9 Days Falling, Volume I k-5

by John A. Schettler

  On Tuesday, September 21, 2021, Anton Fedorov and two Marines stood in the reactor monitoring room of the Primorskiy Engineering center near Vladivostok. They were the first to go, boldly returning to the last great war in the hopes of preventing the final great war. They soon vanished into the ether to take up the thread of that hunt in a distant past. That same night the Red Banner Pacific Fleet sailed from the Golden Horn Bay under the steady watch of Captain Vladimir Karpov while Admiral Volsky gathered a handful of Marines in his office at Naval Headquarters Fokino. Miles away, a large Antonov-124 cargo plane was finishing up loading operations and preparing for takeoff: eighteen Marines boarded with a team of six nuclear power plant engineers and specialists led by Chief Dobrynin, and one radiation safe container with a very special cargo.

  The news crawl on Thunder Horse would dominate the headlines on Wednesday, but come Thursday the worsening situation in the Pacific began to grab news cycles at the top of the hour.

  On that morning Karpov was bandying words with his counterpart on an American carrier battlegroup off the coast of Japan, thinking to reach a mutual understanding that would prevent or limit hostilities. The breaking headlines in the news crawl now warned of the imminent potential outbreak of war over Taiwan, and the darkening threats from North Korea. Marshal Kim Jong Un, the so called “Brilliant Commander of Mt. Paektu” declared in a solemn statement to the United Nations: “This sacred war of justice will be a nation-wide, all-people resistance in which the traitors to the nation including heinous confrontation maniacs, warmongers and human scum will be mercilessly swept away.” As it had in the early decades of the previous century, the world was about to lose its grip on sanity in short order.

  Dobrynin’s AN-124 Condor circled to land north of Makhachkala on the eastern Caspian coast, and he gazed out the pilot’s window to see the vast expanse of the sea dotted with tiny islands of framed metal on their stubby legs painted international orange—the oil platforms of superfield Kashagan. It was there that a host of producers greedily sunk their umbilicals into the silted bed of the sea to drink from the deep, rich deposits of light sweet crude. On one such platform, appropriately named “Medusa” a man named Ben Flak was having fits with the bad news coming in from the Gulf of Mexico. It was going to be a very busy day for Chevron, Royal Dutch Shell, and British Petroleum. They were all searching to find carriers for any oil they had bunkered in terminals that could be quickly moved to ports in Europe and the US before the situation got any worse.

  One such carrier was a small British company, Fairchild Inc., running a fleet of seven tankers and cargo ships with a total lift capacity of 5.5 million barrels, and half of that available for a lucrative haul. The problem the company would face was the cold logic of geopolitics: where oil was found, the fires of war would soon follow.

  Miles to the south, in the quiet port of Larnaca, Cyprus, the pipelines of the Caspian Sea were about to become entangled with the lives of a very special person, and a very tough sea captain on a very dangerous ship. It was a circumstance that would bring the Fairchild company into the midst of the gathering storm of war, and link its fate to that of many others who were now hot in the chase to find one man—Gennadi Orlov. But the swirling vortex opening like a black hole in history would expand, pulling people and things into the distant past and a rendezvous with fate itself on the shores of the Caspian Sea.

  Day 1

  “I think and deem it for thy best that thou follow me, and I will be thy guide, and will lead thee hence through the eternal place whew thou shalt hear the despairing shrieks, shalt see the ancient spirits woeful who each proclaim the second death. And then thou shalt see those who are contented in the fire…”

  ~ Dante Alighieri, The Inferno — Canto I

  Part I

  The Train

  “Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.”

  ~ Kurt Vonnegut

  Chapter 1

  Had he known what was waiting for them on the journey ahead Fedorov, might have never pushed forward his crazy idea. It was going to be risky, of course. It was going to be a long and dangerous journey, all the way from Vladivostok to the distant shores of the Caspian Sea, with each mile on the cold steel Siberian rails bringing them closer to the thunder and fire of the most savage war ever fought. There was no guarantee that he would ever get there safely; let alone the challenge of finding Orlov, and making it back home. His plan might not work at all! They might never be found by the rescue team. They might find themselves marooned in the past, even as Orlov was when he took that fateful, wild jump from the helicopter.

  But they had to try.

  The cold fog of Vladivostok harbor was as real as any other, he thought, and it was his only reality now. They were here. They made it through to 1942. They had delivered their letter to the storage bin at the naval supply building and the cold clink of the lock jarred him with the realization of what he had done. It was as if his old life, all of it, was locked away behind that storage bin door and forever lost to him now. The lock would not be opened again for nearly eighty long years. His grandfather had been the last man to close that bin door, perhaps just a few years ago, he thought. Now here he was, sliding that letter into the pocket of his grandfather’s coat, the ghost of a man that had not even been born yet in this year—1942. There it would sit untouched by human hands, unread by human eyes for another eight decades, or so he hoped. Yet the thought that it would be Admiral Volsky reading it one day gave him heart, and hope.

  There was no time to lose now, and long dangerous miles lay ahead of them. They moved like ghosts in the mist, wasting no time getting to the rail depot where they found one last train was going to be heading north within the hour and routed all the way to Omsk. That would get them very close to their objective, in Russian terms. No place was really very close to another here, and the lonesome iron rails were often the only means of expeditious travel from one place to another. He made arrangements to get his team aboard this train immediately, and with his black Ushanka hat and NKVD badge he knew they would have no immediate trouble getting aboard. He simply told the Rail Master that he would be inspecting facilities along the entire line, and had vital papers to be delivered in Omsk. No one objected. NKVD officers are not to be trifled with, and a Colonel was a very high rank in that shadowed organization. The Rail Master gave him quick directions, and the engine number of the train. It was a freight haul, but there were two coaches attached at the back of the train just forward of the caboose.

  Minutes later, they settled into the rear coach, taking the seats in one of two enclosed kupe compartments at the very back near the small rest room. The provodnits, or coach supervisor dressed in plain military garb eyed them briefly, noting Fedorov’s obvious NKVD uniform and rank, and casting a furtive glance at Troyak and Zykov. He said nothing, as if he expected they would take the compartment, and quickly withdrew to the forward coach, wanting nothing to do with these dangerous looking men.

  Fedorov gave the passengers in the main coach compartment a cursory glance, but Zykov had already boldly walked the aisle, looking everyone over and making it obvious that he was a security man looking for any possible threats. There were fourteen passengers in the seats, five soldiers who gave them wary looks when they boarded, then settled back into their dozing slumber when they saw that Fedorov in his dark NKVD uniform and cap did not seem to be there in any official capacity. The others were civilians, a line crew of six rail workers in stained grey overalls, and an older couple with a small child. The little girl stared up at the imposing figure of Zykov as he passed her seat, her eyes wide until Zykov winked at her, smiling, which only sent her deeper into the folds of the babushka she was with. Satisfied the coach was secure, Zykov joined Troyak and Fedorov in the kupe, though they left the door open to be wary of anyone who might be moving in the aisle.

  The fog was still heavy when the screech of rusty wheels announced their departure and the cars jolted slightly as the brakes wer
e released. The train rolled slowly on through the pre-dawn hour, winding its way north and slightly west to the Amur River. Soon they came to Ussuriysk where the line split off in several branches. They kept to the main spur heading up to Khabarovsk on the longest rail line in the world. It would be twelve hours before they reached that place, some 450 miles to the north, and they took advantage of the dark and quiet to get some food and much needed rest.

  As dawn came on what Fedorov figured to be September 23, 1942, he was awake to watch the wan light gleaming off the sallow winding course of the river. Now and again the train would stop at small villages and towns, though there would not be much more civilian traffic on this freight haul. Soon they began to bypass the smaller hamlets, stopping only on the larger settlements where the line crews would exit the coach and mill about the line briefly, checking the ten cargo carriers up to the engine, or looking over rail switch stations before re-boarding. They would ride all day to Khabarovsk, and the sun was already low in the sky by the time they reached the place. The rail workers job there was to replenish the water in the locomotive and restock at the coaling station.

  Curious and needing to stretch his legs, Fedorov wandered out to watch them work under the watchful eye of Troyak, who was leaning on the train coach, chewing on something he had fished out of his pack. The rail workers were haggling over the coal with a fat, red nosed man who was holding up his hands in some frustration. Fedorov approached them to see what was going on, noting how the discussion immediately quieted down when they saw him coming.

  “What is the problem here?”

  “He says the coal is bad,” one man explained. “A workman left the bin doors open and it was drenched by the rain.”

  “You mean to say there is no good coal in all of Khabarovsk?”

  “Take all you wish,” the fat man offered, much more agreeable now that he spied the NKVD insignia on Fedorov’s cap. “But I am sorry to say it may not burn well for several days.”

  Expect the unexpected, thought Fedorov. They could not afford any delay here. He looked about the marshalling yard, seeing several oil stained barrels off by a warehouse. “Are those full?”

  The fat man leaned out, squinting at the barrels, nodding in the affirmative. “Yes, oil and lubricants.”

  “Take one,” Fedorov said to the rail workers. “Load it at the coaling compartment and oil the coal in a bucket before you put it in the fire box. That should do.”

  The workers, hesitated, thinking they might instead enjoy a long break here and mill about the town while they waited for the coal to dry. “We could wait a day, sir,” one man suggested. “It should dry out by tomorrow.”

  “We will not wait a single moment!” Fedorov tried to be firm, though he did not present a very intimidating presence. Yet his uniform, insignia and the prominent decorations on his breast cast a long shadow and made him seem much more imposing than he really was. “This train has a schedule to keep,” he said again, tapping his wrist watch. “We must be in Omsk in four days—understand? Now get moving. You men, load that barrel.”

  The rail crew knew an order when they heard one. They took pride in their jobs, a special class of skilled labor servicing the steel arteries of Mother Russia. The lead man started off towards the barrels, whistling and waving for two of the others to follow him. He had not expected this NKVD man would be on the train but knew he was going to have to live with him until they reached their destination. Satisfied the men were doing as he wanted, Fedorov walked back to join Troyak.

  “Any trouble?” the Sergeant asked.

  “The coal will need oiling due to the rain. They were going to wait a day, but we can’t spare any delay. We must get to Omsk on schedule and then we leave the main line and head south to Kazakhstan.”

  Fedorov had a lot of time to think things over, wondering what would lie ahead and feeling at times that his plan was completely insane. It was going to be a long journey: two more days to Irkutsk as the line swept north around the wide bend of the Amur River which marked the border with China. They would pass through Chita and Ulan Ude before turning south towards Mongolia where the route would curve beneath the cold banks of Lake Baikal to eventually find the city of Irkutsk. From there it would be another long day to Krasnoyarsk, and then a day through Novosibirsk to Omsk.

  They planned to leave the line at Omsk and take a spur heading west through Chelyabinsk to Orsk on the Kazakh border, reaching that place by the 28th. From there they would cross into Kazakhstan and take a local rail line from Aktobe to Atyrau on the north Caspian Sea. At that point Fedorov planned to avoid Astrakhan and go by sea on a trawler or fishing boat, and he had gold in his pocket to secure one if necessary, or Troyak and Zykov to secure what gold would not buy. If all went well they would be on the Caspian coast near Kizlyar by the 30th, but they had no time to loiter or waste along the route.

  The coaling incident was a typical example of common delays they might experience. If too many stacked up they would be unable to find Orlov at Kizlyar and would have to look for him at Baku.

  Troyak watched the men rolling the barrel on its rim this way and that as they labored to get it near the locomotive. He spat with a grin and strode over to the group of three, waving them aside. Then he stooped down on his haunches, put his brawny arms around the barrel, and lifted it without even so much as a grunt. It was only three quarters full yet must have weighed over 200 pounds. Built like a locomotive himself, Troyak carried it easily to the back of the engine followed by a gaggle of rail workers. He heaved it up on the muddy metal plated flooring of the coaling compartment, and turned, brushing off his rough hands and seeing the astonished looks on the faces of the rail crew.

  “Load your coal,” he said curtly, and walked off to rejoin Fedorov. The train was rolling out of the station half an hour later.

  On the morning of the 25th of September they caught sight of the crystalline waters of Lake Baikal, one of the most ancient and enduring lakes on earth, over 20 million years old. Holding almost twenty percent of all the fresh water on the planet, the lake stretched in a great cobalt crescent extending some 670 kilometers to the north. The railway had to climb steep ridges on its southern nose, switching back and forth and presenting spectacular views of the lake in all its raw, yet serene beauty. The water was so clear and clean that you could see forty meters into its pristine depths. Even when it froze to a thickness of up to ten meters in winter, the ice still had a glass-like quality of transparency.

  Local lore said the Siberian shamans of old attributed special healing powers to the waters here, but Troyak found a taste of the savory ‘Omul’ fish sold by an old woman at the Mysovaya train station to be more than enough to fortify him. They found it freshly caught, and set up a makeshift brazier to grill it to a smoky delight that was much akin to salmon.

  The three men were resting quietly on a bench near the watering station while the rail attendants topped off their tank when they heard the labored approach of another train coming in from the west. It was a short train with a weathered old red engine followed by three gray freight cars, a coach car, and two large boxcars painted dull green. As the train rolled to a stop they saw five armed guards jump down from the coach car in brown NKVD uniforms and carrying rifles with bayonets. Fedorov watched as one guard went to the first boxcar and raised the iron door latch while the other four slowly pulled the doors open.

  They heard the sound of people moaning and groaning from the shadowy interior, and they could smell the stench of excrement, urine and dank body odor even where they sat about twenty yards away from the other train. Fedorov immediately realized that this was a group of detainees, most likely bound for one of the hundreds of labor camps haunting the forbidding reaches of Siberia in the great ‘Gulag Archipelago.’

  These lost souls had probably been rounded up in a wild and unexpected moment when the soldiers would come to their homes, pounding loudly on the door with shouts of “Otkroite! Open up!” whatever grievance they had, or whethe
r or not there was any proof of wrongdoing on the victims’ part, did not matter. It was often merely the simple fact of the neighborhood they lived in that condemned them and saw them rousted out of their homes in the night and herded aboard these obscene train cars heading east into the oblivion of Siberia. Once they had reached their destination, those that survived the oppressive journey would be interrogated by the Bluecaps, NKVD security men, and their “case” would be manufactured on the spot in that dark hour, a confession extracted, and a judgment rendered that would shadow their lives for years—or end their lives.

  This group looked like they had been on the train for a good long time, haggard and disheveled, their faces gaunt and fearful under hollow eyes that seemed to stare ahead blankly, as though they were unwilling to truly see or believe what was happening to them. Fedorov looked at Troyak, shaking his head.

  “Welcome to Stalin’s world,” he said quietly. “We have had an easy ride west thus far, but we forget what happened in this war, the misery we inflicted on our own people, and the terror and injustice of it all.”

  Troyak nodded, eying the soldiers with unfriendly eyes. They soon realized that aside from ventilating the cramped boxcar, the guards were also looking to remove anyone who had died the previous night. Their harsh voices lashed at the people huddled in the car and Fedorov saw that they were pointing at a man who lay on the soiled hay of the boxcar floor. They wanted him shoved out, but he could hear the sound of a boy crying, women sobbing, and then he saw that a young lad was holding dearly to the old man’s hand, crying fitfully. The boy would not let go, which soon prompted one of the guards to reach in and give him a hard slap on the back of his head, and then another when this only increased his terrified weeping.