A guard tower loomed through the mist. There was a questioning shout. The end of the pipe touched the ground and his body lifted. He had often vaulted over sixteen feet, but that had been with a resilient pole, and when he was dressed lightly.
His body lifted, soared. High, higher…he released the pole as his body shot over and down.
For one brief, awful moment he was above the wire and fear flashed through him. If he fell into it…!
He landed on the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent. He fell forward, his fingers touched the ground, and then he was running. As his pole hit the ground there was a burst of fire, and then the lights flashed on. The edge of the forest was just feet away.
Wet branches slapped his face, tore at his clothing. He pivoted away, saw a dip in the ground, and ran down a small declivity as bullets tore the leaves above his head. In his track days he had done the mile in four minutes and fifteen seconds. Not good enough to put him up where the winners were, but how fast could he do a mile now over strange ground and through brush and trees?
When he had covered what he believed was a half mile he slowed to a fast walk. Distance was essential, but he must conserve his energy, also. He walked a hundred fast steps, then ran again.
A road, scarcely more than a dim trail. He looked, then crossed swiftly, and ran through a small water course. His lungs sucked at the fresh, tangy air. He could smell the pines.
It would take them five minutes to discover that he had escaped. They would find the pipe, but would they guess at once that he had pole-vaulted over the wire? Say another five minutes to get a search organized and moving. In the night and fog they would be handicapped in following his trail and would trust to a hurried search and patrols on all existing roads.
Through a momentary rift in the fog he glimpsed the stars. He was not far off the route he intended to follow.
Off to his right he heard the roar of a stream. He felt his way to the bottom of a small gorge where he stepped into the water and walked upstream. Several times he paused to listen, but the rush of the water drowned all other sounds.
Coming up to a stone shelf, he left the water without leaving a trace. He stepped from that rocky ledge to another, leaving no tracks. He swung from one low-hanging limb to another, then came upon a path where he ran, following it for some fifty yards. He crossed another road, dipped into the forest, and ran through the trees. Behind him he heard the roar of a motor.
A car was passing along the road he had just crossed. He stood, not moving, until it had raced away.
Before and around him was the taiga, the Siberian forest. One of the guards had mentioned Malovsky, obviously a village or town, but one of which he knew nothing. He knew the prison was in an area of the Trans-Baikal, in Siberia, and he had read enough to know that the region was changing. An almost unbroken wilderness not too many years ago, the Russians had discovered that the area was a treasure house of mineral wealth. Consequently, new roads were being built and lumbering and mining were increasing; at any time, he might come upon such operations. He must move with caution.
The prison compound had been in a basin some six or seven miles across, and except for the area around the prison, it was thickly forested. His escape had been to the west, but he had swung around to the east and was now climbing into a rocky, mountainous area scattered with pine forest. He kept under cover, for it was growing light and searchers would be sweeping the country around with binoculars. Keeping to a slope, he found his way to a small stream that ran down from the mountains toward the east.
He saw no signs of life—no wood cutting, no mining. Walking on rocks, he left few tracks, although at this stage he doubted if they would be looking for them. At first there would simply be a wide, sweeping search, and not until they failed to find him would they begin looking for tracks or a trail.
He no longer ran, but walked as steadily as the terrain would permit. The stream turned north and he followed it. From a slight elevation he glimpsed a river into which this emptied. It offered the easiest way, but one that would grow increasingly dangerous, as rivers were likely to be used or lived along. He took the chance and followed the stream down. The river ran east and west, and when he reached it he found the flow was toward the east.
The banks were heavily forested, and at one point he discovered a large drift log with many branches clinging to it that had hung up in the sand on a small point. He squatted among the branches, got onto the log, and pushed off, crouching low and hoping not to be seen.
Several times he saw deer, and once he glimpsed a brown bear. The animal looked toward him incuriously; then seeming to catch his scent it lumbered off into the trees. It was a large bear, fully as big as some grizzlies he had seen.
The sun was high and the sky cloudless. With a broken branch still retaining some foliage, he tried steering the drift log, moving in toward the shore.
He judged the drift to have been about two miles an hour, and when he finally edged the tree to shore at least eight hours had passed. He beached the tree with several of its kind and staggered ashore, his legs stiff from holding virtually a single position. He was hungry, but he had been hungry before. Working his way back into the woods he made a bed in the moss and leaves and lay down to sleep.
Hours later he awakened, drank from a nearby stream, and sat down again to study his situation.
He did not know where he was except in a very general sense. He was east or northeast of Lake Baikal, possibly in an area known as Yakutia, which was now undergoing rapid development. Hence he might come upon people at any time. These he must avoid.
He must travel with extreme care not to be seen or to leave any vestige behind that might arouse the curiosity of dwellers in the country.
He would need food, warmer clothing, a weapon, and if he could find it, a blanket. Somewhere, somehow, he must learn his location. At present what he needed was distance. Travel on the river had been slow and very risky, but also it meant no trail was left behind. Following the river was an easy way, but one that would grow ever more perilous.
Food could wait. At times he had gone several days without eating, and he could do so again.
Among the fallen timber and broken limbs he found a staff that suited his purpose. It would help in walking and would be a weapon if he needed it. And he knew how to fight with a stick.
He started walking, moving away from the river. He had gone but a few hundred yards when he came upon a trail, evidently a game trail but perhaps used by hunters as well. He walked along at a steady pace, ears alert for any sound, eyes constantly seeking, searching.
Long ago he had attended a lecture given by an Army Intelligence officer on Siberia and its terrain. His memory was geared to such things, and he tried now to recall what had been said and what had been pointed out on the blown-up map. There were low mountains, much swamp, and an involved river system. Despite the cold, much of the country in the Trans-Baikal received little snowfall.
Lake Baikal he remembered well, as it is one of the most interesting bodies of water on the planet. Some four hundred miles long, in places more than fifty miles wide, and over five thousand feet deep, it holds a large part of the fresh water on earth. Visited often by Russian tourists, it was also a haven for the Japanese who were playing a major role in the development of Siberian industry. The Japanese were relying on the Trans-Baikal for much of their raw material.
Since his capture he had been trying to reconstruct mentally that map he had seen and to recall what he had heard. Fortunately he had always liked to read, and the books his grandfather had brought from the Hudson’s Bay post had included many on Canada, the Bering Strait, and the coasts opposite.
Four of the largest rivers on earth flowed out of Siberia. If he was where he believed, the nearest river was the Lena, and the Amur would be off to the south, some of it along the Manchurian border.
S
everal times he paused to listen, but heard nothing but a soft wind blowing through the trees. Occasionally he saw birds. Grouse seemed common and a kind of lark that was unfamiliar to him.
Squatting near a piece of bare earth he tried to redraw from memory the map he had studied. South was the Amur and north the Lena. He was now east of Lake Baikal and moving toward the faraway coast, toward the Bering Strait and the Sea of Okhotsk. Between the Bering Strait and his present position lay several low ranges of mountains, much forest, swamp, and tundra lying just below or within the Arctic Circle.
The Yablonovyi, the Stanovoy, and the Verkhoyansk mountains lay between him and his objective, and some of the coldest land on earth.
Moving as he must, with great care, and traveling on foot, there was no way he could escape Siberia before winter. Nor was there any way in which he could last out the winter.
He had not the clothing, the shelter, or the supply of food necessary.
At more than fifty below, rubber tires crack and metal becomes fragile. If a car survives two to three years the owner is fortunate.
And winter was coming, with temperatures that would hover between fifty and eighty degrees below zero.
He stood up and with his boot he rubbed out his crude map. He started on, and just over the mountains the cold awaited.
Icy, bitter, deathly cold…
FOUR
COLONEL ZAMATEV WAS sitting behind his table when Pennington entered the room. On the bench at one side sat Lieutenant Suvarov and the Yakut, Alekhin. There was a chair placed near the table that faced all three.
Zamatev gestured to the chair. “Sit down, please.” The Colonel had been an attaché in both London and Paris. He spoke English and French with equal fluency.
Pennington seated himself warily. What lay before him he did not know. Did they know he had helped the American?
“Major Makatozi has escaped, and you talked with him.”
“A few words during the exercise period.”
“Nevertheless, you did speak. Did he tell you he planned to escape?”
“Would it be likely? He would not have trusted someone he did not know. He is an Indian. I do not believe they talk very much. Not, at least, to a strange white man.”
Makatozi was gone, and what harm could speaking do now? “As a matter of fact,” he added, “he did say something about leaving. I believe he disliked the accommodations.” Pennington smiled. “Even Indians expect better.”
Zamatev ignored the comment. He seemed disposed to be affable. What he wanted was information. Pennington considered that while he waited for the next question. He knew of nothing he could say that would affect the American’s chances, and he wished to apply the needle.
“Anything you can tell us might help him,” Zamatev suggested. “I am sure the Major had no idea what he was escaping to. You see, we had plans for the Major as we do for you. Both of you can be employed here, can live in comfort and security and have a better life than in your own countries.
“Escape from Siberia is impossible! Soon it will be winter. Without clothing, food, and shelter a man cannot exist.
“If he is unfortunate enough to elude pursuit, the land will kill him. I have seen men frozen, but we rarely find them before the wild animals have been at them. If you could help us—?”
Pennington had no intention of helping, nor did he know anything of the American, who had made no mention of his plans once he was over the wire. However, he had once done a paper on the Sioux. At the time he had been wavering between chemistry, his first love, and a developing interest in anthropology.
“Major Makatozi,” he commented, “is a Sioux. They were a warrior people, noted for their courage and their ability to bear great pain without flinching. A Sioux warrior was conditioned to endure long periods of hunger and exposure. It was their belief that it was better to die in battle than to live to an old age.”
Pennington smiled again. “You have chosen a formidable antagonist, Colonel Zamatev.”
“I had hoped you would help us, and him.” Zamatev was curt. “If you can, you are a fool not to do so. We have use for him; otherwise we would just let him go. Siberia would provide its own solution.”
He stood erect. “Lieutenant! Take the prisoner to his cell.” Then he added, “I do not believe Mr. Pennington has much of an appetite. Two days without food may enable him to understand the Major’s situation.”
When Pennington had gone, Zamatev seated himself. He had expected no more than he had gotten, but there was always a chance that Makatozi had dropped a hint or even confided in Pennington.
Zamatev’s position had been secure. He was a known man of known abilities. That he had been permitted this project was evidence of it. Zamatev was also an ambitious man, although his ambitions were carefully hidden. He was a good Party man as well as an efficient officer, and so far he had made no mistakes. He had begun this particular task with a few small successes, and now, suddenly, he was caught in a situation that could ruin his career.
Zamatev dismissed Alekhin and leaned back in his chair. He needed to think.
The American had pole-vaulted over the wire. There was no other explanation, but who could have dreamt of such an act? There had been a blackout, which needed no investigation. How the momentary shorting of the lights had been accomplished was obvious enough. Carelessness, pure carelessness!
The American had escaped. A thorough search of the area had turned up nothing. The search had been mounted within four minutes, yet the American had vanished.
Had he gotten help from outside the prison? No one knew he was a prisoner and no such arrangements could have been made in the time available.
The usual quick sweep of the area had been carried out, a search that moved in steadily widening circles. They had seen nothing, found nothing.
The obvious escape route toward China had been covered. Border troops, already on the alert, had been ordered to watch for an escaped prisoner. That border was protected in depth, and the soldiers were prepared for invasion or raids by the Chinese.
To the Trans-Siberian Railway? It was not far away and offered the quickest escape from the country. A man would need a ticket and a passport or a visa. The American would have neither, yet people had used that method of escape, and it could not be dismissed.
Colonel Zamatev had ambitions. He also had enemies who would be quick to discredit him, so he had no wish to broadcast the escape. As the existence of his prison was known to only a handful of officials this was easily arranged, but much depended on the immediate recapture of the American.
For a moment his thoughts turned eastward. Hardly to be considered. It was too far, too rugged, too cold. The American had no weapons, he lacked proper clothing for even this time of year, and he did not know the country. Yet he would alert people to the eastward, too.
That he would recapture Makatozi he had no doubt. Escape was impossible, and summer was more than half gone. If the man was not taken he would surely surrender or die in the intense cold.
Nothing positive had so far resulted from the search. A few tracks had been found in the woods where he had first fled but they gave no indication of anything except an urge to get away. Obviously the man had escaped the immediate search area before the searchers arrived.
Although Colonel Zamatev had himself been born in Siberia, he came of an old Ukrainian family, and his father and grandfather had both been generals. His father had been closely associated with Marshal Vasily Blucher, perhaps the greatest military genius the Soviet Union had produced. But Blucher had become too well known and too popular, and as a result he disappeared in one of the Stalinist purges of the 1930s.
Blucher had served in China under the name of Galin and had helped to train the Nationalist Chinese army at a time when the Nationalist Chinese were inviting help from Russia. Along with Michael Borodin he was thrown out
of China, but later, in an undeclared war against the Japanese, he defeated them in one of the greatest tank battles ever fought.
General Zamatev, hoping to stay as far from Stalin’s attention as possible, had volunteered to serve in Siberia and remained there. He had, however, kept many old friendships, and not a few of them had aided the rise of Arkady Zamatev.
Colonel Zamatev was under no delusion. He knew peace was an illusory thing, something that hovered on a distant horizon, for which all men wished but which had only a small chance of realization as long as men remained what they were. There was now no declared war between the Soviet Union and anyone else, but there was war nonetheless, a bitter, ruthless war for military and communication advantages, and he was in the front line of that war and planned to remain there.
That he had already been considered for promotion, he knew. If he failed with Pennington and Makatozi, that promotion would never come about, or not for many years. He was thirty-five and hoped to be a field marshal by the time he was fifty. What else remained to be seen.
Pennington might never come over to the Soviets. That whatever he knew about chemical warfare would be his, Zamatev was sure. Pennington could not be forced to join the Soviets, but he could be made to talk. There were drugs that would take care of that, as well as a few time-worn and less gentle methods.
Pennington, however, was of much less importance than the American. Makatozi could not be allowed to escape.
Zamatev reviewed what had been done. The troops along the border had been alerted, as had police officials throughout the Trans-Baikal, especially in Chita, Nerchinsk, and such villages as Romanovka, Bagdarin, Vitimkon, and Vershina.
Airfields had been alerted as well, for the escaped prisoner was a flyer who might attempt to steal a plane.
Now he could do little but await the American’s capture.
Zamatev walked outside. It was one of those bright, clear days so common in the Trans-Baikal. He looked eastward toward the mountains, where one peak was almost a mile high. That was rough country, not an easy way to travel, and so far as he was aware no paths crossed those mountains, but he had never explored widely outside the compound. He scowled impatiently, irritably. He should know the country better.
Last of the Breed (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 3