The River of Bones v5

by Tom Hron

  “Can you read what’s printed on those tanks?” he asked. “It’s in Russian and I can’t read a word.”

  Simon looked through his binoculars. “We’re in luck. They’re loading the airplane with those rubber bladders, pumping them full of gasoline, and then someone’s going to fly off to Lord knows where . . . except we’ll beat him to the punch. Let’s get ready.”

  Frowning, Jake wished there was a better way, something safer. But life didn’t work like that, at least not his life, or Simon’s for that matter. They had been in a million tough spots together.

  “Let’s keep our Uzis handy,” he said. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Trust me,” said Simon. “I’m telling you it’ll be easy.”

  Once again, Jake frowned. Every time someone had told him how easy things would be, or how he or she couldn’t possibly get lost on a cross-country, or had said, “I’ve got it,” the biggest lie of all in flying, he’d seen disaster looming just around the corner. Overconfidence around airplanes and helicopters always caused more trouble than any other problem. Alarms were sounding in his head. But was there any other choice?

  “All right, we’ll do it your way, but this whole thing smells like trouble. Stay alert.”

  He knew Simon well enough to realize, despite all the bravado, his friend was worried as well. They checked their Uzis for live rounds, hid them, and packed everything as small as they could, making it easier for them to run. Afterward, both watched a young man, the pilot of the AN-2 they wanted to steal, supervise its loading. In an hour or so the plane would be ready. Jake felt his heart start pounding.

  As Simon had predicted, the pilot, finally signing off on the load, waved away the refueler, stepped down from the airplane, and walked back to operations.

  Too good to be true, Jake told himself, because the guy was behaving like a trained pig. “All right, let’s go,” he said. “We’ll need to crawl over the fuel bladders to reach the front, so let’s get a move on.”

  They stepped out and walked across the ramp to the airplane. No one seemed the least bit curious about them. Jake opened the cargo door, jumped up, and snaked across the bladders, giving him the sensation of a waterbed. He saw Simon close behind him, grinning. So far, so good, he thought to himself.

  He sat in the pilot’s seat, snapped on the master switch, listened to the battery start the electrical system, and pushed the fuel control to full rich. He opened the throttle, primed the engine, switched on the magnetos, and pressed the starter button. The four-blade propeller swung around, reminding him to hold rudder on takeoff, and the grinding of the cold engine gave him hope. They were within a minute or so of takeoff.

  The engine fired, backfired, shook with partial power, and blue smoke blew past the windscreen, the sign the cylinders had begun burning the oil puddled on top of the pistons. He inched the throttle forward, heard the engine sputter, then roar. They were within 30 seconds of freedom.

  Simon’s voice pitched above the noisy engine. “I hate telling you this but the same guy looks like he’s royally pissed.”

  He glanced out the window by Simon’s right shoulder. The young pilot was running toward them, screaming and waving. They had been caught red-handed.

  “Damnit, I told you this would happen.”

  He opened the throttle, rolled the airplane forward, and swung between all the other Antonovs on the ramp. More smoke rolled past, then billowed behind. He saw the Russian break off his wild chase and head for another AN-2. Just as he had feared, things were going from bad to worse.

  “Get on the radio and say something. He’ll be after us in a minute, screaming on the tower frequency. Maybe if you tell the controller there’s a maniac chasing us, security will stop him. Regardless, do whatever you can to confuse things. I’m leaving the moment I see the first taxiway. There’s no sense in waiting.”

  He watched Simon’s hands fly around the center pedestal, switching on avionics and searching for a microphone. Seconds later, he heard him shouting Russian words, next keying the mike to cut off the controller’s replies and transmitting again, pretending more than one airplane had simultaneously used the frequency.

  Moments after, he rolled onto an open taxiway, the airplane bouncing on its main gear because of its high speed. The second he saw its nose line up he pushed on full power, shooting all the engine instruments to their red lines. The Antonov hurtled ahead and its tail lifted, thunder filling the front. He saw Simon stop radioing and stare out his side window.

  “Here he comes, ready or not. Now what in hell do we do?”

  Jake yelled at the top of his lungs. “Can you speak Chinese? It’s our only chance.”

  Simon’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He yelled back, “A little Cantonese I once learned in Hong Kong, but what good’s that going to do? Goddamn, we can’t go there—”

  “That’s good enough—try it on them. Maybe they’ll think the Chinese did this, rather than us. Meanwhile, I’m heading down the Selenge River for Mongolia. That should help convince them we’re just commie bandits.”

  His friend’s eyes widened even more. “Have you gone nuts? You’ll start an international incident, and the whole world will get worked up. Even Washington might get involved.”

  “How else would you suggest we get away? That idiot back there will follow us forever, at least until we lose him. The only thing I can think is he hasn’t got the guts to cross the border, so it’s worth a try.”

  Simon keyed the microphone, held it away from his mouth, and mimicked someone speaking Chinese in the cockpit, but having forgotten a hot mike. Then he stopped mid-sentence, as if the same person had caught his mistake. He shook his head. “I can’t think of a reason anyone would think some Chinese have bothered hijacking an AN-2 full of fuel, but on the other hand, why not? The world’s a crazy place, so who knows what might happen next?”

  Glancing back, Jake saw the other AN-2 a mile away, coming after them. The Russian had gotten off the ground as well. Now the wild chase was on and the question was who would win the dogfight, though neither plane had weapons. But that didn’t mean the other Antonov couldn’t do any harm. It could chew off his rudder, maybe bash into a wing, jamming the ailerons and crippling his ability to fly, leaving Simon and him riding in a gas-filled coffin.

  He hoped Simon’s last remark hadn’t been prophetic, especially since he was flying south over the swampy Selenga, trying to keep between its banks, wing tips missing fishermen by inches, as the river hooked one way and then another.

  His AN-2 weighed three or four thousand pounds more than the one chasing him, which, because of the science of aerodynamics concerning tail loading, made his ship a little faster in level flight. But . . . the heavier load would ruin his maneuverability. His airplane couldn’t climb or turn like the lighter one. Simon and he’d be in deep jeopardy if the young pilot ever caught them. He began looking for a bridge, the ultimate test for those who thought they were hotshot pilots. Squeezing an airplane between steel girders and the water always determined a person’s true proficiency.

  He saw an overpass spanning the river, one with power lines strung across the far side, a deathtrap for those with poor eyesight, or bad luck. He lined up the Antonov. The space he’d chosen was so low he sensed his main tires would rip rooster tails in the water when he passed under the roadbed. He saw Simon’s eyes widen.

  “Goddamn, are you sure this thing will fit? We’re dead if it doesn’t.”

  “Open your window, look back, and tell me if he follows. I’m hoping he’ll turn back.”

  Cold air whistled around the inside as Simon opened his side window and thrust out his head. Moments later, the airplane shuddered with thunder-booms as it streaked under the bridge, its sound trapped for a second in the hollowness. They shot out the other side, whizzing over the water. He pushed the stick forward, resisting the temptation to climb. The wires lay ahead.

  Simon pulled his head inside and yelled again, this time fighting
the wind, rather than the roar of the engine. “He’s too smart for us. He pulled up and flew over the bridge, and all you gained was a little ground.”

  Now what? They were still forty minutes north of Mongolia, which was too far. He began looking for some mountains. Maybe a game of cat and mouse would lose the Russian. Then he heard the radio crackle with voices.

  “Jam him and don’t let him transmit our position. Give me time to think.”

  He saw Simon grab the microphone and transmit, stopping anyone from receiving a full message. The Mig Foxbats wouldn’t come for them just yet—but they’d see them soon if they couldn’t find a way to escape. They had to shake the guy.

  Turning away from the Selenga, he steered for the summits off his right—the snowy skyline between the bottom of Baikal and Mongolia. He would find out how the young pilot liked canyons, plus the higher ground would help break up any calls for help. Both would go mano-a-mano and may the best pilot win. To hell with the heavy load.

  Minutes later, he saw the other Antonov gaining in their long climb over the rising terrain. Both would soon reach the first mountains and the endless labyrinth of cliffs, ravines, and canyons. Airspeed control, steep turns, and depth perception would rule, and the first one to blink would lose. When a pilot rolled perpendicular in a box canyon, he’d better have the distance eyeballed precisely, because he’d crackup on a mountainside otherwise. Airplanes couldn’t be stopped and started over. You lived or died by your decisions, without any second chances. He saw Simon’s eyes widen once more. His friend knew what was coming.

  He rolled to the right and dove into a dark valley, wondering if it would lead to a slope too high to climb over. Glancing out the window, he saw the Russian turn as well.

  Damn the world’s young pilots, he thought. They never knew enough to feel afraid, like older pilots after a few thousand hours of flight. The human mind could only endure so much terror, then you learned to back off, although your experience let you fly around with the best of them. You began to perceive the easiest way to stay alive was just to say no and that good judgment always let you live another day.

  This better work out or the Russian would have him cornered. It would soon become a matter of who could turn the tightest for the longest time, knowing the plane on the inside always won the fight. It was a matter of geometry, the smaller circle being the shorter distance to fly, thus the fastest. Even modern fighters hadn’t overcome the basics of dogfighting. The only good thing about the situation was in the fact the enemy didn’t have any guns.

  Then he remembered he had guns. Undeniably, they were small, but that didn’t mean they weren’t deadly at close range, which was bound to happen. He turned to Simon.

  “Turn upside down in your seat and kick out the plexiglass over your head.”

  Simon looked at him with his mouth falling open again. “Have you gone crazy? What good will that do? Has something hit you on the head? You’re acting really strange.”

  “Listen. Once I reach the end of this valley I’ll have to turn, then keep turning. The guy behind us will turn inside because he’s lighter, and in less than a minute he’ll be right on our tail. That’s when I want you to shoot him with both Uzis.”

  Simon’s eyes brightened. “I guess you’re not so crazy after all, and why didn’t I think of that?” He snapped off his safety belt, somersaulted, and perched himself upside down on the copilot’s seat. Again and again, he kicked his feet, smashing the window above until the wind started whistling in the opening. He sat up once more and said, “I’m ready.”

  “Don’t kill him if you can help it, just shoot him down. We’ve got enough blood on our hands, and he only wants to force us down.”

  Simon nodded his head. They had been young once, in their twenties and full of piss and vinegar, and both would rather see the Russian live to fly again.

  The valley closed in, changing to steep rock walls breaking up green ridges and high snowfields. A blue glacier waited at the far end, and no single-engine airplane could ever climb over its top. Both planes would have to bank around just below the shining ice.

  Be careful, Jake’s mind pleaded. The hardest thing in flying was judging a turn against steep terrain. A pilot’s whole world suddenly became a confusion of angles, the mountainsides running every direction, the sky off one way, the ground another, nothing having any levelness to it. You quickly lost track of the vertical lines, distance, and finally your life, forfeiting it on a rock wall. High winds waited for you too, deadly gusts bred by the air masses on the other side of the summits, waiting to scream out of the sky and smash your airplane. Mountain flying was best left to soaring birds, rather than humans. You were bound to die if you flew the mountains long enough.

  He flew past the black moraine at the foot of the glacier, then past the first fingers of the ancient ice, colorless in the gray light below the peaks, below the icy wall making up the rampart of snow up to the distant top. Favoring the right side of the gorge, he waited . . . waited until the crevices had become well defined and his best friend had quit breathing. Then he banked like never before, praying he hadn’t gotten too close. Lifting his head, he looked out the overhead window and saw the Russian roll as well. Pulling hard on the controls, he tightened the turn, next released the pressure and let the other AN-2 gain on him. Around he went again, looping away from the glacier the second time, building the Russian’s confidence to come close behind him. He watched Simon snap off the safeties on the Uzis and crouch on his seat, ready to stand up. They must get the other Antonov within a hundred feet. He released a little more back pressure and widened the turn. Now the deadly game would become pure guess work.

  “Now!” he yelled. “Stand up and shoot him!”

  Simon wedged his upper body in the hole above him, leaving only his waistline below. Jake heard the rattle of the machine guns. His friend would empty both ammunition clips, and there was no danger of him falling out, not with all the G-forces of the steep turn, since things weighed twice their normal weight. Finally, he saw Simon sit down again.

  “I smoked him and he’s going down. Hope the hell he can fly away from the glacier. There’s some flat ground about a mile off and maybe he can land there.” Simon looked sad, and his hair and clothing were badly messed up by the slipstream.

  Leveling the plane, Jake steered out of the valley, watching the other Antonov. It was falling in flames, heading for the bottom of blue ice and black moraine. With luck, the young pilot would get the airplane down on the dirt.

  He watched him make it, plowing into the ground, ripping off the landing gear, skidding to a stop against an embankment, which crushed the wings. Seconds after, he saw a figure jump from the fuselage and run, then an orange explosion. Thank God the pilot had survived. He circled back, waggling his wings in the age-old salute.

  “Drop the emergency locator beacon,” he said. “It’ll activate when it hits the ground and help search and rescue find him.

  Simon pulled the Antonov’s ELT from its cockpit bracket, opened his side window, and threw it out. Jake waggled his wings once more. The young pilot had been very, very good.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE BRATSK AIRPORT

  Zorkin tossed Bratsk’s daily newspaper on the commandant’s desk. “Read the front page and you’ll see I’ve been right all along. Two men stole an Antonov filled with fuel in Ulan Ude, and I’m sure the Americans are the ones who did it. We should fly north and wait for them. Sasha Pavlov’s in the middle of this, and I can feel it in my bones.”

  Lieutenant General Kozlov smoothed the newspaper and studied it, mouthing every word as he read, peeping like a mouse, a habit that drove his staff crazy. It drove Zorkin crazy as well and made him wish he could kill him.

  After a minute Kozlov asked, “How can you be so sure they were Americans? This article says the airport heard them speaking Chinese, and the Antonov flew south to Mongolia. The only thing you have to support your suspicion is the pilot said the man who shot him dow
n didn’t look Asian, hardly reliable when you think how shocked the poor fellow must have been. This whole story is unbelievable, and what the hell is happening to our motherland? No one would have dared such an atrocity when the Soviets ran our country.”

  “Commandant, think about it. What are the chances the Chinese would bother coming to Ulan Ude to steal an Antonov, or gasoline for that matter, and fly off to Mongolia? Then consider what two Yankees might do if they were planning to smuggle diamonds.” He sat down and took a deep breath. “Remember the fuel tanker that was stolen in Yakutsk last March and exploded outside town without any explanation of how it happened. Telephone the Chukotka District Guard in the Far East and ask if there’s been any sighting of strangers coming across the barren ground. Maybe someone has seen something suspicious.”

  Kozlov leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, another annoying habit of his, then reached into his uniform’s front pocket and pulled out the diamond he’d been given earlier. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. Finally, he lifted the telephone, spoke to the base operator, and hung up.

  “Whenever I doubt you, this little diamond helps remind me that you just might be telling the truth. But if this escapade of yours goes bad on me, I’m blaming you for everything and ordering my men to arrest you. Moscow might let me keep my rank afterward. I’m warning you, don’t mess with me.”

  “I’ve told you the truth,” said Zorkin. “Why would I confess to murder and beg you to be my partner if I were lying? What more can I do? Remember, when two people dislike a deal equally, it must be fair.”

  The phone rang, filling the room with its noise. The general lifted it, listened, and hung up again.

  “You amaze me,” he said. “How could you have guessed some Americans would be crazy enough to come to Siberia looking for diamonds? Last month a Yakut in Chukotka reported seeing two strangers in small airplanes. They paid him in U.S. hundred dollar bills for fuel.