by Marc Cameron
Quinn piled on pieces of kindling no bigger than his thumb at first, allowing the fire to dry and ignite them before adding several more the size of his wrist, eventually forming a knee-high teepee around the blazing spruce crown.
It was all Quinn could do to keep from squatting down and letting the warmth of the flames overwhelm him. Still, the notion that a fire was there warmed him mentally, allowing a small sliver of hope to creep back into his mind. Forcing himself to leave the warmth, he half dragged, half carried an unconscious Beaudine to the fire.
Less than ten minutes later he’d stretched a silicon treated nylon tube tent on a piece of parachute cord strung between two likely spruce trees near the fire. When weighted down at the corners with stones from the riverbank, the single tube of waterproof cloth formed a triangular shelter that was open at both ends. Roughly three feet high at the center and seven feet long, the open end nearest the fire caught the warmth of the blaze as it reflected off the split boulder some ten feet away.
Quinn stripped out of his wet clothes now that he had someplace that would offer a relatively dry shelter. Popcorn-size snowflakes gave wet kisses to his shivering body as he hurried to pull the fresh wool underwear over clammy skin. Like pulling a dry sock over a wet foot, convulsive shaking made it even more difficult. He was panting by the time he finished, but he could think, and his hands were working again.
Wearing nothing but the black long johns and his unlaced boots, he was still shaking as he pulled Beaudine’s jacket up over her head. Then he used his teeth to tear open the vacuum-sealed bag Aunt Abbey had sent along. If it made Beaudine angry for him to make suggestions about tactics, he could only imagine how she’d feel when she woke up in the tent and realized he’d changed her into dry underwear—assuming she ever woke up.
The job done, he shoved and prodded the still unconscious Beaudine into the tent, taking care not to rip the fabric. He was sure Lovita carried several sleeping bags in her plane, but he’d only been able to find one in the wreckage, sealed in a compression bag under the co-pilot’s seat. Rather than risk more time in the icy water, he’d decided to make do with the one sleeping bag and a large Mylar survival bivy sack. The outer layer of the bivy was bright orange to make it easier to spot and facilitate a rescue. The inside was lined with reflective foil and large enough for two people to share, maximizing body heat in an emergency.
Quinn knew the cold ground would suck away massive amounts of body heat so he spread their only sleeping bag as flat as he could get it to give them some measure of insulation and padding. He put the bivy on top, rolling Beaudine’s body into the foil envelope. Her skin was blue and cold. The periodic rise and fall of her chest was the only thing that told him she was still alive. The hollow hopelessness of complete exhaustion fogged Quinn’s brain. He collapsed against the relative softness of the sleeping bag, giving in to the painfully overwhelming urge to sleep. The tension in his muscles began to fade, but the moment he closed his eyes, the thought of a faceless Russian killer crept in through the fog. Groaning, he pulled the bivy over Beaudine, and rolled over once again to crawl back out of the tent and through the blowing snow to the pile of gear he’d left by the boulder. A howling wind turned the fire into a forge and Quinn piled larger pieces of wood onto the blaze, knowing it would burn down all too fast. He grabbed the small Tupperware bowl of Lovita’s rich akutaq from his pack and picked up the rifle, dragging it back to the tent. The last of the gray was fading from the sky by the time he once again wiggled and crawled his way into the bivy bag. Lying on his side, he popped the top off the plastic tub and sucked a big glob of akutaq off his fingers. He could feel the fatty stuff begin to warm him at once, maybe even enough to keep him and Beaudine alive through the long Alaska night—if Worst of the Moon didn’t kill them in their sleep.
He pulled both their shirts up high so they were belly to belly and wrapped his arms around Beaudine, drawing her to him. Her skin was cold and clammy and he nestled in as close as possible, offering what little warmth he had left, and hopefully, at some point, drawing some back from her. Sleep was the enemy when hypothermia loomed—too many people dozed off and never woke up. He should have tried harder to wake her, but his mind was too frazzled to focus. Exhaustion finally pushed him under, the last thoughts in his mind of Lovita’s grin and the sweet taste of akutaq on his lips.
Chapter 30
The three stubby candles Kostya Volodin found in the deserted cabin did more to remind him it was dark than provide any usable light. Little more than a pile of decaying logs and earth, the place offered no more than a spot to get out of the wind. They were fortunate to have even seen it tucked in along the banks of the river through the blowing snow.
Volodin stooped under the sagging roof and shook out a tattered wool blanket in front of him. Rodent droppings clattered against the rough wooden floor like BBs. A red-backed vole glared sullenly from the corner, flicking its little ears at every noise. Tiny black eyes glistened with accusation at the theft of its nest.
An incessant wind howled through numerous cracks in the log walls, bellowing the blue tarps that had been nailed over the collapsing window holes and nudging the piece of heavy carpet that hung from a wooden crossbeam over the flimsy door.
Even in this sorry condition, the cabin had seen recent use. A grease-spattered rectangle on the dusty shelf showed the place where someone, presumable hunters judging from the pile of caribou hooves outside, had used a small camp stove. The smell of fried meat and cheap whiskey mixed with the odor of humans living in close confinement made the windy drafts a welcome addition to the sour air.
The five crumpled blankets the hunters had left behind were long past their prime. Volodin was elated at first, but when he shook out the vole droppings, he discovered it would take at least three to make sure none of the rips and holes overlapped. He kept the two that were in the worst shape and handed the others to Kaija who accepted them without a word.
They hadn’t eaten since leaving Nome. A narrow escape from the lodge left them unprepared, and this blizzard soaked them to the skin by the time they reached the cabin. Volodin didn’t feel it prudent to start a fire. There was too great a danger that the smoke would give away their location even with the storm. A relatively dry place out of the snow and wind would have to do.
Thankfully, he and Kaija had been outside when the three Russians arrived at the lodge.
He’d not gotten much of a look at the men at the lodge, but they were surely sent by Rostov to bring him back—or perhaps just kill him. Poor Kaija. She had been terrified when the plane landed, but insisted on running back inside to retrieve her black plastic case. He’d not noticed it when they left Providenya, but his mind was slipping. He had not noticed many things. They’d fled to the river, hiding in a small building that contained fishing equipment.
When the second plane landed, presumably with reinforcements, Volodin saw the boat was their only means of escape. Kaija directed him where to go. She was such an intelligent child. Her friend would help them, she assured him, sitting at the bow of the boat clutching the black case in her lap.
Now Kaija stretched out on one of the two plywood beds ten feet away, facing the wall. She’d gone silent once they were on the river, brooding like the approaching storm. She blamed him, and he certainly deserved the blame. This mess was of his creation. He longed to talk with her, to explain, if only to hear a few accusatory words. But she’d put in her cursed earphones. When she listened to her music, he might as well be on another planet. Perhaps the battery on her mobile would die soon, and they would have a chance to talk, father to daughter, before they reached civilization—if they reached civilization.
It killed him inside to put someone he loved so deeply in such a dangerous and uncomfortable position. He folded the remaining two blankets on a rough wooden bench beside a crude wooden table so he’d have some padding to sit on. Kaija had left the case on the floor beside her bed. Perhaps, he thought, they had packed some food that he’d
forgotten in his foolish stupor. Kaija didn’t stir as he picked up the case. The pulsing music pouring through her earphones rendered her as good as deaf.
He was surprised to find the case so heavy. It must have been important for them to have dragged it all the way from Providenya—but try as he might, he could not recall what was inside. Made of hard plastic with what looked like a waterproof seal, it looked like an expensive suitcase—the kind in which engineers or traveling photographers might carry delicate equipment. Touching it did bring back a faint memory. Perhaps he’d had enough forethought to bring food after all. He flipped the latches and lifted the lid, inexplicably worried that his daughter might turn over at any moment and catch him. To his amazement, he found a selection of a dozen metal canisters, each about the size of a soft drink can. A hard plastic divider separated six blue canisters from six yellow ones, identical but for the color. A vision of the proteins and growth hormones he’d prepared for his son, Petyr, suddenly rushed back to Volodin. The supplements were powerful stuff if he remembered correctly, packed with enough calories to see them through until they made it to the village the next morning.
“I have found us something to eat, Maria,” Volodin said, smiling at his luck. “This will keep you warm, my love.” He held two of the canisters, one blue, one yellow. There were no instructions, but the binary nature made it easier for him to get past U.S. Customs Inspectors. He remembered that he had to mix them.
“I am Kaija,” the young woman on the cot said without turning around. “Maria was my mother.”
“Kaija?” Volodin’s heart sank, but at his absentmindedness and the fact that he would not see his dear Maria. “Of course,” he whispered. “I knew that. You are my daughter.” He clanked the canisters together. “Kaija, my dear, help me find a pan and we will have our supper.”
Kaija sprang from the bed in an instant. Her lips pulled back in a horrifying scream and she flew at him, yanking the canisters out of his hands.
“You are such a fool!” she spat. “What could you be thinking?” Her chest heaved. She was angry with him—again.
“What’s wrong, Maria?” Tears welled in his eyes.
“Kaija!” she screamed. “You would have killed us.”
“Killed us?” Volodin fell back, collapsing on the bench stunned by his daughter’s outburst. “This is the same protein and growth supplements I have sent to Petyr.”
“You sent this to Petyr?” Kaija held up a canister in each hand before returning them gently to their respective spots in the plastic case.
Volodin nodded. “It is the least I could do as a father. Your half brother has so little, my dear.”
“Oh, he has something if you sent him this?”
“Petyr works very hard at his fighting. You should not begrudge—”
“Are you certain you sent him these?” Kaija groaned. “Yellow and blue?”
“Yes,” Volodin said. “Although that is odd. I used to label them red and white. I wonder why I changed the coloring . . .”
“How much?” Kaija said, fuming.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because, Papa.” Her chest heaved and spittle flew from her lips as she screamed at him. “This is Novo Archangelsk. It is the reason we are here in this forsaken place. These two canisters alone would release a cloud of enough deadly gas to kill us and anyone who passed by on the river for days—anyone who came in this cabin for the next ten years.”
“Oh . . .” Volodin buried his face in his hands. The uncontrollable twitch returned to his left eye. “Novo Archangelsk,” he whispered. “Do you think Petyr even knows what he has?”
“I doubt Petyr knows what day it is at any given time,” Kaija scoffed.
“I am awful human being.” Volodin rocked back and forth, head still in his hands. “But why . . . why would I bring such a thing as this with me? I thought I destroyed the remainder of the stockpile.”
“You did not bring it, Papa.” Kaija stood in front of him, vapor blossoming around her head in the candlelight with each exasperated breath. “I did.”
“Why?” Volodin said. “Oh, my dear, what do you plan to do?”
“Go to bed, Papa,” Kaija said, panting as her rage began to ebb.
“Are you angry with me, Maria?” An inexplicable melancholy gripped Volodin’s heart. He’d done something to make her mad. “I am sorry I didn’t bring us any food.”
“Kaija,” the girl said, her voice soft now. “I am Kaija, Papa.”
“Right,” Volodin smiled. “Do you think there might be some food in that case?”
Kaija shook her head. “No,” she said, snapping the latches on the black plastic case and carrying it to bed with her. “There is nothing but clothing in here. I’ve already looked. Go to bed, Papa. We have a long way to go in the morning.” She lay down in her tattered blankets, replaced the earphones, and turned to face the wall with her body between him and the plastic case. Her slender chest still heaved from something he’d said or done. He was such a fool to keep calling her by her mother’s name.
Without taking his eyes off his daughter, Volodin took the fountain pen from the pocket of his shirt and wrote “Kaija” on the inside of his wrist. Perhaps that would help him remember she wasn’t his Maria.
He settled his weary bones onto his own rude bed and drew the tattered blankets up around his chin. Kaija was still angry with him. The heaviness of it filled the dark cabin. He certainly deserved it. His mind was slipping, he knew that, but he couldn’t help but feel he should have been angry with her as well.
Chapter 31
Providenya
Ruslan Rostov slammed the phone back in its cradle, an angry, drowning man. Lodygin sat across the office, pale fingers to his lips as if to physically stop himself from saying something he might regret. It was his desk and his phone. Rostov picked up the phone so he could slam it down once more, glaring at the greasy captain, daring him to protest. He was a senior colonel in the GRU. He had every right to take over a subordinate’s office and set his phone on fire if he wanted to.
Lodygin sat in the corner, a visitor in his own office. The man had a habit of crossing his legs, knee to knee, in a feminine way that Rostov despised. It looked affected for a man in uniform and made Rostov want to beat him to death with the phone. In fact, the whole office was too girlish for Rostov’s way of thinking. They were leaders of men. A competent leader’s office should reflect the odor of leather, the color of flags, and the instruments of bloody war. It should be sparse and clean and slightly uncomfortable, demonstrating a clear preference for the field of battle over an easy life in a garrison.
Lodygin’s office was highly decorated with nesting dolls, ornate copies of Fabergé eggs, and even woodblock prints of two Orthodox saints on either side of the requisite photograph of Putin. A scented candle did little to mask the stench of his moral decay.
“I assume it was bad news,” Lodygin said, both hands on his knee, drawing small circles in the air with the toe of his polished boot.
Rostov put both hands flat on the desk in an effort to compose himself. “General Zhestakova is not a patient man,” he said. “I will be summoned to the Kremlin at any moment.”
“Today?” Lodygin said.
“No,” Rostov said, wondering if he would ever see his wife and daughter again. “Not today, but soon.” He glared at the captain. “I should take you with me.”
“Perhaps you will be able to reason with the general,” Lodygin said. “The events in America . . . they are not exactly contrary to the hopes and dreams of the Kremlin. Are they?”
Rostov’s head snapped up. He’d only heard half of what the idiotic captain was saying. “What?”
“The directive to develop New Archangel came from the Kremlin, did it not?” Lodygin gave a flip of his hand. “You and I are both aware of the strategic plans—keep the Americans busy fighting a war on their own soil so the Motherland has time and room to become the world power we deserve to be.” He shrugged. “Is tha
t not exactly what is happening now?”
“Apparently, General Zhestakova does not take the same optimistic view,” Rostov said. “Perhaps he has taken the time to think through the Americans’ reaction when they discover this gas is tied to Russia and not some cretin jihadist from the Middle East.”
A vaporous smile spread over Lodygin’s face as if he’d won an argument. “One man’s cretin jihadist is another man’s operative.”
“Shut up,” Rostov said.
The captain did have a point. Someone had smuggled the New Archangel out of Russia. It was not beyond the realm of possibilities that this same someone was an agent of the Kremlin. Lodygin had remained much too calm throughout the unfolding of these events, even for the sociopath that he was. Rostov glared at him, trying to see through the smarmy façade. Lodygin was odd without being awkward, terrifying without a shred of bravery, and dangerous with no physical strength. He was intelligent enough to pull it off, but who in the Kremlin—or anywhere else—would trust such a vile man?
“Still no word from your best soldier?” Rostov asked. The last dripped with open disdain.
“None as of yet, Colonel,” Lodygin sighed. “But he will contact us as soon as he is able.” The captain pursed his lips. “I do have news that will certainly interest you.”
“Very well,” Rostov said.
“I was fortunate to spend a delightful three hours in the company of one Rosalina Lobov, a school friend of Kaija Merculief . . .” He stopped, eyes glazing for a moment as if he was remembering and savoring some sordid detail.
