The River of Bones v5

by Tom Hron

  Wolverine might have as well punched him in the solar plexus—his breath flew out and he gagged. No, it couldn’t be true . . . But he knew the shaman was right. Sasha had mounted an expedition to find him. She must have been given the camera equipment and found the diamonds after all.

  He wished that she’d simply taken the money and run. Why did she have to be so pigheaded and loyal? Now, just when he had started thinking she was safe, she was going to fall into Zorkin’s hands. No one else wanted to find him, other than the cold-blooded killer in the distance. His daughter must be on her way.

  “What can we do?” he asked. “How could you have guessed that Sasha would come looking for me? He’ll kill her.”

  Wolverine’s face stayed calm, its deep brown winkles looking the same as always. “There’s no need for you to worry because he doesn’t want to kill her, only capture her. It’s important that you remember all that I’ve taught you about staying brave.”

  He steadied himself as the old man had urged and sat down beside him. But . . . the problems seemed insurmountable. What could they do?. . .

  “Maybe we can sneak up on their lookouts, kill them, and take their rifles. They’re carrying Kalashnikovs. We could be a real force with those automatic rifles.”

  “I’ll see what can be done about that later,” said Wolverine, “but the soldiers have field glasses and listening devices, and I can only overcome so much with my magic. Let’s move off and pray together. I will need the help of the spirits with this one.”

  “What if I give myself up?” asked Yuri. “Then Zorkin wouldn’t need Sasha. She doesn’t know the source of the diamonds, anyway. What good would she be?”

  “I won’t let you desecrate my ancestors by surrendering to him. He’d dig up their graves with a bulldozer and spoil their sanctity forever. You must keep quiet.”

  “Sasha’s worth more than the diamonds. She’s my only child.”

  “White man, be sensible. If you go to him, he will kill her the moment he sees her. Why bother letting her live? He’d no longer need her.”

  Leave it to the Evenki to hit him square in the face with logic. The only hope lay with the old shaman, and the time had come for complete trust.

  He looked into the old man’s eyes. “What prayers should we sing tonight?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE MARCHA RIVER

  Simon hammered the last wooden crosspiece over the room he’d made into a jail and then threw down his hammer. “There, that should keep him cooped up for a day or two, but I still think it’s wrong to let him live. We’re just making the world a much more dangerous place.”

  Jake sighed. “I’m sick of killing people, and Molly feels just as bad, now that she’s come to her senses. Maybe it will work out better if we let him live. Word will get around it’s best to leave us alone.”

  Simon shook his head. “All we’re doing is giving the Mafiya a good description of us, nothing else. They’ve got connections everywhere, and we won’t be safe for the rest of our lives. I worked with them once, even before anyone knew what krihshah or ‘the roof’ meant.”

  Jake eyed his friend but decided not to ask, since they didn’t have time. They had sent Molly and Sasha to the airport and told them to load the captured Kalashnikovs in the AN-2. One never knew when a few extra assault rifles might come in handy.

  “The women are waiting for us so let’s go. With any luck we’ll reach the Marcha River tonight and find a place to land, and maybe we’ll keep getting lucky if we keep moving. I’d like to head back to Alaska before long.”

  Simon smiled. “What a trip we’ve had, and now I don’t even care if we find the diamonds. This has gotten my blood pumping and I feel twenty years younger.”

  They left and walked outdoors. The thrills, seeing new places, and treasure hunting . . . what more could they ask for? Both started jogging to the airport, and Molly and Sasha were ready to leave when they got there. Jake looked at both women. “Sasha, climb into the right seat of the Antonov. Molly, make sure you maintain radio silence. And remember to stay low and use the topography to hide from radar.”

  She frowned. “What if we hit bad weather?”

  “I’ll land in the first flat place I see. The Antonov only needs five hundred feet, now that it’s not so heavy. Then we’ll wait until it clears. Is everyone set?” All three nodded and walked to their airplanes.

  Jake climbed into the AN-2, flipped on the master switch, and punched the starter button. The engine sputtered and blew its oily smoke past the windscreen. Adding throttle, he taxied to the runway, looked back, and saw Simon and Molly come up behind him. Swinging onto the runway, he applied full power and felt the old biplane lift off, thundering its way skyward. Seconds later, he set the power at economy cruise, stretching the fuel to its maximum range, also making it easier for the Super Cubs to keep up. Glancing at the GPS, he saw the miles ticking off, one by one. It knew exactly where the Marcha River lay, even if he didn’t. Thank God again, he told himself, for modern-day avionics. Otherwise, Siberia would be almost invincible.

  Hours passed. Sasha and he talked on the intercom about the colors of Siberia, the greens and blues highlighted by the snowcapped mountaintops. The radial engine droned above the vast wilderness. Then both fell silent when the GPS read less than half the distance. Now the engine sounded more like a drum roll.

  The pines of Buryatia gave way to great stands of larch, the tamarack tree that turned yellow and dropped its needles every fall, like deciduous trees give up their leaves. Next, the taiga gave way to tundra plains, scattered with stands of black spruce and dwarf willow. Growing along the lakes and rivers, both trees thinned when the land became hilly. Only in the High Arctic was there such sublime desolation, earth just like God had made it.

  Were his friends still behind him? Jake wondered. He wished he could look back and see them. You always felt better when you knew you weren’t alone.

  At last the GPS said they were getting close and he saw the tension gather on Sasha’s face. They would reach the Marcha River soon and start searching for the crash site along its banks. His mind’s eye could visualize the silvery wreckage strewn over green tundra. Pilots could spot that kind of dissimilarity miles away when they knew where to look.

  He found the river and turned along it, lowering the flaps ten degrees and slowing the Antonov to sixty knots, the best speed for searching. Now Sasha’s face looked even more wretched. He understood. How would he feel if he were in her shoes, looking for the impossible? He had recovered too many skeletons for him to believe that her father could be alive. But . . . he kept peering down. Where in hell was the wreck?

  Suddenly, Sasha screamed and white tracers streaked across in front of him. He looked out the right-hand window and saw a helicopter flying sideways as fast as he was going forward, and it had him dead in its sights. Another burst of tracers streamed by like a lightning bolt.

  He hit the mike button. “Simon—Molly, I’m getting shot down. Get out of here.” Waggling his wings, he prayed the Russian pilot would see that he wanted to surrender and was looking for a place to land. The helicopter was the same one he’d seen in Ulan Ude.

  Radio silence. . . . Good. Maybe the Werewolf was all alone and Molly and Simon had gotten away. Now if the Russian would only hold fire and let him land, which seemed likely or he wouldn’t have been so unmistakably warned, Sasha and he might live. The thought of a cockpit fire had always horrified him, and this particular fire would be fed by hundreds of gallons of high-test fuel. What a cremation that would make. Then he wondered why his mind was racing through such horrific thoughts. Was that common when you were about to die?

  He saw a small island of bushy muskeg ahead in the river and waggled his wings once more, signaling he meant to land. The Werewolf followed him, still flying sideways, holding him in its cross hairs. One wrong move and it would be all over. He dropped full flaps and slowed the AN-2 until its wings started buffeting, telling him they were stalling and losin
g their lift. With any luck, he’d hit the ground at forty knots, tear off the landing gear, and skid to a stop in the soft tundra. God, he hoped the floor grommets and cargo straps would hold the fuel bladders in back, because otherwise Sasha and he would be squashed to death like bugs. He glanced over and saw her crying.

  When he looked out again he couldn’t believe his eyes. A second helicopter was chasing Simon less than a mile away, forcing him down as well. But Molly was coming out of the sun like a fighter pilot right at them, unseen, clearly intending on buzzing between both aircraft. My God, was there enough room, he thought? Then he saw starry flashes in her side window. Had the woman gone completely crazy? She shooting at the helicopter with her Uzi. A minute later he watched the helicopter break off its attack on Simon and chase her in turn. She must have hit its fuselage with her little gun. Then he saw her dive for speed, pull up in a loop, and come up behind the helicopter’s tail, her submachine pistol blazing once again. He couldn’t bear to watch because he was sure that she was committing suicide. Where the hell had she learned aerobatics?

  He swung his attention back to his own death wish—the bog was just below him. Sasha screamed again. He flared, pulling back the control wheel and carrying the AN-2 for long as he could, hearing the brush beating on the leading edges of the bottom wings. The airplane stalled and fell, its landing gear tore off, and he felt himself slamming against the safety belt as the nose plowed into the muck, sending grass and leaves sailing past the windows as the propeller thrashed to a stop.

  “Get out,” he yelled. “Get out before there’s a fire!” Sasha had bloodied her face but it made no difference because she had to run for her life. He shoved her into the fuselage, shooting her over the load of gas. There was no fire yet.

  He crawled on his stomach, snaking out the rear door, and saw the Werewolf hovering a hundred feet away, its guns pointing right at him. Sasha stood nearby, holding up her hands. He slid down and stood beside her, holding up his hands as well. Thank God, the wet bog had saved them, and sometimes damp marshy places were a pilot’s last prayer. The engine on the Antonov was cooling, its exhaust cooking off its red-hot heat, and he doubted that fire would start now.

  “Tell him that we’re unarmed and ask why he forced us down.” Reaching over, he took Sasha’s hand and stepped forward. “Try convincing him that we’re only searching for your father. It might mean less jail time.”

  She began crying. “They know all about the diamonds or they wouldn’t have done this.”

  Then both of them saw a cloud of black smoke upriver, and another farther off. Sasha broke down completely, bawling pitifully, and Jake felt tears in his own eyes. He had seen too many airplane accidents to miss the signs of fabric and metal burning out of control, and his friends were dead, because the other helicopter had shot them down.

  The Werewolf pilot saw the rising smoke as well. He landed, cut the screaming turbines of the helicopter, and climbed down, pointing his pistol at them. The surroundings fell silent, except for the reechoing blades of the second helicopter, coming toward them in the distance.

  The pilot stepped forward and spoke to Sasha. Then Jake felt the pistol hit him and everything turning black. The pain became a memory, and he dreamed of drifting in a dark storm. Thunder and faraway voices, all speaking in tongues, filled his head. But . . . he couldn’t understand a word. Where was he? Who was rolling him around? Groaning and tasting dirt, he sat up. The second helicopter landed and its downwash brought back his consciousness with blasts of cold air.

  It was a Mi-8 Hip, the mainstay of air commerce in Russia’s remote areas. Rugged and dependable, the giant helicopter could carry two dozen passengers, and even the U.S. didn’t have anything better. The twin turbines stopped their shrieking and he saw the cargo door open. Molly came tumbling out, landing headfirst on the ground, just spongy enough to soften her fall. She stood and brushed off her clothing, behaving like the prim woman, despite her car-wreck look.

  “Jake, I saved Simon. I saw him crash-land and get away. They shot up his Cub and then forced me to wreck mine. I’m not very good at soft-field landings, and there’s a guy on board who’s really pissed off. Are Sasha and you okay, because both of you look pretty beaten up and bloody?”

  Next, Jake saw a black-haired man step down, carrying an AK-47. Somehow . . . he looked familiar. Where had he seen him before? Was he still woozy from the blow on his head? Why the hell should he know him? Then he remembered and even greater fear speared through him. It was the Russian who had stabbed him in Anchorage, and they were in a lot more trouble than he’d ever imagined. He glanced at Sasha and saw her face twisting in horror, because she recognized him, too.

  “We meet again, American asshole, and I knew you would come. You people are sentimentalists, always saving the damsels in distress. Now I’ll repay you for punching me in spades, as your country likes to say.” He took a breath. “Don’t look so surprised that I speak English so well. I speak several languages. Stand up. The commandant and I want to know about your friend, the one who escaped us. What’s his name?”

  Jake wondered what to say, since there wasn’t much use in lying. What purpose would it serve? But . . . maybe a few fibs would help. Then Molly and Sasha could follow along with their own answers later, rather than making up things they might not remember. He blinked and pretended he felt dizzy.

  “Your friend knocked me cold, so let me have time to clear my head. His name is Simon Jones.”

  The dark-complexioned man scrunched his face. “Has he visited Siberia before? He disappeared like a ghost.”

  “He’s lived in Alaska all his life. We came here looking for this woman’s father.”

  “So . . . you belive her father is alive as well. But you came here looking for something else, didn’t you? You came here for my diamonds.”

  Instantly, Jake saw the army officer glare at the man asking the questions. What was wrong, and why did the commandant all of a sudden look so angry?

  Sasha wiped her eyes with her hands. “You’re Feliks Zorkin, the man who lied to my father so you could get him to help you. I saw you following me last year, but why do you think I know where the diamonds are? He never told me, and there’s never been any way he could have?”

  Zorkin’s face turned red, and then the commandant’s coloring looked just as angry. Muttering, he marched back to the Werewolf and climbed in. The rotor blades began winding.

  “All of you get in my helicopter.” Zorkin’s eyes narrowed. “Get in there now. You’ll learn why they called me the Kheeroork—”

  Jake saw Sasha’s face turn pale. Taking her hand, he led her to the Hip, lifted her, and then helped Molly get inside. The pilot looked back from the cockpit and watched Zorkin shut the door. Where were they going?

  When the Hip reached cruising altitude, Zorkin moved forward to the copilot’s seat—but still kept looking back and pointing his rifle.

  Jake wondered what he had to work with—waterproof matches, a pocketknife, what else? Moments later, he found his pockets had been emptied while he’d lain unconscious. He turned to Sasha and hoped the howling engines would hide his voice.

  “What does Kheeroork mean, and why did you look so scared?”

  “He was called the Surgeon when he ran the KGB many years ago, and now I remember him. When the communists ruled our country, Pravda often wrote articles about him. He will kill us as soon as he thinks we’re no longer useful to him. I should never have asked you to come—” She cried again.

  Jake felt the helicopter start to let down and glanced at his watch. Five minutes or almost ten miles, piece of cake for Simon, with his long legs and endurance. He knew his friend would take a straight course off the river. He had to stall Zorkin for as long as he could, count heads in camp, and somehow help Simon, if he found them in time. But what good would that do? The commandant and Zorkin would watch his every move. He had to somehow bait them and buy time.

  “Molly, do you still have the four diamonds, or did yo
u hide them?”

  “They went up in smoke with my airplane.”

  He looked at Sasha, feeling hopelessness like never before. “Help me talk to the commandant when we land.”

  Zorkin aimed his rifle at him and yelled, although the words were muffled by the main rotor. At least they hadn’t been overheard, Jake thought, and if he was right about the apparent conflict between the two men who were holding them captive, maybe they’d live to see another day. He had to get the commandant off by himself.

  They landed and got out of the helicopter, followed closely by Zorkin, still holding them at gunpoint. The Werewolf sat in the distance, alongside a tent camp, the commandant having arrived first. A soldier, with headphones hooked around his neck, stood nearby, watching.

  Four in all, Jake thought to himself, not nearly as many as they’d faced in Coldfoot. He looked at the radio man. What was he all about? Suddenly, it struck him—other soldiers were posted nearby on lookouts. Simon would be lucky to stay alive. And if the Hip pilot flew out and picked them up, there would be almost no hope for them at all.

  Sasha called out to the commandant, but Zorkin’s face instantly filled with rage, and he started screaming. Seconds later, the commandant pointed his pistol at Zorkin, silencing him. Sasha called once again.

  Jake felt the air resonate with danger. The commandant stood pointing his pistol at Zorkin, the radio man had picked up his rifle and was running to join the standoff, and Zorkin was pointing his weapon at the three of them. Cooler heads needed to prevail or they’d be caught in a crossfire. Sweat ran down his sides like spiders.

  Then everyone saw the stranger at the same time, standing beside the tents. Where had he come from, and how had a Siberian native walked into camp without anyone seeing him? Everyone stared, then the four Russians quickly pointed their rifles at him, although he was unarmed. His clothing was leather and fur, colored like a caveman.