This conductor was a supervisor, unlike the ticket collectors on passenger trains.

  They hooked up the guard car, but no one got on board. I had read the cards right and what I heard in the restaurant was correct. They had stopped putting a conductor on through freights which didn’t require a switchman on board.

  If this were the US, the railway workers union would be screaming bloody blue murder. For me, it looked like a warm ride. This train would be going straight through to Warsaw with no stops. They must have had an exceptionally large tender along with an oversized water tank.

  I waited until the train was on its way before I worked my way back to the guard car and went down the ladder to the car.

  Inside it was out of the wind. There was a potbellied stove without a fire. There was coal and kindling to burn. There were even fuzees to light the fire with. It didn’t take long, and I had the car toasty warm.

  I unrolled my sleeping bag and curled up for a good night's sleep.

  I woke up to the sounds of the train changing. The train was coming to a stop in a yard. I hoped it was Warsaw. I quickly bundled everything up and jumped off the slowly moving train. There was no one in sight so I walked to the edge of the yard.

  I worked my way around the edge of the marshaling yard until I was at a side with a vehicle road. I could see more buildings to the west than the east which made sense, so I headed that way.

  After several miles I was in a residential area, then an area with small shops. I went into a restaurant open for breakfast. I confirmed that I wasn’t in Russia or Ukraine anymore as I could tell they were speaking Polish. I still didn’t know if I was in Warsaw or not, but at least I had made Poland.

  It was open seating, so I sat at a table. When a harried waitress came over to me, I pointed at the meal the guy at the next table was having. Over easy eggs, bacon, and hash browns plus coffee.

  She asked me several questions at which I shrugged. The guy at the next table asked me if I spoke Russian or German, he had both. I told him about my order in Russian and he relayed it to my waitress.

  I took a little chance and asked him if roubles were accepted here. He told me they were. He also gave me a funny look like why I didn’t know that.

  I smiled at him and in Mandarin asked him if he spoke any Chinese. Now he did have a funny look. I told him in my not fluent but getting better Russian that I grew up in Manchuria and that this was the furthest west I had ever been.

  He asked me what I was doing here in Warsaw. That was the first I knew that I was actually in Warsaw. I took a wild chance and told him that I was fleeing to the west.

  He got a huge laugh out of that. Others around him wanted to know what was so funny. He told them I was fleeing the Soviets. That didn’t seem to bother them at all. I did notice one guy make a hasty exit.

  That was my cue to get out of the area. He probably was going to turn me in, hoping for a reward.

  Taking the last drink of my coffee, I handed the waitress a hundred roubles and left. From her thanks, it was an extremely large tip, but I couldn’t wait for change.

  As I walked out the door there were many shouts. They sounded like shouts of encouragement. At least I hoped so. I wondered how I would get to my next waypoint on my journey, which was Berlin.

  If I could get there, I was almost home free. All I had to do was get over the wall. That made it sound so easy. People had died trying to do that,

  Chapter 36

  I started walking towards downtown Warsaw when a car pulled up beside me, at first, I thought it was the police. It was the guy who had translated for me at the restaurant.

  “Get in, and hurry.”

  He and his friends could have detained me at the restaurant, so I took a chance and got in his car.

  “That guy who left quickly is an informer, so we have to get you on your way.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate this.”

  “We all have hopes of getting out from under the Russians one of these days. It may be sooner than we thought.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The Russians are losing control in Moscow, the resistance there burned the prison van depot. That encouraged other groups to attack places. Troops have been called in. The last I have heard dissidents hold the mayor's office and the troops are refusing to attack them.”

  “Also, Russian troops in the field aren’t getting paid. It has been almost a month since they paid any troops. The troops are selling their weapons so they can feed themselves and their families. Rumor has it that some groups are selling tanks and cannons. It is getting insane.”

  I had to ask, “Who is controlling the nuclear weapons?”

  “No one knows. For all, we know they may be for sale.”

  It sounded like I had pulled a scab off the rotten Soviet Union and pus was pouring out. It could get ugly.

  We passed a small airport on our way into the city.

  “It would be nice to be able to fly out of here.”

  “Are you a pilot?”

  “Twi
n engine, instrument-rated. I have some hours on a 707.”

  This got me a sharp look.

  “Who are you.”

  I can’t believe I had just outed myself like that. In for a penny in for a pound.

  “Richard Jackson, I escaped from a gulag and I’m trying to get home.”

  My driver got a pensive look.

  “If you had an airplane, where would you fly to?”

  “I have studied the maps, originally I was going to fly to Berlin, which is 321 air miles, but the East German air defense will be dangerous. Instead, I would fly to Ronne, Denmark. It is 324 miles, mostly over water, and avoids East Germany altogether.”

  “That makes sense. From there it is an easy jump to Copenhagen.”

  “The only problem is that I don’t have an airplane.”

  “That airport we just passed has a flying club, I’m a member. The Soviet Commissar for Warsaw keeps his plane there. It is a Cessna 310, could you fly that?”

  “I have over two thousand hours in a Cessna 320.”

  “Then all you have to do is steal the airplane.”

  “How well is it guarded?”

  “It isn’t, there is a guard at the airport gate but nothing at the hanger.”

  “So, if I can get on the airfield. I could take the plane.”

  “I believe so.”

  “What is the best way for me to get on the airfield.”

  “In the trunk of this car.”

  “Won't they know later that you had to smuggle me onto the field?”

  “Yes, that is why I’m going with you. I have no family or other ties here. If I help you, will you help me get started in the west?”

  “What is your occupation?”

  “I’m a welder at the railroad yards.”

  Thinking of my factories in Pittsburgh, I told him I would get him asylum and a job.

  “When do you want to do this?”

  “How about right now?”

  “Why not. Let's go.’

  My new best friend Boris Badenov turned on to a little-used side road and pulled over. He opened the trunk and I crawled in. His car wasn’t that big, and I had to double up.

  When he slammed the trunk closed was when my doubts started. Had he just captured me so he could turn me in for a reward? It was a little late to think of that.

  My fears proved groundless as the car slowed and he talked to a man at the airport gate. I could hear him tell the guard that he was here to do some maintenance on the flying club's airplane.

  This seemed to be all in order as I could hear a gate swing open. It sounded like an old farm pasture gate.

  We drove for another five minutes, and the car stopped. Boris opened the trunk and let me out.

  We were behind a T-hanger. The rear door to the hangar wasn’t even locked. The Commissar must feel pretty secure.

  Inside was a beautiful Cessna 310. Before opening the hangar door, I performed the flight pre-check. Inside the aircraft, there was a set of maps in a leather pocket in the door.

  There were several of them, including the one I needed most. Bornholm Island and the airport at Ronne are also known as Bornholm Airport.

  We had a full tank of gas so we could make Ronne with no problem. I spent time plotting the course. Using a grease marker that was with the maps I wrote the compass headings we needed to use on the side window.

  This was easier than trying to use the map. I usually did this with radio frequencies, but this time I had had to write only one down, Bornholm airport itself. I had no intention of talking to anyone else.

  Boris opened the hangar door as I started the engines. This aircraft was well maintained. He joined me in the cabin, and I taxied out of the hangar and stopped the plane.

  We then waited as various aircraft went around. At one point there was no one taking off or landing that I could see. I revved up the engines and using the taxiway took off. It was more than long enough for the Cessna.

  By doing this it would catch the control tower staff off their guard. No one did this, it was considered, insane, immoral, unethical, dangerous, and probably a few other things I hadn’t thought of.

  Most importantly it had me flying towards Germany. I wanted to leave a false trail if I could.

  Without climbing to more than fifty feet off the ground I flew out of sight of the airport. Only then did I let it climb to one hundred feet, still dangerously low. I then performed a gentle turn to line my compass up with a flight to Bornholm Island, Denmark.

  This aircraft had a cruising speed of 183 knots at 7500 feet. We reached that and never went above a hundred feet.

  It was nerve-racking but I kept the pedal to the floor for the one hour and forty-five-minute flight. We were low enough that we wouldn’t appear on the radar. My real fear was hitting an ocean-going freighter.

  The only ships we saw were in the distance. When we made landfall over Bornholm, I brought us up to five thousand feet and made my first radio call of the flight.

  Not that we hadn’t received any calls. For the first fifteen minutes of the flight, the tower made all sorts of threatening broadcasts. What I loved about them was they called us, “East German bound aircraft.”

  They could sortie all the MIGs they wanted in that direction.

  As we descended towards the Bornholm airport, I identified myself as an inbound flight from Poland wanting to know if VFR were in effect, knowing full well they weren’t.

  They informed me to get my head out of my posterior and treat them like a real airport. I apologized and followed their directions to land.

  I did this on purpose to make them think I was stupid so any small mistakes in the next few minutes wouldn’t cause alarm. I was going to alarm them enough with the big red star on my tail.

  The landing went smoothly, and I was almost to the transient apron before the coin dropped that they had an unauthorized visitor.

  Boris and I were out of the plane before we were surrounded by about ten cops, all with sidearms drawn.

  We raised our hands without being told to.

  Since I spoke no Danish, I asked in English if anyone there spoke English. That stopped them a little. One of them had particularly good English.

  “I’m Richard Jackson, Duke of Hong Kong, I have just escaped from the Soviet Union.”

  “And that’s a camel I won’t swallow.”

  He turned and told this to the other cops in Danish. One of them looked at me and then started talking quickly to the others.

  The one that talked English told me, “You look a lot like him, how do we know that you are not an imposter.”

  “Toss it upstairs, let your boss sort it out.”

  This must have been the right thing to say as he told Boris and me to follow him. We went into the flight center where the policeman called his boss.

  I was put on a second phone as the boss didn’t speak English. The boss, a Captain, asked the same question. I gave the same answer, “Toss it upstairs to your boss.”

  Again, this was the right thing to say. Our translator was told to hold us there while he made some phone calls.

  It took an hour but finally, they had a Police Superintendent on the line in Copenhagen. Again, I was asked the same question. This time I told him that it would be easy to confirm, all he had to do was get the British Ambassador online.

  Being no dummy the Superintendent saw a chance to dump me into the laps of the British and maybe get me out of Denmark. That or he could ship me back to Poland as an airplane thief.

  Boris and I were held there for another three hours.

  The phone rang and when it was sorted out, I was talking to Mr. Norman. A few questions and he confirmed to the Danes my identity and could England to have me back I was free. Unless the Soviets captured me again.

  Chapter 37

  The Danes were only too glad to let me refuel the Cessna and fly with Boris onto Copenhagen. To show how bad they wanted us to leave they didn’t even ask for payment for the fuel.

&nb
sp; Once there we abandoned the airplane on the visitor's apron and took our gear to a waiting car from the British Embassy. Arriving at the Embassy I was given a welcome. They wanted to know where Boris came into the picture.

  When I explained how he had helped me in my escape they relaxed a bit, especially when I told them I was going to help him in America. I had learned my lesson well. The thing that a bureaucrat likes to hear the most, is that the problem belongs to someone else.

  I was foolish in thinking that all I had to do was call the American Embassy and that they would give Boris a temporary asylum visa. No one wanted to upset the all-powerful Soviet Union.

  Now they tell me.

  I had one more card to play. I sent a long telegram to the Governor of Hong Kong asking for his help.

  Boris was allowed to stay with me at the Embassy so he wouldn’t be snatched off the streets.

  It didn’t take long for the Soviets to figure out who had stolen their Cessna. I suspect it helped when the Danes called the Soviet Embassy and asked what they wanted to be done with the aircraft that tipped them off.

  It seems that pictures were taken of us as we got out of the Cessna in Bornholm. The pictures were taken by a Soviet agent or sold to one who in turn sent them to the KGB. It only took the KGB and NKVD two days to sort out my trail across the Soviet Union.

  A demand was sent to the British Embassy that I am an escaped felon and Boris Badenov a wanted felon be returned to their custody.

  I had to sit in a meeting where some assistants suggested that they do just that to gain favor with the Soviets. No one had thought that I might be armed or needed disarming so there was dead silence in the conference room when I laid the Makarov down on the table.

  “We’re not going back.”

  I must have sounded sincere because the Ambassador turned to the junior and asked him to leave the room. I left the pistol on the table as a reminder. I had enough of this nonsense.

  The next day I received a telegram from Hong Kong telling me that asylum had been granted to Boris and paperwork to follow.

  In the meantime, I had been on the phone with my parents to let them know I was out of Russia. They had already heard. I guess the way I had left had the newspapers spinning.